Polka Dotted Curtains

I had the dream again.

It never changes. I dream in broken fragments- I hear their screams and I see them through shards of misty glass. Where their faces should be, I see nothing but hollowed eyes and mouths stretched into Os from horror and agony. They twist and writhe and shake and jerk uncontrollably, as if they would shake bones free from their exhausted frames. Then it all stops, so suddenly that I awake, hands gripping the sheets and curled into claws. My breath comes cold and shallow, and depending on the night, sometimes does not come at all. Then I close my eyes, block out the dream and the world around me and reassure myself that everything is going to be alright.

Only this time, I know it is not. Ten minutes have done nothing to silence the echoing screams in my head; have failed to remove their tortured bodies from my mind. My body shivers, no matter how many blankets I wrap myself in or how many pretty words of comfort I give myself. I crave the comfort of somebody else, though there was nobody ever there to give it to me. I have always been in the background, my suffering unknown and unimportant to everybody around me. Even myself.

Sixteen years have been no indication as to who I am. I have a name, a face and a voice but even to myself I am a stranger. I have this terrible fear that if I look inside myself, I will uncover some terrible truth. It is having no self knowledge that has kept me sane. Being a non-entity has stopped me remembering where I came from, and what happened to my own flesh and blood. I don't want to uncover the charred black, remains of the memory that arises in my dreams. That's why I stopped going to St. Mungo's three years ago, and since then I have been living blind.

I open the window slightly, lean out and let the wind gently ruffle my hair. I wrap my arms around myself to stop the shivering, and at the same time keep in the shameful howl of misery. There are four other people in this room, and although I want nothing more than to share my pain, it would be unfair to wake them. They have problems of their own as it is, especially Harry. They do not need my sad, self-pitying angst on top of everything else.

The breeze whispers in my ear as a warm rain beats down on my face... little droplets of steam. I lift my eyes up to the moon, where it hangs swollen and full in a hazy black sky. The summer has been one continuous heat wave, leaving us restless and dishevelled in the thick heat. As the heat builds, I find myself more and more affected. The memory comes in flashbacks throughout the day. Sometimes I can be doing nothing at all, and I suddenly hear their screams resonating through my skull. Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!

The moment passes and I lay my head upon the windowsill, making my mind blank again.

*

"Can you open your eyes for me, Mrs. Longbottom?... Come on, open your eyes, there's a good lass now... Do you want to tell me what happened? No? Mrs...? What's her name?...... Claire? Claire, can you hear me? Don't be afraid, you're in good hands now... I'm going to give you some of this potion, it will help you... Can somebody keep her still?.. Claire, I need you to sit up for me.. Claire?"

"Frank? Can you open your eyes?"

"Claire?"

"Frank? Hello?"

"Totally unresponsive."

"Christ! Get the young lad out of here!"

Nobody knows that I was there when it happened. That I actually saw it happen, from behind the yellow polka dot curtain. Even then, I wondered why they didn't see me- the funny men dressed in black. I just stood there, shoving fistfuls of curtain in my mouth to stop myself screaming for my tortured mother. Fistful after fistful, until I gagged.

Now, when I have that memory of the screams of my parents I find myself pushing my fist into my mouth as far as it will go. I must stop myself screaming- they will hear me, and they will find me. I get very paranoid sometimes, and I wonder if I am losing my mind. But I know that they are after me, chasing, with their black robes flying behind them. I see ripples in the curtains around my bed at night, and I know it is them, looking in and waiting for me. And I mustn't make any noise- not a sound- I'll bite on that fist and draw blood until it all goes away.

*

It is interesting how everybody still looks through me, oblivious to my pain. I share bitter laughs with myself, almost enjoying my little secret. If they only knew the screams that I constantly heard, the things I could see. How funny it would be if everybody knew I was mad and suddenly started noticing me.

