And Sometimes...

And Sometimes...

And sometimes things just a get a little too dark and he wakes up screaming. Sometimes he can't tell if he's laughing or crying, or if he even cares which one it is. He's been broken. Broken far too many times and he's quite sure that he can't bare it for a second longer. Stonewalls and castle towers have become his all-embracing jail cell. Awkward glances and tight black robes that might as well be straight jackets. He thinks he's dying but he's never quite sure.

Sometimes in his dreams he'll be back at home. Back to the place he hated for it's lack of attentive caring. He never realized how good he had it. He never realized that there were worse things then being locked under a staircase. He never realized the universe would be so cruel as to give him the world and then rip it away in tiny painful bits. No, he was quite sure he'd been naive up until now. But he was also quite sure he'd never asked for the crude eye opener he'd received.

A flimsy stick of wood, incasing what was said to be magical was now his only weapon. Things had been easier when all he had to do was deflect a fist...not a curse aimed to kill. He'd never asked for this. He'd never sat alone praying to some unearthly creature for deliverance. But still, for some reason he'd been thrown into this playpen of mad men.

He likes to remember the times when things felt clear, or maybe the times it just felt real. Quidditch had been an escape; it had been a way to force himself to live the physical reality that he so desperately wished would just go away. He'd fallen numerous times, but always seemingly forget to inform the others that he'd done it on purpose. He needed to know it was real...or to find out that he'd been dreaming, which he would never deny was a wish of his.

A car crash seemed easier to accept than murder at the hands of a man he was bound to. It was easier to accept that he was an outcast because of his nerdy glasses and skinny form, instead of a defeat he could neither remember nor prove. His life seemed like it was all leading up to something, even if he could never quite put his finger on what it was. People looked up to him for something he couldn't give. No one seemed to realize most 15 year olds hadn't nearly died on a number of occasions.

But none of this is ever truly clear in the boys mind. None of this ever shines through and sits in his head as he drowses off in class. These are the things he dreams about; these are things that eat him alive. These are the things that make his head spin when a window of clarity appears. These are the things that haunt him.

And sometimes he wakes up screaming, and never quite knows why.