Comfortably Numb

Hello,
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone at home?

The darkness consumed him – his mind, his soul. Not even the dim light from down the hall could break through the darkness. He sat. He felt nothing. He stared. He saw nothing. He listened. He heard nothing.

He sat. There was a distinct coldness felt by any and all who walked down the dank corridors. His clothes, barely clinging to his pale and sallow skin were in rags. The wind that swept down through the hall as the door at the end was opened, didn't affect him in the slightest. The clammy and hair raising feeling most people would experience in a place like that didn't have any effect on him at all. He felt nothing.

He stared. The distance seemed so close to him, and he stared past the bars, past the other cells, and past the wall into a world that existed only to him. He did not see the bugs crawling up his walls. He did not smell the excretion that came from the other cells. He did not notice the smell of death that clung in the air, and he did not make any attempt to avoid the smell of rotting flesh that lingered in the cells around him as the other prisoners started to die off. He saw nothing.

He listened. He did not want to hear the screams of the other prisoners as they begged for mercy. Their pleas to leave, and their pleas for more food, and for a way out fell upon deaf ears. He ignored them all. They were pathetic, and he would not stoop so low as to beg for mercy from people who had falsely imprisoned him. All he did was stare out into his nonexistent world, listening only to the memories in his head that came when the emotion sucking creatures left his cell for a moment or two. He heard nothing.

Come on now,
I hear you're feeling down.
I can ease your pain-
And get you on your feet again.

When one of the guards of the prison opened the door at the end of the hall and walked in, a foul, cold wind swept through the cells, bringing with it the smell of decaying humans and rotting food. Mixed with the scent of an old and crumbling building, he knew he should be disgusted and on the verge of vomiting, but he barely even noticed it anymore. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as an uncomfortable tingling sensation ran up and down his spine. He shivered slightly, trying not to show that this place affected him at all.

The guard hated going to see this particular prisoner. He hated the staring, the silence. It made him feel even more uncomfortable than standing in that hall. No matter what he said, all he received in return was a stony stare and a cold silence that would make anyone feel a prickle in their skin.

Nothing would shake this man, and he knew it, but on the orders of his superiors, he was to talk to him one more time, give him one more chance to talk and be free.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of the place. He walked as quickly as he possibly could towards the cell. He wanted to get away from the agony of the prisoners. HE wanted to get away from the Dementors. He wanted to get out of that foul place as soon as he could.

He reached the small cell and put on his best glare. "Get up, Black!" He shouted down at the prisoner.

The prisoner stared up at him, never breaking eye contact, while he slowly stood up. The guard, not satisfied with his speed, reached in the cell and grabbed him by the bony shoulder, and dragged him out of his cell. The prisoner, Sirius Black, stumbled forward and tried desperately to regain his balance. The guard pushed him forward, causing him to pitch forward once more and fall to the floor. The guard grabbed him roughly once more and pulled him to his feet. "Move!" He barked at Black.

The guard pushed him forward every few minutes for good measure. He scowled at the other prisoners, trying to make himself feel stronger and more powerful. He shoved the prisoner into the interrogation room, and slammed him down into the chair.

Relax-
I'll need some information first.
Just the basic facts-
Can you show me where it hurts?

In the light, the prisoner's appearance was more startling than in the cell. The harsh light made his skin seem translucent, his veins like a road map underneath his skin. His whole body was bony and frail. He looked like a dead man walking. His teeth were becoming crooked and were already stained yellow. His hair hung down like matted cotton around his face, and it only contrasted on his pale skin, making it look even paler.

The warden entered the interrogation room with an air of self importance that even the guard had to admit was annoying.

"So, Black, we meet again." The warden said maliciously.

The prisoner didn't say a word as he stared at the nothingness in front of him. He sat as still as a statue, not blinking once.

"The minister wants answers you son of a bitch." The warden said loudly.

The prisoner cracked a smile. His first reaction to any interrogation since his arrival. "I'll agree with you on that one." He said, his voice was weak and very nearly cracked, but the humor was evident.

The warden, shocked and confused that the prisoner had actually said something, looked at him confused. "What? You'll give answers?" He asked. There was more hopeful tone in his voice than he intended, for he immediately straightened up and the scowl returned to his face.

The prisoner grinned with mirth. "My mother was a bitch."

