I own nothing. Thanks to Sparkling Mist for being my beta for this chapter.


I have not been doing much lately

I have not been doing much lately. I don't really see the point any longer.

Presently, I have been subjecting myself to the most limited of activities. Well, even that would be saying too much. I only really do one thing anymore. I only breathe because a charm makes me continue to do so. I only eat because a lady forces the food down my throat, and uses spells to put nutrients and vitamins straight into my bloodstream. I only hear because every time I stuff makeshift plugs in my ears, someone takes them out. I only move when an outside force does the motion for me. I do not speak at all, which may be one of the only controls I have at the moment.

The only activity that I actively participate in is watching, and this is the solitary reason that the world knows I'm not brain-dead and keeps me alive. Well, that and the fact that I am the savior of them all and I have yet to finish the job. I am fairly certain that had I already killed Voldemort; no one would be going to quite such lengths. Sure, a huge statue would be put up in my honor, with heartfelt words scribed into the stone by a man who has never met The Boy Who Lived, and a day would be named in my memory due to all of my heroic deeds and other such nonsense. Nevertheless, everyone would move on without me around. They just still need me to be a weapon.

I am rambling. I have a feeling I will be doing this a lot in my writings. Because I have decided to include another activity in my daily actions. I will write every day, simply for myself, after they shut down the hospital and stop the flow of visitors that I never even grant a second glance. I need some sort of outlet, and the notebook left here for me, which most presume I threw out, will become that for me in this desperate time. No one can ever see this. No one but me, and that is exactly how I wish it to be. No one else deserves to know anything about me, as far as I am concerned.

Although I don't see why anyone would want to read this. It will only be the mindless scribbles of one believed insane, or lost to the rational world in any case, of his typical day. This, as a warning, will be pretty boring.

As I only look now, I am quite limited in my ability to entertain myself, as no one else is going to help in this front. They are all pretty sure I can't even understand them any longer. If only that were truly the case—I wish I couldn't hear what they say. However, usually I just block out the words by studying my room until I know every crack, dent, and shadow available for me to take in. It is like a puzzle for me to solve every day, to see if I can discover something different or new to examine, to remember, to carry with me. And now, to write down.

One of my favorite places to gaze is the ceiling. It is like a limitless hidden picture game, where swirls can change from rabbits in a calm field one morning to a serene boy strumming a guitar the next. It is as if whatever I want to see, to be, to believe, can be found in some part of the expansive white plaster. Much of how I interpret the ceiling depends on my mood. If I am having a good day, I may be lucky enough to spot a snitch in the corner by the fuzzy television, or a stag running above the frame of the door. Once, on a particularly splendid afternoon without any visitors, I even spotted a large dog colored black by a shadow. On the other hand, a difficult intruder or an impatient doctor can cause me to discover vicious dragons or the occasional flowing veil lurking right above my head. Of course, as I have been declared unstable in many different instances by several different people, I suppose my head could be creating the images. I prefer to believe that I am simply creative.

The walls are completely different from the ceiling. They are perfect in their smoothness and simplicity. The deep blue paint, meant to calm the patient into an easy mood, reminds me of the summers when I would sneak away from the house and sit under the neighbor's oak tree, free to relax for a moment and gaze at the sky before I was forced into more chores or chased by the bullies once again. The cobalt is beautiful, and when I wish to escape, I just blankly take in its loveliness, ceasing my searching briefly. There is nothing complicated about the blue, and it demands nothing but a steady eye. I wish more things in life were like the blue. The borders are a dull yellow, like a sun blurred by sunglasses in midmorning. The color is ugly, a terrible contrast to the deep blue it runs along and between. I suppose they want the invalid to be happier, but not too happy. After all, isn't yellow supposed to brighten a room? That's how everything is here, almost there but not quite right. It is never really what the inhabitant needs.

I try not to look at the yellow.

The floor, of which I can only see a small bit due to being confined to a bed, is tiled, for easy cleaning and smooth transport of medicine or meals. Like a prison uniform in its color and starkness, the chips and dips add character and interest, allowing the boring tiles to take on individual qualities. My favorite is the one the nurse and cart avoids, due to half of its entity having broken off long ago. Though it is no longer whole, it still functions. It does not need to be replaced, as it performs its job well enough, and it still fits in with the rest of the floor despite its handicap. I wish I could be more like that tile; good enough to fit in with the masses. It would solve many of my problems.

Other objects in my room include the television, the bed, the table, and the chair. The television is usually off, pointless in its placement, available for visitors who become too bored with waiting for me to react but cannot leave early do to manners and other such idiotic ideas. I have no use for it. I don't even understand why it is in here. A television is for muggles. Maybe it is to distract those normal folk who have to come due to magical exposure. All I know is that I don't watch it even when it is on, and hate when someone goes to switch it on initially. The static sounds awful, and reminds me of only unpleasant ideas and memories. The only stations chosen by my visitors are news, which seem to relay the number of deaths in different parts of the world more than anything else. Personally, I still prefer the ceiling.

The bed is what I live in. I sleep on the level mattress when I can, and sit up otherwise. Sadly, this means I have to sleep sitting up, but I have moved past the irritation of that with time. It's not as I haven't slept in more uncomfortable places before. And here, they take much better care of me. The pristine white sheets and flat pillow are replaced each day, to keep away infections or something, and the mattress switches monthly to preserve my... back I believe it is. I don't know. The nurse is always telling me things I do not need to know, just to keep the one-sided conversation flowing. The mattress bit was not one of the most interesting tidbits she has exchanged with me. No one thinks of this bed fondly, or even has any recall of it. There is no character in this bed, with no life or meaning. My old bed had memory, even before I came to it, having provided for students for far too long to think back to. Beyond that, my cupboard cot even contained my memories of quiet peace and play. Even in that place, the bed had at least a little life to it. This bed is nothing but substance. It is only the materials that make it. I hate it.

The table is, again, not for me. It is for the weary to place their coffee, or rest their book after hours of alternating between begging me to talk and reading silently to themselves. It is metal, cold and unforgiving to those who accidentally fall asleep upon its half-reflective top. I have no reason to desire it, with nothing to place and no need to see my face.

The chair is the worst part of the room. The piece of furniture is simple enough, with dull green cushions tearing apart and lackluster legs with rubber stoppers glued to the bottom, which make one of the worst noises on earth. It is not the object that bothers me so much. It is that squeak. That is the noise of defeat. It is the sound of someone leaving. It is where the visitors sit, those who still think I will come back to them and save the day. They need someone to be brave for them and overcome what they cannot. Most stopped caring long ago, on to looking for a new savior, I am sure. But the few who remain always make that noise when they leave, pushing the chair out from under them.

I never know if they are coming back to make the noise again.

Not that it would make a difference.


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GypsyGrl77