One Who Lived

They called it the Great War. I saw nothing great about it. Only, perhaps the ending, the final battle that ended it all. Good always wins over Evil. That's what happened, we all knew it, and we all knew we were going to win. Even if it took us a hundred years, we all knew that good would triumph over Evil, and that it did. I got to the graves a lot. The cemetery is beautiful. I don't think you are suppose to call one of those beautiful, but I think it is anyways. There is something about the feeling you get when you enter. The way the wind blows something through you, almost making you forgot your tears.

The real heroes are buried here. The whole graveyard covered in white stones, engraved with names and dates, and those little sentences that are there to sum up ones life. When I die I want to be buried along side those who fought with me. I don't want anything more then them, because I do not think of myself as any more then they were. People who wanted to save the world, and did. So many among them were close to me, friends who I loved and cherished over the few years I knew them. So many who fell in front of my feet, trying to save me, me the Boy Who Lived.

I wonder sometimes, why I am the Boy Who Lived. Why didn't I become one of the fallen? I've been in enough situations, as to which I should have died, but I am the Boy Who Lived, and live I did. I thank God everyday my best friends live along side me. They fought with me during the war; they stayed strong and brave by my side when I needed them the most. Now they are just like me, changed, jaded by the blood we saw, never the same. At times I can almost envy the dead, envy the peace they've found. Maybe that's why I come to the graveyard so often, to read their names, and wish that I was with them.

I live with so much hate. Hate, that I shouldn't bother to feel. Hate that dwells deep in side, that boils up but never gets released. I'll never know why I am the Boy Who Lived. That secret that bothers me every second, is also the one that fills me with such hate. Hate for the one who gave me this life, hate for the one I killed.

I wonder what they would think of me, if I told them I wish he was alive still. Still alive so I can ask him, why I am. Why was I the one he wanted to kill, what did he know about me that I don't? That's something I will never know, and that's what I hate. Sitting in this dark black room, knowing that I lived, but so many others died, and in some ways its all my fault.

My fault, and his. I thought my hate would die when I killed him, but it didn't. It just burned more, he's dead, but why do I feel this hate, why do I wish I was in his place? So many questions with out answers, answers that no one can ever give me. But I can't let them know that, I can't let the world see my hate. Know that it dwells within me, because I am the Boy Who Lived, the Boy Who Saved The World, and I am suppose to be above everything, I am suppose to their hero.

I'm not their hero, those who lay in the ground, their souls in peace, those are the heroes. Those who fought without the name of the One Who Lived, those who fought not for their own hateful selves but for the world they lived in. Those whose names will be long forgotten in years, and just become words in history books. Children for the rest of their lives will read about this so called Great War, they will read about the one fallen, but they wont care. They'll skip over those they don't know, until they find me, the Boy Who Lived. They'll read everything about me, all those fake words. How strong and brave I was, how I faced danger how I alone killed Voldemort, and that's all their remember. I'm their fake hero, while the real ones lay alone in their graves.

I live in fear. Fear of not knowing what is going to happen next. Where will I go? What will I do? How am I suppose to live my life. How do I deal with this hated that's wrapped in fear? More questions, without answered. Is that all my life has become? Questions without any answers.

I wonder what all those children would think, all those out there now, all those who think of me as their hero, if they knew that the Boy Who Lived, wishes that he didn't.