I could have a cage, with little iron bars.. One, two, three, four, five, six. Count them, make sure there is no way of getting out! A lamp- an O shape- screaming mouths and gaping holes, streaming bright light, making me blind.

Nobody knows how I see constantly through a diaphanous wave of yellow polka dots. They float past the faces, the false, toothy smiles which I return with one equally false.

If only they knew- if only.

Only, a little part of me is trying so hard to hold on to that sanity. It is the arms which wrap around myself and keep the pain in, the hideous, clenched fist with the curl of bite marks. The voice in my head that repeats "It will be fine, it will be fine" like the turning of wheels on a train. This part is aware that I am losing it, telling me to sort myself out before it is too late. It wants me to stay locked inside myself, where nobody knows who I am. I mustn't get out.

Harry came and sat with me today, gracing me with his holy presence. His face swam with the polka dots as it broke into a grin.

"Hi, Neville," he said, smile never fading, "how are you?"

It will be fine, it will be fine, will be fine, fine.

"I'm fine, Harry." I speak mechanically, detached from myself.

"Do you fancy a game of quidditch? Only we need an extra man." Smile, smile, smile. Such white teeth, though all the better to eat me with.

Quidditch? I haven't been on a broomstick since first year, when I soared up and up as though I would never hit the ground. I want to be up there, and leave all this on the ground. I won't fall this time, because it will be fine.

"Yes, Harry. That would be great." I flash him another smile, so false and mechanical I am proud of producing it. It finally happens. He reacts with a frown. Perhaps, maybe, he caught a glimpse of all that is not right with Neville Longbottom.

"OK," says Mr Potter, though a little tentatively, "we'll be out on the pitch."

The smile returns, and he's gone. Had no idea. No idea that soon I'll be up there, soaring high, and all my problems will be down there on the ground.

*

I fell off my broom. Down and down, into a black pit. A mouth wide open, waiting to swallow me up. I couldn't scream. They were there, they made me fall. Don't scream, they'll hear you! Twenty men in black, faceless and waiting for me.

It was so wonderful when I was in the air. I floated away.

But now I'm down here, face down in a thick, black mud. I filled my mouth with mud to stop the scream escaping. Tastes horrible, I can feeling it squirming and wriggling inside me. Crucio! It will be fine. Crucio! Will be fine, have more mud. Cruc- count the bars, one, two, three... Scream, mother, scream!

"Neville, what's going on?"

No no, not Neville. Block him out. Get him out of here.

"Should we get him to the Hospital Wing?"

More mud now, don't swallow it. The funny men in black are closing in and you mustn't scream.

"Neville, can you hear me?"

Claire, can you hear me?

It's happening now. I let the hands of the men in black descend on me, shake me limb from limb. I let the madness embrace me, touch my forehead with cool hands and soothe me.

Like father, like son. Mummy, Daddy, are you proud? Do you know me now, like I know your madness?

Cold hands take my limbs and carry me off, but I don't open my eyes.

Frank? Can you open your eyes?

They didn't open them, and I won't either. If I look at them, they'll hurt me. I must keep them closed- keep it black- it will be fine.

Fine it be will be fine it fine be will it?

They lay me on a cold slab- is this my grave? The mud grows thick in my mouth and I urge to spit it out, but I mustn't. Don't scream, don't see, don't hear, don't be. The little worms from the mud squirm their way into my insides and I feel them eating away.

"Oh dear.. Oh God, no. Can you leave immediately, please?"

"Is Neville going to be alright?"

Is he? Is he?

"Just leave. He needs rest."

Bye bye, men in black. Does the insanity go now? Should I open my eyes to the dots? No. No no. Stay inside yourself- the lock is there and the bars, one, two, three..

"What are we going to do with him?"

"Give him the morphea."

I wait, and there it is. A needle, thick and sharp, drilling into my bones. First, nothing, and then it spreads like fire, killing the worms and making the screams go away.

Morphea. Morphea morph ea morph ear more phea more fear no morphea.. no more fear.