The Downward Spiral

You sit in the darkness. It's late. In the perfect houses across the road small squares of yellow light are a rare sight. The polished windows, marked by the brief passage of indistinct grey forms, fade into the characteristic black holes puncturing the neat arrangement of bricks. Privet Drive is empty. You've seen it before. In your mind you can map out every door, every flowerbed, even the infinite arrangement of light reverberations on the cement, the geometry of every wall.

The soft incandescent glow of the street lights glares at you, burning vivid stains on your eyes. You shut the curtains. That's better. The heavy material shuts out the light. Insolent rays somehow force their way in, casting dull pools of orange on the stained carpet. You scowl and turn your back on them. They plague your thoughts. Frustrated you turn back around and wrench open the curtains. The sudden burst of light stings your eyes. Blinking back tears of rage you glare up at the stars twinkling contemptuously in a haze of false purity.

Star light; star bright; the first star I see tonight.

But it's not the first. You've seen many more. They drift lazily across the sky until dawn. The hateful dawn which always brings a promise of torment and death. It rises in hope and sinks in defeat as the sky becomes overcast. The darkness always comes. But the moon and stars bring no comfort. The red stains on the moon glow with a vengeful obscurity. The stars shine bitterly in the sickly air.

I wish I may, I wish I might.

Vague. Obscure. Never knowing. But ignorance is bliss. Isolation too. The hurts run too deep, too raw. Why scare away yet another with tales of pathetic suffering and broken minds? Everyone goes away in the end.

Have the wish I wish tonight.

Be careful what you wish for. It might come true. You laugh bitterly. Wishes are childish fantasies. An excuse for escaping the savage loneliness, the harsh reality of the world. It might come true. But it never does. And you are always trapped in a downward spiral of death, blood and tears. Is it worth it? Is anything worth the suffering? You've had enough and can't escape. Your mind plays tricks on you. Or are you just paranoid? Afraid to face up to what you can't face up to? Dealing with the consequences and complications of your mind. You hear far-off voices.

"Harry, why are you doing this to yourself? Please, just let us help you."

You close your eyes. Your head throbs dully as the light filters dimly through your eyelids. You pummel your forehead, willing the pain to go away. How ironic. It just becomes worse. You blink back tears of frustration as you grip your hair in an attempt to dissipate the pounding sensation. You close the curtains once again. Dawn is near and you do not wish to see its face. A sheer mockery of the new life it symbolises. All it greets you with is a new day of suffering. It's twisted.

"The murderer or the victim Harry. It's a hard choice, but it's yours to make. Running away from it won't help you. Face your problems, Harry, and remember that we're all here to help you."

You lie face down on the dusty carpet. You can smell the sickening aromas of your tears, your own blood. The scent creates images in your mind. Deformed, distorted pictures of forgotten incidents. A flash of gleaming salvation. The leering glint of a twisted blade, carving away the layers of pretence and denial. And the deep pool of soothing crimson, drowning regret and fear. You subconsciously trail a finger over your left arm. A faint stinging is woken on the shallow surface of your skin. You stare at the mark in wonderment. That's new. You shake your head to try to remember. It's deep. And it hurts. You focus on the pain - the only thing that's real. You bring it up to eye level and blink blearily as you attempt to focus your mind. The lack of sleep has made you sink into this stupor and you know it. You don't want to sleep anymore. All it ever brings is darkness and foul dreams. But then you wake up, and sometimes waking is worse. You like to play games with yourself. How long can you deprive your body of what it needs? Until it becomes weak with the suffering you subject it to? Until it's screaming in agonising protest? Or until the final day when it's too late? But death isn't always so bad. How can you tell? You're afraid. Your mind is spiralling out of control. It messes with you. It disguises itself with assurances and promises while concealing a darker purpose: to utterly destroy you.

"He shuts himself away, Hermione. What can I do? I can't stand to see him this way. Have you seen the haunted look in his eyes? He's lost somewhere, but he won't let us bring him back."

You shiver as you huddle in the darkest, dustiest corner of the room. Tears begin to form in your eyes and for once you don't hold them back. You feel lost. You catch a glimpse of the broken windowpane opposite you. I am cracked like glass. The bitter stinging tears stream down your face. I taste salt; my own fear. You sway slowly back and forth as you are reduced to a shuddering wreck. A ghost of a human being. You are no longer human, just an empty broken shell driven into madness by hate and despair. After all, it's all about being misunderstood, this charade you play. But it's long ceased being a charade. It's no longer a role, or a game to see how much you can suffer until you break. It's become an obsession. It's like a stray - you feed it once, and now it stays. It's the driving force behind your every move, your every breath.

"Harry! Please stop it! I'm frightened!"

You don't care what goes on behind closed doors; incomprehensible echoes of voices that now fade, deadened and sleeping.