Weird

Weird

Isn't it weird?

I might as well be invisible. They don't see me. They look straight through me; occasionally look past me, but never at me. They never really see me.

Isn't it strange?

They don't see me at all, and they don't hear me either. I'll say something, but they don't listen. They interact with me, but they never really hear what I'm saying.

Even though we're just two strangers on this runaway train,

We're both trying to find a place in the sun.

We've lived in the shadows,

But doesn't everyone?

I used to think it was normal, that it was this way for everybody. I was wrong. I grew up trying to get people to listen, and to really hear, and to look, and really see. No matter how hard I tried, nobody cared about me. Everyone else has it so easy. I watch them, day after day, going through their lives; I see them laughing, joking, smiling, at ease; I see them sad when they think their life's a mess and that no one has it as hard as them; I see them with their friends, their families, their lovers. The love shown between them is so clear and so beautiful that it hurts me to watch. It hurts me because I know I'll never have any of that, and that the little attention I do receive is out of pity, or duty, and that they don't really know what it's like for me. They don't know because they can't really see.

Isn't it strange how we all feel a little bit weird sometimes?

Is it just me? I mean, is it only me that feels this way? I look around and watch everyone else, and decided that it must be. Everyone else is noticed properly. Everyone else is seen when people look at them; everyone else is heard when people listen. Except for me.

Isn't it hard? Standing in the rain.

I make out like it doesn't affect me, like I don't care, just in case anyone happens to be looking in my direction. I don't let them see my pain. I don't let them see me cry. They deserve more than that, and I'm not going to spoil things for them. Let them be happy, because I can't be. I'm on the outside looking in, feeling so bad, but they'll never know. They don't really see me anyway.

You're on the verge of going crazy, and your heart's in pain.

No one can hear, but you're screaming so loud.

You feel all alone,

In a faceless crowd.

On the outside I look happy and normal, but inside I'm screaming. Why can't they see what's happening to me? Why can't they see that I'm dying, that they're killing me? I put on a mask when they're around; I hide my feelings away. They never hear what I'm saying, and they never see the real me, so I don't know why I bother. But I do, just in case. Because if they ever did see, it would be worse than it is now. They wouldn't understand. I tried telling them once, but they didn't want to know, so I bottled it up again. When they're talking and I want to know what's going on they tell me I'm too young to understand, and I nod in agreement and smile my fake smile and they never see that it's not real, because they don't see or hear me. To them, I'm invisible. And through everything I'm always asking the eternal question: why me?

Isn't it strange how we all get a little bit weird sometimes?

There's no going back from this stage. Now that I've realized what's going on I can handle it a bit better. If they don't want to see me, or hear me, I won't be there to be seen or heard. I'm not going to respond to them if they don't want to let me join them.

Sitting on the side, waiting for a sign, hoping that my luck will change.

Reaching for a hand that will understand, someone who feels the same.

When you live in a cookie-cutter world being different is a sin.

So you don't stand out, and you don't fit in. Weird.

I watch them, and blend into the shadows. I see them look around, expecting me to be there, and the looks on their faces when they find that I'm not. I smile to myself, the first real smile in a long time. I'll always be different from them, and they can't accept that, so I let myself drift away. I used to try letting small parts of the real me out at a time, but that didn't work. I was labelled a freak. Now they all see me as good, kind, dependable Ginny, always there to listen and to offer a shoulder to cry on. They never see that my smile is fake; they never see the tears I hurriedly blink away. I let them ignore me. I blend into the shadows, where I belong.

Sitting on the side, waiting for a sign, hoping that my luck will change.

Reaching for a hand that will understand, someone who feels the same.

When you live in a cookie-cutter world if you're different you can't win.

So you don't stand out, and you don't fit in. Weird.

I close my eyes and lean against the wall, the sounds around me fazing to a blur. I remember voices - their voices. They tell me I don't belong with them; that I'm stupid, pathetic, weak. They tell me nothing I ever do is right, and I believe them. They put me down, over and over again, and I accept it. Tears cloud my vision, and I wipe them away angrily. I can't cry in front of them. Their voices grow louder, shouting now. I nod in agreement. They're right. That's why they don't see me, or hear me; I'm not worth it.

