Disclaimer: If I owned the Harry Potter universe, I would not be writing on a computer that is too slow and a desk chair that is broken. So, with that said, please don't sue me. : ) Also, the song lyrics are by Avril Lavigne "Take Me Away" ... So don't sue me for that either.
Summary: "He left me. When everyone was gone, when all we had was each other, he ran the other way. "
Author's Note: It's me again. This is going to be a chapter fic that I thought of abruptly. It is very angsty and dark so I'm warning you now. I'm still working on Forever Angel, haven't forgotten about it : ) Anyway, just wanted to start on another project. Hope you enjoy and please leave me your comments in the form of reviews. Thanks.
:: Anjel ::
Take Me Away - "Insane"
I cannot find a way to describe it
It's there inside; all I do is hide
I wish that it would just go away
What would you do, you do, if you knew
What would you do?
Life hasn't been easy. When you're left alone to wonder what went wrong, how everything was pulled from under you, you tend to go crazy. Crazy enough to land you at St. Mungos in the mental ward where the only thing you have for company is the guard who patrols your hall, and even he thinks you're too crazy to be listened to.
Being stuck in a room with four padded walls and no window to let you know what time of day it is makes you more insane than you were to begin with. That is, if you were crazy to begin with. Many of the people here are really clinically insane but there are those who were not to begin with, who definitely are now. I think I'm the only one who wasn't actually insane to begin with and I'm still not. But that doesn't seem to make a difference. People won't listen to you if they think you're 'crazy'.
It's lonely here, to say the least. Lonely and scary. To be honest, I don't know how I've kept myself from going insane. This place can make everyone lose a few marbles. At night, when the lights are shut off (whether you want them off or not) is the worst time. Screaming and groans echo throughout the deserted hallways and they bounce off my walls. The torture these people have been through seep through them and out through their screams of horror and moans of pain and longing. They see things in their sleep none of us could even imagine. Poor, tortured souls who only want to feel normal, in a place where they are considered anything but.
Sleep blocks the cries out but it is not a sanctuary for me. Scenes from a year ago flash through my mind, over and over again, playing themselves out and leaving new bruises each night. Nightmares so real and intense wake me every night in a cold sweat with my lungs hitching for air. I can't stop them when they get bad, I can't make them go away, all I can do is wait until they play themselves out and finally let me wake up.
I don't scream, I don't cry. Maybe that's why everyone thinks there is something wrong with me; because I show no emotion. A face devoid of any expression but a blank one. They want to see me show some feeling like a normal human being but how can I? Have they gone through what I have? Were they left completely alone, was their life turned upside down and inside out until they didn't know who they were and what they were doing?
Did they lose everything? No, of course not. So how can they possibly understand? Any of them? They think I'm hiding something. What, I don't know. All I know is that all I feel is pain, sometimes just plain emptiness, which is better than pain. I feel betrayed and abandoned. Do you blame me?
He left me. When everyone was gone, when all we had was each other, he ran the other way. I was left alone, to grieve and cry and think alone. I never stop thinking about him. How can I? I haven't seen him in almost two years, two lonely, cold years. All I feel is anger when I think of him, there is no more love. I'm beginning to believe there never was; on his part anyway.
Now, sitting on my lumpy, narrow bed, I laugh. A laugh that comes out bitter and sour, funny and sad. It's ironic, really. All his life he felt apart from the rest. I spent years reassuring him it was okay to be different, that's what made him so special, but he never believed me. Now, who's the one who is left out? Who is far from being normal? Is he here to comfort me? Is anyone here?
I wonder what he would say if he saw me like this, in here. How he would look at me. What he would do. I guess it doesn't really matter, right? I'm stuck in here, going through an existence no one deserves to have, and he's out there, somewhere, free.
Free. The word itself is very misleading. No one is ever free, complete freedom is not possible. Countless of people have died for that one word. Have died for something that can never really be. I thought I was free, to make my own decisions, learn what I want, see what I want, hear what I want. Love who I want. Now, I have no freedom. I haven't seen the outside of this ward in a year, haven't seen raindrops falling from a sky crowded with black clouds. I haven't seen the sun shining down on people hurrying to their next destination, oblivious to everyone and everything around them.
I used to be one of them, taking advantage of the weather and the sky, and everything put there for our own pleasure. Now I would cut off an arm just to spend one minute outside, in the fresh air. A minute to feel like myself again.
That's a funny though, isn't it? A minute to feel like myself. Who am I? I know who I was before all this happened, but I don't have a clue who I am now. Do I even want to go back to who I was before? I don't want to be who I am now, but I definitely don't want to be the same person I was before. A person who believed in love and dreams, in courage and good. I am stronger now; I won't be disillusioned into thinking all that stuff actually exists. Not anymore.
A key is rattling in the lock of my door. Someone is stepping into the cage they keep me in, white shoes are squeaking on the linoleum floor. Not another nurse with the fake smile and mocking eyes. Not another person who only sees me as a sticking pin for needles, someone who's brain doesn't quite work right.
The nurse steps up to my bed and I look up at her, knowing what a fright I must look. I don't care. She has that smile pasted on her red lips, the keys hanging limply in one hand. She brings a hand down to pat my shoulder and I try not to flinch. "What is it?" I ask, looking down at the spotless white floor.
"You have a visitor, Hermione," she says, her voice high-pitched, pity laced in with disgust. "Isn't that nice? Now come on, you must not keep them waiting."
I want to throw up, lay back down and fake illness. Oh wait, I can't do that here. Here I'm sick every second of every minute, every day of every week, and every week of every month. Here, I am never well. "Who is it?" I know who it is, she is the only one who comes but I ask anyway. I don't want to see her today; I can't handle the small talk and the pity in her eyes.
"Molly Weasley. Now come on, don't be rude," she replies briskly, turning away and heading to the door, glancing back at me to make sure I'm following.
I raise myself as the bed creaks. I follow her to the door, the conversation I'm about to have with Mrs. Weasley already running through my head. It's the same every week. The door slams shut behind me and I stare down the long corridor, with its doors on each side.
This is my life, one endless slamming of doors.
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