Moments
Chapter 2: My Skin
Take a look at my body
Look at my hands
There's so much here
That I don't understand
These hands. They've done so much. The fingers are calloused around the knuckles, especially the pointer finger. That's what happens when you hold a wand for 10 years. And a broom. But they are familiar. And they are safe.
Your face saving promises
Whispered like prayers
I don't need them
I don't need them
Turning the hand over, I look at the back of it. There are fine lines there, scar trails, new and old. They are the last remaining piece of a life better left forgotten, and of a life that will always be remembered. They say a person can be read through their hands. Each facet of their life revealed. And I am beginning to believe that.
I've been treated so wrong
I've been treated so long
As if I'm becoming untouchable
There was a time when these hands were innocent, and pure. When they had no blood on them, no lines of guilt, no scars. Were we ever that young?
Contempt loves the silence
It thrives in the dark
With fine winding tendrils
That strangle the heart
Darkness took the innocence, replacing it with the scars, the lines. Hatred took the purity, replacing it with guilt, and sacrifice. But through it all, they remain home. They remain safe. A place of haven, of peace.
They say that promises
Sweeten the blow
But I don't need them
No, I don't need them
Who are we to deny this person their rest? He cannot sleep, fearing the dark that comes with the night. The shadows cast by his interminable light. But nor can he stay awake, because of his guilt.
I've been treated so wrong
I've been treated so long
As if I'm becoming untouchable
His life has been ridiculed and hailed. For years he endured the adoration and hatred of the public. All without protest. He ignored the people who said he was wrong, that he was delusional. He knew who he was. And he knew he was right.
I'm a slow dying flower
Frost killing hour
The sweet turning sour
And untouchable
He has done it. In the dead of winter, it is over. At last he can rest. I sit here, holding his hand, praying to whatever God there is to please, just let him rest.
O, I need
The darkness
The sweetness
The sadness
The weakness
I need this
After years of nightmares, of sadness and depression and anger, he can finally sleep. I murmur to him that it's over. That he no longer has to fight and watch people die. To watch as that demented man tortured and killed those he loved.
I need
A lullaby
A kiss goodnight
Angel sweet
Love of my life
O, I need this
I sing my favorite song to him as he sleeps. He smiles a smile I have not seen in far too long. It is the smile of an 11-year-old boy discovering his home. Of a 12-year-old boy returning home.
I'm a slow dying flower
Frost killing hour
The sweet turning sour
And untouchable
But now he will be lost. He has lost his purpose, his reason. He said so himself, "What else am I good for?" I couldn't respond, not to that. I would not lie to him. He deserves better. He has earned better.
Do you remember the way
That you touched me before
All the trembling sweetness
I loved and adored?
He whispers a name, and I am taken aback. "Mom…" A tear creeps its way down his face, and my hand comes up automatically to brush it off. On impulse, I lean over and place a gentle kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair away. He smiles his smile again.
Your face saving promises
Whispered like prayers
I don't need them
No, I don't need them
I will not leave him. He has stayed with me through thick and thin, how can I do any less? I pray that I may be able to do that for the rest of my life. And I pray that I will be able to do that for the rest of his.
O, I need
The darkness
The sweetness
The sadness
The weakness
I need this
He has been so strong for all of us. He is a hero in the eyes of the people. But to me, to his friends, he is still human. With all the flaws and imperfections that we have. No one else can see it. The normality that he seeks, the peace that he desires.
I need
A lullaby
A kiss goodnight
The angel sweet
Love of my life
I need this
My song continues and his smile follows suit. I reflect on everything that has happened since I walked into this man's life. I would not wish this life on anyone else, but it has made him who he is today. The man he is today.
Is it dark enough?
Can you see me?
Do you want me?
Can you reach me?
Or I'm leaving
These hands have done so much. And we owe our lives to them and to the man that controls them. They are the hands of a hero. The hands of our savior. When he wakes, he will once again be forced to resume that life.
You better shut your mouth
Hold your breath
Kiss me now you'll catch your death
O, I mean this
O, I mean this
But for right now, they are just the hands of a man.
Of Harry.
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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or the song "My Skin" by Natalie Merchant
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