Doomed to Live

Atrocity is recognized as such by victim and perpetrator alike, by all who learn about it at whatever remover. Atrocity has no excuses, no mitigating argument. Atrocity never balances or rectifies the past. Atrocity merely arms the future to more atrocity. It is self-perpetuating upon itself - a barbarous form of incest. Whoever commits atrocity also commits those future atrocities thus bred.

Frank Herbert: Children of Dune

~ * * * ~

You are so beautiful...

You look into the green eyes of the Muggle girl as they widen with terror at hearing the compliment from the twisted mouth of one of your companions. You observe her desperate (and pointless) attempt to run away and quietly watch her attacker fling her on the ground and rip off her clothing, mercilessly displaying her white, child-like body to an audience of human vultures. She is screaming, wailing, pleading for mercy and her tormentor is laughing coldly, repeating with a mocking tone,

You are so beautiful...

You flinch and turn away. For suddenly, unexpectedly, you're thrust back into the secret chamber of old memories that you never intended entering again. Memories... Ironic they should resurface now, of all moments. Why? What is it that makes this scene different from the countless similar ones that you have witnessed? Of course, this is not exactly your kind of game, but if your followers enjoy it, you won't be the one to spoil their fun.

But.

What's the matter? Is it her eyes? There's something disturbingly familiar about them as they stare at you imploringly (you, of all people). Is it her youth? How old can she be? Twelve? Thirteen? You were much younger when... Stop. This has gone too far. You won't be reminded of that. You forgot.

You did.

But no matter how much you try to fight it, a stream of old memories floods your mind and makes you relive the past...

You are so beautiful...

You shiver as you hear those words again, whispered by the voice you know under so many disguises... the strict and just voice of the priest, echoing through the little orphanage church... the kind and patient voice of the teacher, explaining the mysteries of the universe in Sunday school... and the other one, the voice of the beast - hoarse with raw excitement when it's alone with you, telling you things you don't wish to hear. You feel the greedy hands tracing embarrassing routes all over your slender body, the hungry tongue licking your white skin, the unwelcome warmth of a strange body pressed to yours - bending it, hurting it, invading it -

Stop.

Please.

It's your eyes that are wide with terror, your body that recoils in disgust, you who is pleading for mercy - and is given none. And the voice stays with you long after its owner satisfied his urge and left you alone in the boys' bathroom, burning with a mixture of pain, mortification and helpless fury. The voice is always there, haunting your waking and sleeping time alike, whispering...

I'm going to kill you if you don't keep your mouth shut... Nobody would believe you anyway... And even if they did, they'd think it was your fault, and it is your fault... because you are so beautiful...

You can endure physical pain - you are, after all, accustomed to it - but the humiliation is unbearable. It cuts deep and the wounds it leaves on your soul will never heal.

You know where you live. How often you've heard your sanctimonious tormentor talking about the place where sinners are supposed to go after death, but you know it's a lie just like everything else concerning him. There's no Hell and Heaven, there's no evil and good, there's just life, and life is Hell for those without power. Death is nothingness, and without knowing why, you dread the void of non-existence even more than the familiar anguish of living. If life is suffering, you're going to make sure a time comes when you will make others suffer; it is this certainty that helps you to survive.

You know why you were left growing up in Hell. Your mother died at giving you birth, and you can't but feel bitter and angry about her betrayal. Why didn't you matter? For if you had, she would have fought for life... she would have never given up, even if her husband treated her like dirt and threw her out onto the street. She should have hated him, but no, she loved him so much that the last thing she did in this world was to name you after him.

Your father.

As for him, it's not anger you feel. It's pure, undiluted, unrestrained hatred and you revel in it.

At your eleventh birthday you get an owl-delivered letter (and for some reason you're not surprised at all... as if you have been expecting it all along) telling you that you're special, that you can go away to a place where you can master things the rest of the orphanage rubbish would never even dream about. You can't wait to leave, burning with desire to flee the nightmare you have been forced to live in up to now. Finally, after so many years of misery, you get a chance to start anew.

You burst with pride when the Sorting Hat puts you in the House known for ambition and power, but your unworthy father manages to spoil things for you once more. Because of your parentage, your fellow Slytherins scorn you, hurling insults at you. They call you-

Mudblood.

Impure.

It doesn't help that you feel impure yourself. Just like in the orphanage you tend to spend too much time in the shower, obsessively rubbing your skin to the point of abrasion, desperately trying to wash off the filth of the past. But you can't get rid of Hell that easily - it's already become a part of your being. You wonder whether the others know this; and you hate them as much as you hate yourself for being what you are.

Impure.

Mudblood.

You're outraged that you - the descendant of the greatest wizard ever - should be subjected to such treatment from beings inferior to you. There is little doubt you surpass them all in intelligence, potential and descent. For you know now who your ancestor was, the bloody Sorting Hat told you as much at Sorting even if you didn't realise it at that moment.

You could be great, you know, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness... it's in your blood.

