Dissonance

Dissonance

The End - With A Passion

I'm watching, can you see me?

You can.

Oh - I'm watching and I think you can see me. See right through me to the scattered mess of confusion I know is there that desperately waits for the answer but doesn't even know the question.

I do this often, far too often. It's a habit, a bad habit that I can't break and that I keep giving into. It's biting my nails and sucking my thumb or cracking my knuckles only far more destructive to my body.

Would you like to know why I stare? I bet you would. Or maybe you wouldn't. Would the answer make you blush? Would it make you angry or disgusted? Would you hate me even more or would that heroic part of you want to reach out to me in pity.

I don't want your pity. Far from it. A far cry.

I'm crying - crying out for something to be real and for something that I can hold and for things to maybe just end but they won't.

Or maybe they already are. The story's already ending.

Its potions and you're here. I'm watching you, you can see me, can't you? You're uncomfortable under my gaze and you fidget in your chair and your friend stares at you like you're mad.

You're not. Won't ever be half as mad as I am.

One of your sidekicks isn't there. He's missing. I don't care. I like him gone. Never liked him, he ruined things for me and he's always winning - just like you.

Don't you two make such a perfect pair?

So perfect I want to scream because it's not fair. It isn't fair that such a person can be considered good enough for you. It makes me angry and hateful and jealous and I really hate jealousy - father says it's bad; that it clouds your mind and takes away your sanity.

You're looking over at me now and I can't tell what you're thinking but it's something else and it seems misplaced and - are you really looking at me this way? You can't be because I haven't even dreamed of this; haven't even let myself. There's something in your eyes that's make time go by oddly - why's everything suddenly so slow? You're looking at me - is it me you're looking at when just a minute ago you weren't happy with that fact that I was watching you?

Your lips are moving and I think I'm mesmerized.

Or possibly paralyzed.

Or maybe a little of both.

You smile. You smile and there's white teeth and pink lips and I think I want to die.

And something's pushing past me and it's big and red and of course. So bloody obvious - why didn't I see? He always beats me anyways. Always, always. And you always stand up for him and you're always with him and he's always, always got you.

I hate him.

He makes me angry, so angry I want to run over to him and rip him apart and possibly also feed him to several hungry dogs. Or maybe a Hippogriff or some other magical and deadly creature. It would be great I think, I would laugh. But you wouldn't, would you? You'd hate me even more and you'd never look at me, although you don't look at me much now - it's like I'm invisible. Completely not worth your time, or far more immature to be a bother. Do I mean that little to you?

I probably do.

I hate him, but you'd hate it more if I did anything so this time only I think I won't so I just watch you and the only thing you can see on my face is the sneer, and it's such a horrible sneer. The kind you're used to and the kind I think you deserve and you don't even see that maybe there's something underneath it.

I'm looking at you and I hate you, I can't keep my head straight and I think this is the first potions assignment I've failed.

I'll never learn my lesson though. This is driving me insane and I think I can't take it anymore and I'm falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Couldn't you save me? You save everyone else but you don't care about us do you? The people on the other side? You forget that we actually are people and that maybe we're suffering worse than you and that maybe you're the reason we are.

I know you're why I suffer, but it's not for the reason people would think.

I still watch you, although watching you has become a drug. Something horrible addictive that likes to take over and seep into me and controls the contours of my mind so perfectly that I don't even notice it sometimes. It's horrible but I can't escape - I try to escape but it's the most impossible thing I think I've tried to do in the world.

So I'm still watching you and it's lunchtime. I hope no one sees. I wouldn't notice would I? I couldn't, I'm not paying attention to anything else.

It's a habit - more like need - a horrible habit that I can't get rid of but I need to get rid of it. It consumes me and I just want it to leave.

Father says that habits are bad.

He says that obsessions are bad. They cloud your mind and take away your sanity.

Just like you do.

He says that hate is bad, which is a funny thing coming from my father. But I suppose it makes sense because I don't think he hates people. He doesn't want to bother hating people that he thinks are below him.

Hating someone clouds your mind and makes you weak and hating someone with a passion is like practically giving up your sanity.

You. Just like you.

Father also says that love is bad. That it clouds your mind and makes you weak and takes your sanity from you.

Why does this remind me of you?

Everything reminds me of you and I hate it. I hate that everything I look at comes back to you - the world revolves around you doesn't it? I always had my suspicions... - and I want to touch it like it will suddenly morph into you and I could have those bright, bright eyes and that hair and those lips and they could be on me and everywhere at once; hot and wet and I'd never want it to end.

Wouldn't that be nice? Wouldn't that be oh-so-good and wonderful and so very, very impossible?

Father also says you are bad. I wonder if I'd I asked him... would he said you cloud people's minds and make them weak and take their sanity?

Because I'd agree.

You're not even looking at me. Like I'm not in the room and like I'm not watching you and like I haven't already been for years. For years. And it's taking my last citadel and before I know it I'll be completely yours. You can have me. I know I said I'd have you but I meant the opposite. And it wasn't the right tense anyway, because you already do have me. And why the hell can't you see this?

You're sitting there and you're happy and why do I never get to be happy? Some lovely twisted world we have here. Horribly full of favoritism and ugly, ugly people.

Remember in first year? How we were robbed of a perfectly good cup because you went against the rules? How they'd let a group of kids have their victory and their reward and their pride only to have it snatch away in a spree of public humiliation?

