Swallow

Swallow

One.

She swallows hard and brings the glass back to the table sharply. Water sloshes over the sides and her hands scrabble frantically at the packet, waiting for a release from the torment. An end to it all. Her mind races as she grasps the glass of water with her other hand. She washes it down and swallows again. Enough to cure a simple headache, but what about heartache?

Two.

And now, her thoughts start to come, yet still lucid, still rational. These are not the ravings of a mind rapidly falling into a decline. At least not yet anyway.

Why did you do this to me? she asks, tears running down her face freely. Her vision blurs from the tears. She wipes them away and reaches for another pill.

Three.

She shudders as it goes down, her thin form undulating. Alarmingly thin limbs extend from a hunched over body. The water is set down once more and her mind begins to wander. At first, it was love. The excitement of the possibility of being caught fueled them both. He has reduced her to this, a quivering wreck of a girl in a woman's body. Her mind never could mature from girl to woman. Now she sits in their extravagant bedroom in their home, as frightened as a rabbit trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car. Her breath comes out in short, sharp gasps as she sits on their unmade bed. She has a few hours before his return. She moves almost mechanically to straighten the bed covers, but then remembers what she set out to do.

Four, five, six.

Three in one go. How about that? Her thoughts are becoming less clear, a little fuzzy around the edges. She rises and proceeds to the bathroom. She contemplates purging herself of what she has done, being the good little housewife, having dinner on the table for his return. She pushes these thoughts out of her mind angrily and sways a little on her feet. When he came home she would be waiting - oh yes, she would be waiting. Waiting for him to do with her as he wished, waiting for him to violate her, but there would be a change this time. She would remain mute, unresponsive, cold to the touch. She shivers suddenly and, walks back to the bedroom. From her handbag she produces three more similar packets, a ghost of a smile drifting across her face momentarily. The glass clinks against her teeth and she musters up the courage to swallow more.

Seven, eight.

The effects will not come for a while now. Her hand picks listlessly at the sheer fabric of her exquisite dress. Red, like her hair. He had picked it out for her this morning. Oh, what a merry dance he has led me! she thinks, her brow furrowing. Well not tonight, my dear. I don't want to dance anymore. She crosses to her mirror, the dress swaying around her bare feet as she walks. She blindly gropes for some cosmetics, her fingers curling around a lipstick in pillar-box red. She daubs it on her lips, and it etches out the same ghostly smile, only in garish red. She finishes at the mirror with a spray of perfume and adjusts her dress. Her eyes fall on the nearly empty packet on the bed. "If an overdose is taken, please consult your doctor immediately," she reads, a hollow laugh disturbing the silence. She reaches for a brush and runs it through her hair, once shiny, now dull and lifeless. She runs her hands through it. A lock comes away in her hand. Dropping this in horror, she sits herself on a chair to wait.

Nine.

She waits in the shadows, taking care not to be seen. Her cloak shields her from the bitter cold and still she waits, waits for him to come. She shivers and pulls her cloak more tightly around her. A sudden movement catches her eye and a figure steps in the light.

"You came," she says timorously, her voice almost catching in her throat.

He nods and comes towards her in swift strides. He raises a hand to her face and she feels herself melt inside from his touch. He kisses her and she wraps him into her voluminous cloak, winding her arms around him, touching, caressing. Standing there, she wanted the kiss to last forever. She could smell the soap on his skin, feel his smooth skin and taste his lips. This night was born for them. Or so it seemed. She broke away to shouts of "HEY! You there! Come here! Detention for you both, NOW!"

He grabs her hand, laughing and they ran against the wind back through the door they had come from. He pushes her into a classroom, still laughing quietly and motions for her to be silent. They can both hear Argus Filch screaming blue murder outside. The shouting grows quieter and she is suddenly aware that he is lying on top of her, almost crushing her petite frame with his. He cups a hand and softly kisses it. He plants a trail of kisses up her arm to her shoulder and slowly pushes up her skirt with one hand. She stretches out, luxuriously, enjoying it.

She smiles at the memory. Happy times. After he had left Hogwarts, he had owled her frequently with declarations of love. She had met him often in Hogsmeade and it was only on the day of her graduation from Hogwarts did he mention marriage. Proposed it to be exact. Her parents had been beside themselves with happiness. Only the best for their daughter, or so they thought. Oh, how wrong they were.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

She swallows again, raising the glass of water robotically. She tosses the empty packet aside, and begins the new packet, urgency driving her on. She would no longer be his plaything after tonight. No longer his broken doll, no longer his little whore, as he so frequently called her. He had broken her for the last time.

Thirteen.

Unlucky for some, she thinks, but lucky for me. I will expose him for the scum he is. Legendary just became pitied. This would rattle him to the very core of his being. Hurting him would not be enough. To destroy him? Well, that's another matter.

Fourteen, fifteen.

