Right, thank you my dear readers for clicking on this story, I know I do not summarize things well, but I hope I will not disappoint. English is not my first language, so, if you see mistakes, tell me about them, please. :) Hopefully there won't be any, I already did a few essays at uni and as I started in September,... well. Moving on, then.

This story was inspired by many things, including a song from Sia, Alive, if you do not know it, check it out, but the main reason for me even starting and subsequently commiting myself to an English written story is BritChick24601, I was inspired by her to gather courage and try to write fiction (when I am writing essays "at uni level" then why not ... ?) and a true inspiration hit with our conversation when we compared Christmas traditions. So, thank you! And thank you for reading and if you are feeling up to it, thank you for your criticism. :)


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It was quite a warm evening, August was ending and Surrey was bathed in hues of orange and pink sunlight. Apart from the rushing cars – some racing home to their families, some away for a last-minute holiday – it was a nice, quiet afternoon. Well, not for everyone, something was happening on number four. Nothing unusual, sadly. There was always something happening in that house. Not that it was fault of the owners, at least that is what the neighbours are saying.

Number four on Privet drive, Little Whinging, is owned by a (supposedly) lovely family by the name of Dursleys. You wonder about the brackets? Well, if you'd ask anyone in Little Whinging about the people living in that house, they would swear to you that they do not know more pleasant and more devoted family than are the Dursleys. You would then wonder why that is, what led them to believe so? And they would just sigh, scrunch their noses, frown or they would in fact literally growl at you before uttering: "It is that boy." And you would be at loss, not knowing what kind of boy can cause such a wild reaction, so you'd ask them: "What boy?" And then their faces would clear of anger and tell you the whole story of poor Petunia Dursley, who had a no-good sister, possibly druggie addict, certainly alcoholic, broke their poor parents' heart, Petunia's also. Well, you'd think, every family has a black sheep… but you're not entirely inclined to listen to gossip which may have been altered many times before without a legitimate proof. And what about that boy? Will that person get to it? Anyway, the no-good sister had a son, rotten to the core, they'd say, same as his mother. But then Mrs. Dursley's sister died in a car crash, so the boy, barely a toddler, was given to Petunia, and in such a horrid way too, they left him on her doorstep, like a milk! Could have died, it was November! Almost gave poor Petunia heart attack.

Well, you can certainly agree on that part, what kind of people just leave a kid on someone's doorstep? You hope that this is just some exaggerated rumour, because the implications of these actions would be… Moving on. So, the boy is unruly, then? And they would nod and would be complaining about that boy endlessly. Always lazing around, not doing anything in school, always causing some trouble, blah blah blah… And Petunia is trying so hard to give him a nice upbringing along with her own, kindness-incarnated, son! They are really concerned about that no-good boy's future. You'd agree with them, if only to cut this conversation short. Then you'd remember, ask for the boy's description, so that you could "watch out for him". They would gladly give you his characteristics with smile on their faces, feeling proud, they are warning the public, that delinquent will learn surely, if everyone knows he's a chronical liar. Really, accusing his kind and hardworking relatives of child abuse!

You would nod then, thank them for the nice chat and prepare to leave, but before you really go, you'd spare one more glance towards the noisy number four.

The boy is running out of the garden. Hair black as a bottomless pit, eyes hidden underneath ugly glasses. He is properly skinny, in that not really healthy ghost-like way, wears clothing many times his size and is currently running as if his life is dependent on it. The reason is right behind him, as soon as the skinny boy escapes the garden, jumping over the fence, a more robust boy, overweight - that's for sure, emerges from number four, that solves the mystery of oversized clothes on that skinny boy, he inherited them, assuming that is the boy's cousin, Petunia's kind son. The overweight boy is chasing the skinny one, you'd realize. Is that a game? But then why all the running on the street? The house comes with a big garden behind the house and a small one in front of it.

Maybe you would decide to follow them, you are a curious one, always meddling. You'd follow them to the old, not yet repaired and decaying playground, where the grass is tall and yellow, a rare sight, but it is a truly dangerous place for the children to be at. The rotting climbing wall, crumbling slides, rusty spring ride. No responsible parent will let their child in, … oh.

The bigger boy finally catch up with the smaller one, out of breath, red in the face, but he caught him nonetheless. Pushed the small one so hard that he fell on the ground. Poor boy, he fell so unfortunately that he scraped his hands on the rusty spring and ground. But the bigger boy, the cruel one, finds entertainment from the smaller boy's pain, laughs and kicks him in the side for good measure.

The malice is heavy in the afternoon air, the sky turning more red, darkening with each passing second. When the cruel boy leaves, the small boy finally gives in and starts to weep. And then, the boy's body is getting smaller and smaller, faint weeps turning into faint chirps. And then a small blue tit is standing in the boy's place, waving his broken wings, soaring into the sky, looking for consolation in a company of majestic old trees in the park.

And you would just stand there, wondering about doing something, maybe offer help, find an officer, call 999. But then again, from simple reasons, you would not do any of these things listed above. Why? Because you knew all along what is going on in that house and neighbourhood, no need to interview nosy humans who cannot see truth even if it is doing flips right in front of them. Oh, how you yearn to be face to face with that small bird, nursing his wounds up in that tree, but sadly you cannot take any physical form in this world yet. You are a mist, a dream, listening, watching… mourning the loss. – Ah, loss of what? Now, that would be telling.


To be continued (?).