Horrible. It's horrible - it's so fucking horrible. Horribly how everyone worships you and how everyone thinks you're horribly bloody brilliant and how I keep managing to be exactly like them.

I hate you.

I had a dream about you last night. Would you like to know what happened? It would make you blush. Would you like me to tell you? I could. Maybe I could show you and then you'd turn red but would it be only of anger and disgust?

It would, wouldn't it? - knowing you.

And I do know you. Know you more than anyone else because you're always there and I'm always watching you. You're in the hall and at the meals and classes and you're there even when you're not; you're always in my head so when I close my eyes it's not an escape because I have nightmares of you too. Yes - they're nightmares of the best kind. We touch and we breathe and moan and there's so much touching that I can't take it anymore and I come back to consciousness and I'm screaming like after any nightmare.

Screaming for more. Screaming for it to be real.

Sometimes we don't touch. Sometimes you're just there and I like those too because in those we're happy and I've never been that happy before, it feels nice doesn't it? Maybe I should tell you of those dreams?

But I still wake up from them screaming.

My housemates hate the screams. They hate the pleas that I make in my sleep that wake them up at all the worst times.

If they knew these nightmares were about you they'd hate it even more.

They'd hate me. So I cannot tell them and I can't let out my secrets to anyone because they'd hate me and none of them would understand. The boys would laugh and the girls would look at me funny and not a single one would try to help me deal with it.

I wish I could just tell someone. Wouldn't that be nice? I wouldn't know - I'm too afraid to do it. All I can do is let it bottle up as I watch you and now you're laughing with them and it looks so fun and why do you never laugh like that with me? Don't answer - I know why. It's perfectly obvious.

Even the ending will be perfectly obvious. It'll be just as everything always was and it won't even change because I don't really think I do change very well. Nothing is going to change and I can see the ending coming soon. This is the ending. It always has been. It's always the same with us and it always will be.

From the very beginning we had met our ending; far before the story had a chance to bloom.

It's coming - let's see it, if this story has a chance for change now. I won't set hope on it, I never do. But we can see because there's always room for that last twist in the plot, that little turn that no one expects and really - I'm not expecting it, deep down I know I actually do hope for it but I can't be the one to initiate this drastic alteration.

I couldn't possibly be the one to do so.

Remember? I'm in the house of cowards. We have ambition; yes I've got plenty of that. But when it comes down to doing something bold and life shifting, I become frightened and flea to hide behind something far bigger than I am - like when I fled from the forest.

Do you remember when we were in the forest? We were only eleven but I knew I had to have you. And I remember being so afraid - you were never afraid - I was so afraid. What if something attacked us? What if we were eaten? I remember grabbing your arm because you were strong and brave but you didn't notice did you? You were far too busy ignoring my presence and hating that you had detention in the first place.

It's quiet now, because I've just left the Great Hall and so have you. I follow you often. Sometimes you see me, others not. Only now, I mean to talk to you, but you've those idiots with you. You're best friends. You love them, don't you? Or, you think you do. You don't know what love is.

You'll never know what love is until you've been trapped in it's clutches for years desperately trying to break yourself free.

This time you see me and you all stop - tell them to go away, just tell them to leave - and you ask what the hell I'm doing following you. What are you looking for? Some sort of bloody answer? You really want me to give you an explanation?

How could I when I don't know what the hell I'm doing myself?

This could be it. I think it really could. Maybe if I just told you in front of them you'd believe it, because who'd want to embarrass themselves that much for a simple lie? You'd have to believe it, I know you would. You're the trusting sort of person.

But now I'm talking words that are not the one's I intended for. This always happens doesn't it? Just at the time I'm hoping for a change - even when I know one will not come - he always comes and ruins it.

Someone's taking over and it's not me. It's someone who's raised and proper. Someone who's far more intelligent to bother themselves over the likes of you. It's someone my father would be proud of and often he is. But it's not me - it isn't. Whose mouth is that? I want them to shut up - to stop talking and to quit always ruining everything for me and taking away things that are mine even though I never had them in the first place.

Just shut up.

But he won't. He never does.

I think I want to cry. Or scream, because I do not cry. I never cry unless I'm physically hurt. And at those times it's quite different - it's okay - because tears are the body's natural reaction to pain.

- Although, sometimes when I see you it's like someone's stabbed me in the gut and that's very physical isn't it? -

It doesn't matter. This isn't me talking. It's not me. Why can't you see this? Why is it that you can do anything in the world but see people for who they are?

Even with those glasses you're blind.

You look angry, like you think I mean these words; they're horrible and spiteful and those idiots behind you look furious and close to kill.

But I can't stop and I can't let you see past this because it'll be my downfall and it's weak and I'm already the weakest person I know.

Can't stop these words now. I go too far and you're shaking with anger and you bite back with your own retorts that are just as vile as mine and I know it's not really you but you just want to see my reaction.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

You push me against the wall. You're ignoring your friends - you've been so angry this year. My head wants to explode. We're touching and I hope you don't feel my body's reaction because you're pressed against me from chest to thigh - everything would be so obvious and embarrassing if you could feel it.

I don't care that you're yelling insults in my ear and threatening to curse me, because I feel like I want to scream, just like I do when waking up from a perfectly wonderful nightmare.

It's over. It always was. Here's the ending that's already been presented to us. No room for change - I should have known that.

I hate you.

Just like I hate myself.