She is feeling something now. Her head feels muzzy, but her wits are still about her. He was always very good at acting. Public Displays of Affection were frequent, but insincere. Always there to put a protective arm around her, smile for the cameras, joke amongst their friends. Now who would he abuse? By doing this she knew she was saving countless other women from the same fate.

Sixteen.

She scrabbles for a quill on the table in front of her and shakily begins to write, her head seeming to have no control over her hand.

Mum and Dad,

By the time this reaches you, I will no longer be alive. I cannot go on, I cannot live with him anymore. He has driven me to kill myself. I hope that now, other girls will be spared from the same fate. Remember when he proposed at Hogwarts, you were so happy? Well let me tell you something about the fabled Harry Potter. He comes home late at night, reeking of fresh sex and adultery. I have to put up with this. He beats me if I do not do as he wishes and he rapes me. Yes, you did read it right. He has reduced me to a nothing, just an extension of his life and I don't want it anymore. Please do not grieve too long for me, remember I love you.

Virginia

She signs the letter with an unsteady flourish and rolls it up, securing it with a ribbon. She plucks a white rose from the ornate glass vase next to her and tucks it into the parchment roll.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.

She walks out of the room slowly and deliberately. She seizes a dressing-gown from the hook behind the door and, holding onto the banister, makes her way down the stairs, steadying herself at each step. She turns left, her bare feet padding across the tiles. She attaches the scroll to the leg of an owl and watches it fly from the room. She slowly makes her way back into the bedroom. She picks up the glass of water and take a few sips, swallowing the pills.

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.

She feels sick and everything seems to be going in slow motion, but still she swallows more.

Twenty-three, twenty-four.

The lights snap on in the bedroom. She awakens, pressing her hand to her eyes, to shield them from the sudden light. She sees him through her fingers. He hangs up his coat on the door, and takes his shoes off, placing them by the door. He undresses, methodically folding his clothes and putting them on the chair. The pungent aroma of sex pervades the room. She waits for him to turn off the light, hoping, wishing he's too tired. He whips the covers off of her, leaving her shivering in her flimsy nightgown. She scrambles up, but he forces her back down and she knows what will happen next. He slaps her hard on her face.

"Leave me alone, Harry," she squeals.

The man laughs. "Ginny, Ginny, Ginny, what would your mother and father say if they could see you like this? They'd never believe you. And you know it." He allowed a cynical smile to pass briefly over his face. "Now, you little slut, turn over!"

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight.

She quickens her pace, desperate to finish her task. She carries the pills down the stairs. As she nears the bottom, she stumbles and grips, panic-ridden for the banister. She walks in a daze to the kitchen and picks up a knife from the knife block. She takes a chopping board and a carrot and washes it under the tap.

Stupid Muggle commodities, she thinks to herself contemptuously. The matter of whether her thoughts and ruminations are as lucid and sharp anymore is questionable. She begins to prepare his dinner, savagely cutting up a carrot. She misjudges her aim, and with very little control over her hand, she succeeds in slashing a deep gash across her fingers. She runs her hand under the cold tap, a stream of curses issuing from her lips. She binds her fingers in bandages and fumbles for the bottle of pills. She swallows, the water moistening her parched lips.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

Sweat beads form on her brow and her heart begins to race. She mindlessly chops up a potato and throws it into a pan with the carrot. She is a little less sure on her feet now and stumbles to the table and sits down. I remember that time he tied me to the bed. He left me there all day. Bastard, she thinks viciously. She gropes for her pills and pops them out of the wrapper.

Thirty-one, thirty-two.

Everything seems to blur when she moves her head. She hears the front door open and hears the footsteps click softly on the tiles. He will go up to the bedroom to change first. There is still time, she reminds herself.

Thirty-three.

She pauses and waits for the roar of rage at the unmade bed. It sounds and footsteps come thundering down the stairs. She stands up and sits down again, immediately, her world spinning crazily. She sees the world in black and white, and then just swirling grey.

Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six.

He enters the kitchen and she just sits at the table, eyes glazed over, frantically swallowing the pills. Are you happy now, you bastard? she thinks, her world dancing before her eyes.

"What are you doing?" he screeches, going purple in the face. He makes no attempt to stop her.

Thirty-seven, thirty-eight.

Nearly there, she thinks and rises, grasping the table to steady herself. She is dripping with sweat and a sharp pain in her stomach causes her to double over.

"It's over, Harry," she bites out, even though her mind is rapidly diminishing. Coherent speech is impossible now.

She feels for the two remaining pills. She brings them to her mouth with a shaking hand and chews them, the bitter taste almost causing her to retch. She swallows and falls to the floor, helpless.

Thirty-nine, forty.

She feels a sense of accomplishment as she hits the floor, barely feeling the pain. He is shouting, but where are the words? She closes her eyes, relishing the coolness of the tiles. She coughs and tastes the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. She opens her mouth and says her final piece:

"I've danced at your heels for two years. I don't wanna dance no more, Harry, I don't wanna dance no more."