Needles
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Prologue
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My first friend was killed when I was six. The murder played repeatedly in my fragile mind of a child many months later, forced me to relive the delirious moment.
His name was Kei, Key or Kal... I don't remember although I'm sure his name must lie somewhere between my internal landscape. He was black and therefore, was isolated by a great part of the school kids. He was called Negro, Dirt or Black Scum, just like the way I was named Freak. We knew very well that we befriended only because we never insulted each other. Nevertheless, he was nice and a far cry from everyone around me, including the teachers.
We sat together in classes. We shared with each other the meager meals our caretakers packed for us. We hugged and kissed like any of the local children.
Then he was shot.
I saw nothing but the pool of crimson liquid slowly forming under my friend's still form. I heard nothing but the resounding shock of the bullet that lodged itself into his back. I smelled nothing but the putrid metallic odor. I stood there, unmoving.
Red invaded my senses. Bile rose to my throat.
I vomited, tears streaming down my cheeks and mucus dripping from my nose.
My second and last friend was killed yesterday. My eleventh birthday was only a day before that.
She was my late birthday present from Hagrid – the down-to-Earth Groundkeeper of Hogwarts – who clarified my freakiness and introduced me to the Wizarding World. I named her after a goddess – Hedwig.
She nibbled my ears the moment Hagrid brought her to me. She liked to ruff her snowy feather adorably whenever she wanted my attention. She listened contentedly to my stories, never commented out of turn or criticized me. For all things she'd ever done, I was deeply thankful.
Today, I wake up to find a ball of crimson feather lying next to me, the dull yellow irises piercing through me.
If I were an emotional child, I would scream my throat raw at the sight and then cry for many days. Unfortunately, Fate never made me such a person.
I hold Hedwig in my hands. Bloodstained feathers stick to my skin. I keep my head up not to be caught in her lifeless gaze.
I hold her as digging up Aunt Petunia's backyard. I don't want her body to be dirtied by anything but the ground where I'm going to bury her, so I hold her tightly, cradling her in my chest. It's the air I don't know how to deal with, because it's also polluted.
I gather my newest purchases and my notebook into a large backpack. My legs stagger supporting its weight but I'm still walking forward. Ignoring Uncle Vernon's shout, ignoring Aunt Petunia's shriek.
The door closed softly behind my back.
London stretches its already tired arms to welcome another stray cat.
I'm now living approximately two miles from The Leaky Cauldron, under a tattered Verandah's roof, hidden from people's pry and the local gang's clutch. I pondered for sometimes about withdrawing from my trust vault to afford a proper place but finally decided against it, as the budget will be the only money I can touch for the next seven years in Hogwarts.
I wake up at exactly six o'clock in the morning thanks to my internal alarm clock. Fastening my backpack, I then enter the shabby restaurant nearby to clean myself and gather scrap food for the day. Nobody notices me – I don't know why – as if I had a Notice-Me-Not note sticking to my back. I wonder time to time why this hasn't happened in Privet Drive – that would save me a lot of trouble.
I return to the Verandah's rook and sit under it for hours, staring at anything that catches my eyes until they hurt from staying open for too long. I still keep my taped glasses, if not in honor of my father. I can't see much with it anyway. My eyesight, without proper prescription, is slowly deteriorating.
At nights, with the flickering streetlight, I read my schoolbooks many times. I can practically recite them backward after two weeks. They help me remind myself about who I am. Not Freak, not Boy, but Harry Potter, the wizard.
I also practice my spells. I can turn a stone into a kettle without the wand movement, which I quickly found useless. With sheer intention and determination, you can get everything you want.
Can I get my friends back?
The introduction of the Potions textbook sounds obscure and ambitious. It says I can brew potions that can cure boils, heal disease, control people's mind, and even stop Death. I keep pondering about the last one.
Can I stop my friends' death?
Even now, as I'm sitting on the Hogwarts Express in a locked compartment, those questions plague my mind.
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