The warden rolled his eyes and let out a frustrated groan and sigh. "Cut the shit, Black. Tell me who they are. I'll have your sentenced reduced." The warden said, almost pleading. He sat down at a small table behind the chair in which the prisoner sat.

"Pettigrew." The prisoner said through his teeth as his eyes narrowed and he started breathing heavily. He practically growled as the image of his former friend ran through his mind. The pure anger and hatred was evident on his face as he said the one name.

The warden, who was ready to write down names, threw down his pen when he heard the name. He got up, and walked angrily in front of the prisoner to face him. "Don't start that fucking shit with me, Black!" He yelled. "Tell me who the god damn Death Eaters are! Tell me now!"

"I can't tell you something I don't know." The prisoner said spitefully. His anger was causing him to say more than he had ever intended on saying.

"Don't tell me that! You are lying to me! LYING!" The warden screamed at Black. "I know you are! TELL ME!"

The prisoner stood up, towering over the warden, despite his weakened condition. He glared down at the warden with every ounce of feeling that he could muster up after not having any for quite some time. The warden cowered slightly under Black's menacing stare and visibly gulped.

"Never." He hissed. "Even if I did know, I wouldn't say anything because I know what loyalty is, and I would never betray the ones I love. But I don't know anything, and no amount of questioning is going to make me know. Now take me back to my cell you oversized buffoon."

The warden scowled at the prisoner, angry at his insistence on being silent, and not answering questions. He motioned for the prisoner to be taken back to his cell.

The prisoner walked back to his cell, so many emotions going through his heart and soul. Anger. Frustration. Pain. Sadness. Hatred. They always came at him in a flood when he was away from the Dementors for any extended amount of time.

He was pushed back into his cell with such force that he fell forward into the dirt and grime that covered every inch of the place that he had resided in for five years now.

He had never felt more powerless in his life. He was past getting frustrated. They didn't seem to understand that he didn't know what they wanted him to know. He couldn't know, and wouldn't know.

He hated what happened to him, but there was no changing it. He did know one thing. He was different than all the other blundering lunatics that came through here. He wasn't insane. He had become comfortably numb to it all.

There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ship smoke on the horizon-
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying.

When I was a child I had a fever.
My hands felt just like two balloons.
Now I've got that feeling once again.
I can't explain, you would not understand.
This is not how I am-
I have become comfortably numb.

Ok-
Just a little pin prick-
There'll be no more- ah!
But you may feel a little sick-

He felt cold. He had felt cold ever since he had done the one thing that had ever really changed his life. He didn't know when, or if, the feeling would go away, he just hoped that it would. The only time he had ever felt like this when he was a child, when he was in trouble and he knew he would get caught. He felt as if he was in trouble now, and he was not happy with himself at all.

He would never be able to explain why he had done what he did. It had all happened so fast, that he hadn't even realized what he had happened. He had betrayed the only people who had ever given him a real chance, who had really listened to him, and had liked him for who he was. He wished he could take it all back now. He wanted to take it back. He wanted to bring them back, but what was done was done, and there was no turning back. Especially now. There was no going back.

He didn't know why he had told the Dark Lord where they were. He could have just kept his mouth shut, but for some reason, unknown even to him, he hadn't – couldn't keep quiet. He told the Dark Lord where to find them, when they had trusted them with their very lives, he had told on them.

He betrayed them.

Can you stand up?
I do believe it's working, good.
That'll keep you going through the show.
Come on it's time to go.

What kind of monster was he? Why did he do the things he did? Did he even have any true friends left? He had killed one of them, and the other he had framed and thrown into Azkaban. The only friend he might have had left, would have been Remus. But Remus thought he was dead. He almost started to panic.

He glared at the nothingness before him. That was it. Enough of regretting what he had done. His resolve strengthened. He had made his decision, and he was sticking to it. He was a Death Eater, and he had become comfortably numb.

He looked down at his forearm where the physical memory of his act was. The mark of a truly evil man. He smiled at it. He had to say he was proud. He had finally accomplished something in his pathetic, meaningless life.

The mark had hurt something terrible as the Dark Lord had drawn his finger over his soft flesh, burning him, branding him with his mark. Making him a true follower and he knew that there was no turning back now. He knew that for once he mattered, and that he would be able to help someone accomplish something, and it made him proud.

