Hello! This is my first story, and currently unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.
If I owned Harry Potter, I would have a British accent and be named Joanne. Sadly, I don't. Everything you recognize is the work of the master, I own nothing.
Rubbing my head, sore from where Mother smacked it with the ladle this morning, I blearily blink away the remenants of sleep from my weary eyes. I only have a few minutes left to finish up the pancakes and set the table before Mother wakes up Dudley for breakfast so that he isn't late for school. I do hope he gets up right away today, because the longer it takes to wake him up, the more frustrated Mother will get, and that means I won't get to eat breakfast. Again. Luckily, Father is out on a business trip and won't be back for a week.
"BOY!" Oh no, it's Mother! Hurriedly, I flip the last of the pancakes onto a plate and rush to grab the forks and knives. She comes in just as I am placing the plates onto the table.
"Where is the juice?" Asks Mother, in an unsettlingly dangerous tone, ripe with disapproval.
"Sorry Mother." I reply. "But Dudley finished the rest of the juice yesterday with dinner.
"Boy. We clothe you, we feed you, and we ask only that you help around the house every now and then. I think I need to teach you this lesson again."
My knees begin to quiver and my mouth feels dry. "L-lesson?" I ask tentatively before she grabs my wrist in a bruisingly tight grasp and drags me to the downstairs bedroom and picks up a bar of soap. I know what will come next, and I dutifully open my mouth, bracing myself for the sickening and foul taste that will follow as she runs the soap under the tap for a few seconds and lathers it up. Then, Mother shoves the soap into my mouth, scraping it against my teeth and pushing it in until I gag and my eyes water. I know better than to make a sound, but as the soap hits the back of my throat and I resist the urge to vomit, I let out a small whimper.
"What was that Boy!" She bellows. "Was that a WHIMPER! You ungrateful, nasty little brat! We treat you with the utmost care yet you refuse to act properly, you little FREAK!" With that, she pulls an old, broken comb out of the cabinet under the sink and lights the candle that we keep in the bathroom. I freeze as I watch her hold the comb in the flames until it begins to droop, dripping melted plastic on the sink countertop. Grabbing my hand, she slowly trickles the molten plastic on my hand. It burns my skin, stinging more than when Ripper, Aunty Marge's dog, bit me last summer. I blink away tears as she releases my hand and shoves me to the ground. "Time for school Boy, no breakfast for you today! If you come home quickly enough after school, and manage to get your useless self to the store to buy juice, maybe you will get dinner."
With that, I scramble to my dusty cupboard under the stairs, grabbing the frayed straps of my bag and flinging on a tie before running out of the door.
School, as usual, is a nightmare. Because of Mother's insistence that I complete my outdoor chores at night, when no neighbors can see, I am exhausted in all of my classes. To add to this, I went over my lunch account lunch charges, so I wasn't available to get any food. As soon as classes let out, I scurried out of the classroom, intending to rush home before Mother got too mad. No such luck, because Dudley grabbed me by the collar and slammed me against the side of the school as soon as I got out of the building. I winched as the harsh movement aggravated my bruises and scraped my sluggishly bleeding lacerations, still tender from Father's last punishment. By the time I reach home, Mother is furious.
"Boy! You think you can loiter in the streets and skive off your chores by being late! No dinner tonight!" Mother thrusts a list of chores in my hand and slaps me across the face before storming off to watch television.
It is an hour later when Dudley returns home. Mother rushes to fix him a snack before immediately handing him the television remote. It sickens me sometimes, how much Mother loves Dudley but hates me. Why doesn't she love me? Am I really that much of a bad boy?
At the end of the day, I return to my sanctuary, my prison, my cupboard. Under the stairs, I can be safe in my little cage of a room. The spiders and I are excellent friends by this point, and although the small cot is much too uncomfortable to properly sleep on, it is the one place in the house that is mine. I know, however, that this safety will not last. Tomorrow is Saturday. Tomorrow I will spend all day toiling under the watchful eye of Mother, and I know that one slip and I will be gravely punished, because Father will be returning on Sunday, and Father will put me back in my place. Father will give me what I deserve for being such an ungrateful whelp. I hope I will not anger Mother too much tomorrow, because Monday school is off for holiday, so I can be punished however much she wishes. These are my last thoughts as I drift off to sleep, finally succumbing to the mind numbing exhaustion that haunts my very being every day.