It doesn't take you long to figure out whose blood might run in your veins. And with the help of some very special library sources you gain certainty about the identity of your famous ancestor. You hope it is you who are his prophesied Heir... no, you know it is you. And one day you're going to prove you're worthy of your inheritance. You're going to show them all whose blood is really pure.

Still, when compared to the horror of your previous existence, you're in Heaven now. You're a brilliant student and you enjoy it like nothing else before. But all the joys of Paradise turn sour when you have to go back to your old life in summer, unable to use your new powers to perform vengeance on your old torturer, because the rules forbid it. You fear to break the rules lest you are cast out of Paradise forever; but you are angry with your teachers for forcing you to suffer on, counting the long days of eternity until the beginning of the new school year. And you hate them for your continued helplessness as much as you hate yourself for your fear to disobey their restrictions...

As you grow older, things are changing. Professors respect you for your knowledge, schoolmates fear you for your weirdness (not to mention the fact that you excel at hexes), and girls- girls find you attractive. Much to your disgust, needless to say, because if there's one thing you can't stand it's people touching you, whatever their intentions... And the intentions of these human bitches couldn't be more obvious. All the giggling and winking and whispering behind your back come down to one thing only.

The first time one of them plucks up enough courage to approach you, you're caught unprepared. She attempts to kiss you, whispering,

You are so beautiful...

She barely manages to touch your lips when you flinch and turn away, running off and getting convulsively sick in the shrubbery, leaving her puzzled and angry and the more enthusiastic in her future efforts - and in a way you understand, for it is the unattainable that fuels human desire the most (as it fuels yours, though the object of your desire is entirely different) - but it doesn't prevent you from feeling contempt for her and her like.

It's an ill wind that brings nobody any good - as the old fool Dumbledore might say - and there is one very comforting aspect to growing up. It makes you look undesirable to the demon of your childhood years. Now, it is some other boy who walks the sterile-white corridors of the orphanage with a glassy stare and a bleeding soul... But whatever freedom this gives to you is only imaginary... the shackles of memories remain chained to your inner self.

Only after you leave school, you're truly free... to do whatever you desire.

So you go and triumphantly confront your old tormentor, giving him a very long and painful death for all his kindness. This is a memory that will never fail to fill you with grim pleasure. One of the most satisfying moments of your life, no doubt.

But this is not the first death (you never use the word murder... justice or purification seem so much more appropriate) you are responsible for.

No, you have reserved the special honour of the first time for somebody else. You've been planning it for years... the visit to the unworthy fool who gave you life. It would seem most fitting that he should receive death in return. It is a shock to see him, so much an older copy of you. The same green eyes, the same black hair, the same arrogant expression. The same kind of beauty. It is his fault that you had to go through that nightmare. It is his fault that-

You are so beautiful...

The rage as you realise this makes you kill quickly contrary to your original plan. But that doesn't prevent it from being a highly satisfactory experience nonetheless. Having disposed of that creature, you know you finally set yourself free... You also get rid of the other two, his parents, for they are just like him.

Dirty scum.

Like the green-eyed Muggle girl who sent you back in time for a while. She stopped screaming a while ago.

Your fiery gaze finds a mirror on one of the walls. You remember the legend of a mirror that shows people's innermost dreams, but you don't need a magical toy to learn what you've known for years. Each and every mirror in the world is the Mirror of Erised for you, showing your heart's desire by reflecting your face, the very symbol of it.

You smile delicately as you watch it, skull-white, snake-shaped and terrible. You stretch your unnaturally long, bone-white hand with spider-like fingers and observe them lovingly.

Nobody would desire or dare to touch you now.

Your past is forgotten. You have a new body, a new name and a long (everlasting, as you believe) future.

The Muggle girl is silent. The ones who ravaged her are gone to find another sport. Her body is broken and she's barely alive, but her eyes are still fixing you with an imploring expression. You know what she's wishing for. And who are you to refuse the last wish of a dying person? A last gallant service for a damsel in distress... so to speak. You smirk and watch the life in the green eyes fade in the haze of soft green light streaming from your wand.

You stare into the two frozen spots of green, wondering. How could it ever occur to you that you had something in common with her? She's dead, and you... you're alive.

The dead green eyes are still fixing you, but you no longer notice. The chamber of secrets of your mind is, once more, sealed. This time for good.

You walk out of the room, never looking back.

~ * * * ~

And God closed the Book of the Life of the Man, and said, "Surely I will send thee into Hell. Even into Hell will I send thee."

And the Man cried out, "Thou canst not."

And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and for what reason?"

"Because in Hell have I always lived," answered the Man.

And there was silence in the House of Judgement.

And after a space God spake, and said to the Man, "Seeing that I may not send thee into Hell, surely I will sent thee unto Heaven. Even unto Heaven will I send thee."

And the Man cried out, "Thou canst not."

And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee unto Heaven, and for what reason?"

"Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine it," answered the Man.

And there was silence in the House of Judgement.

Oscar Wilde: The House of Judgement