Something To Believe In

Something To Believe In

Pansy hates to wake up in the dark. Waking up, her mind full of visions of blood and fire, to see nothing but blackness surrounding her. Reaching out grasping hands to the night, groping for light, warmth, anything to reassure her that she's still alive, that she hasn't yet succumbed to the hopelessness that is threatening to envelope her.

She is terrified that one day she will not know the difference between sleeping and waking, that the two will merge and she will be trapped in a living nightmare. She knows that day is near, but she prays that she will not live to see it.

She wishes to, but does not dare sleep with the light on, lest she betrays her weakness to the girls that share her dormitory or to her family at home. She does not confide in anyone. She knows where that would lead, what doubts would be started, and how her loyalties would be questioned. Anything is better than facing the consequences of that course of action.

She feigns normality. She hides her exhaustion, and tries to convince the others that she is fine. That's what she replies when they ask her what is wrong, or why she cannot listen in class, or why she refuses to walk down the darker corridors on her own. Because they must not find out that she is weak. Weakness is to be despised. Weakness is not part of who she is; Pansy Parkinson is not weak.

She hides her doubts, her fears and her aching tiredness as she desperately tries to be as strong as they think she is. The Pansy that they know would not be afraid or have doubts. The Pansy that they know would fight for a better reason than simply not knowing what else to do.

She carries on with her life. She smiles and laughs and goes to class. Then she spies and burns and kills. She fights the battles. She watches every feeling of goodness, compassion, happiness and sympathy disappear, as if her soul is ebbing away. She sacrifices herself for what she pretends to believe in, little by little. Even though it is killing her. Perhaps because it is killing her.

Everybody needs something to believe in. Everybody needs something to fight for. And so she holds onto her childhood beliefs, taught to her by those she has learnt to resent, even though she knows they are wrong. Because what else is there to hold on to?

Every night is a battle with her weary body as she struggles against the tides of sleep. A battle to which she becomes accustomed to losing. The only battle that she allows herself to lose.

She knows that eventually her heart will harden and these visions that terrify her now will mean nothing. She looks forward to that day, and yet dreads it.

She conceals her weariness. She does not complain. She knows that she deserves no comfort. Her nightmares are of her own making.