Isn't it strange how we all feel a little bit weird?

Strange, how we all get a little bit...

Strange, 'cause we're all just a little bit weird sometimes.

They don't see me, and they don't hear me, but I don't care anymore. I walk slowly up to my room and sit on my bed in silence for a while. I only have two roommates, and they're downstairs celebrating Gryffindor winning the Quidditch cup with the others. I open my desk drawer and take out a pair of scissors. Their heavy weight feels comforting in my hand. I roll up the sleeve of my robes and press the cold steel against my skin. The once perfect, virginal skin is now marked with silvery scars caused by years of self-inflicted abuse. I close my eyes and scratch my arm with the blade in one sharp, swift motion, feeling the warm, red blood flow slowly across my skin. I remind myself that blood means I'm alive, and that I'm not invisible. I reach under my bed for the piece of material that was once white but is now bloodstained. I wipe away the majority of the blood and return the cloth to its place. I rest my arm on my lap and look at the wound, my face expressionless. A sound on the stairs jolts me from my thoughts and I look up, nervously hiding my arm behind my back.

The door opens and Harry Potter walks in, joining me on the bed. I don't like him in that way anymore; I decided there was no point a while ago. He's just Ron's best friend now. He sits beside me and looks into my eyes, reaching around me to lift my hidden arm. He holds it gently and gazes down at me, tracing his index finger along my scars. The latest cut is still bleeding a little, and he lets his eyes follow that one. Finally, his eyes meet mine again, but there is a pain in them I have very rarely seen before. After a silence that stretches almost too long, he speaks.

" Which ones are because of me?"

I remain silent and avert my eyes, which is enough to show him that at least some of them were because of him.

" I'm sorry, Ginny," he says, and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead.

I shake my head, flinching away from him. " Don't," I choke out.

He pulls his hand away and nods. I smile wryly at him.

" So it's reduced to this?" he asks.

I don't understand and tell him so.

" What you're doing to yourself," he explains. " Is that all you think your life sums up to?"

" Sometimes," I reply honestly. " And I'm not the only one that thinks that; you all do. At one point or another, everyone in my life has told me something along those lines."

" It must be true then," he tells me, a sarcastic look crossing his face.

" Please," I start, before he cuts me off.

" Just because people say things that might not be all that great, does not mean they think your life is worth so little as this."

I don't know what to say, so I remain quiet. He pulls back and looks at me, his eyes scanning my form and finally coming to rest on my scarred arm. I retract it and instinctively pull in on myself. He moves towards me and encircles me in his arms, holding me to his chest. For the first time in years, I let myself cry with a witness. When I pull away, he smiles at me.

" I'm so sorry," I say.

" No," he replies. " It doesn't matter. Just let me help you."

I look up at him sharply. " I don't think you can," I tell him. " I don't think anyone can."

" Look, I've got an idea," he announces. " I don't know if it will work, but we can try."

I nod, allowing him to continue, and he does. He tells me that whenever I feel like doing it I should go and talk to him. He says we don't have to talk about it, or why I was going to do it that time. He tells me that we can just sit and talk about anything, or not talk at all if I don't want to. It sounds like a good idea to me, and I agree to try. Maybe I'm not so weird after all. Maybe I don't have to keep up the masks forever. Maybe, just maybe, I'm not invisible. Because he can see me, and hear me, and I feel safe with him. Maybe things will be ok now.

I smile sardonically as I think this, knowing there's no point in trying. He thinks he sees me, but he doesn't, not really. His eyes look through me rather than at me, searching for the Ginny he wants to see. His eyes penetrate my body as he looks for the Ginny he thinks I am, the Ginny that everyone knows, the Ginny that's wonderful and kind and doesn't have real problems like everyone else. In a way I suppose he's right; my problems aren't like everyone else's. My problems aren't likely to go away. So I agree to try, for him, for all of them, and my heart and soul withdraw into the shadows, where I belong.

Weird.