He wouldn't deny that he was scared. He was scared of what would happen to him if his 'friends' found out. They would surely throw him in Azkaban, and he just couldn't have that, now could he? He was scared of what would happen if he said no to the Dark Lord. He had never had much tolerance for pain, and wasn't about to get himself tortured when he could easily avoid it.

I knew what I had to do.

I did what I had to do to survive.

There is no pain you are receding
a distant ship smoke on the horizon
you are only coming through in waves
your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

In his mind, that made him a strong person. Knowing what the right thing to do was. He knew that he was stronger than those fools who thought that the Dark Lord wouldn't win. He had to laugh at them. They had no idea what was in store for them, but he did. He supposed a true friend would have helped them out, but he wasn't. He cared only for himself. Well, himself and the Dark Lord.

He remembered fondly now the time he told the Dark Lord where they were. He had been so proud. The Dark Lord had complimented him on his great success, assuring him that he was doing the right thing, and that he was on the way to great power and success.

He had to say, he did feel a small pang of regret when he knew for a fact that they were dead, but it quickly left him. Just like the one moment of regret he had felt moments earlier. They came and went.

Occasionally he thought about Sirius, and what he must be facing in Azkaban right now. He would be utterly insane by now, talking rubbish, and screaming. He smiled to himself. At least it wasn't him who was in there.

There was a time when I let my emotions get in the way.

When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now

He remembered back to when he cared. When their friendship seemed important to him. He chuckled at himself. How naïve he had been back them. To believe that they really cared about him, that their friendship was worth everything else in the world plus some. He knew that was foolish. The most important thing to him was the approval of his Death Eater peers and especially the Dark Lord.

He knew that a lot of the Death Eaters were furious because he had faked his own death and hadn't served any time in prison like they had. But prison wasn't for him. He wouldn't go to prison for the Dark Lord. How could he be of service to him or do him any good from behind bars?

He had a plan. He was going to find the final Potter and deliver him directly into the hands of his master. He knew that the Dark Lord was out there, somewhere and he would find him. Then when the Potter boy was dead, he would be risen above all other Death Eaters. He would be the Dark Lord's right hand man.

He smiled evilly.

He hated that he didn't seem to be accepted by all the Death Eaters. They seemed to think that he truly was a rat and not worth their time. The only reason they didn't say anything was because he was in it good favor with the Dark Lord and they didn't want to cross him.

He knew they all thought of him as a traitor, and he had to say that if the old loon, Dumbledore, had something of value to give him, he might let a few pieces of information accidentally slip out and to their side. But he wouldn't do that, because they had nothing to offer him.

He bore it all, because he knew that all he had to do was wait a little while and he would be better than them all. He was already doing better because he had essentially sacrificed his life for the Dark Lord, and had not complained.

This may sound pathetic to anyone else, but not to him. To him, it was the greatest honor anyone could ever give him. To help the Dark Lord in such a personal way, and to help him with so much, he sometimes wondered if it was real. He wondered why the Dark Lord picked him, but he would never dare to ask him aloud. He didn't question him; he just went along, knowing that the Dark Lord knew what was best for their victory over the Mudbloods and Muggle lovers.

The child is grown
the dream is gone
and I have become
comfortably numb.

A small pudgy boy with watery blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair walked around the platform, lost and confused. He was around 11 years old, and was quite short for his age. This was his first time on the train to Hogwarts, and he had no idea where he was going.

Suddenly, an older boy with long platinum blonde hair bumped into him. "Watch it, scum!" The older boy cried out angrily as he shoved past him.

The pudgy boy sat down on a nearby bench and willed the tears not to fall from his eyes. He wanted to go home and go to normal school like normal people. He didn't belong here. The only person who could have helped him, his dad, was not there for him, and he never had been.

A few moments later, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He looked up to see a good looking boy about his age, with grey eyes and long black hair. He smiled down on the pudgy boy, with a warm and friendly smile.

"Hi! I'm Sirius Black, you look like you could use a friend. Come with me." He said, holding his hand out to help the boy up from his seat. "What's your name?"

"Peter Pettigrew." The pudgy boy said, smiling for the first time that day at the prospect of a new friend.

"Well, I saw that Malfoy shoved you, and I just wanted to tell you to ignore him. He's a royal prat. I can show you around. Stick with me and I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

Dear friend and fellow mourner of this lost friendship,

I would like you to notice that this sentiment,

this promise of friendship and protection was only issued one way.

In that moment of compassion,

one boy condemned himself to nothing.