He was never meant to live. He was never meant to become older then 17. He was trained to kill not to survive. Him living was not in their plans. He supposed in a way he had followed their plans…..his body was alive and the light that glowed dimly from within his eyes spoke that at least for now a part of his soul still breathed and burned with life. That part him was locked up tight within the very recesses of his own mind and as much as they did not want that part of him unleashed and known to the rest of the world….he did not want it known either. He had achieved his goals for the world he had given them peace what they chose to make of it was up to them as for him he was quite content with his four white walls and a window overlooking a well groomed hospital garden.
Here there was peace and tranquility. The staff was friendly and familiar and no longer did people stare at him like he was exhibit A for bad luck and heroic showcases. Here he was simply himself with no worries or fears and if those long ago fears crept back into his dreams and thoughts there was always medicine that could be given to keep them at bay again. The doctors had found that when those old fears resurfaced, like any buried thing is bound to do, that the fire that was usually no more then a flickering ember burst forth into a roaring blaze and he became near uncontrollable with rage. He became much like a scared injured animal backed into a corner and in his eyes a feverish glint glowed and spoke of wanting freedom, of wanting a life outside of the four white walls and window with a view of a well groomed hospital garden.
Those instances were rare however and were becoming rarer as the young man's health began to decrease. His physique used to be that of an athletic warrior fine tuned with itself and its environment. A testament to the training and hard work his teenage years had wrought. That body was now long gone and in its place had been left a pale, emaciated specter that when still looked as if death had visited it and taken whatever life remained within it out. The scars that crisscrossed his back were one of the most telling things about the young man and the life he had led. Two words had been carved into his upper back Freak and Faggot reminders of a rocky childhood growing up with relatives who feared anything they deemed not natural. The rest were like slashes against his back and front that were keepsakes from being a prisoner at the hands of the most feared Dark Lord to have graced the magical world in centuries.
The young man remembered a time when there was love and hope that surrounded him in the air he breathed to the words spoken by those he had loved. Those people had long ago turned away from any hope of him being alive. They had been told the lie along with everyone else. That he had died, had given the ultimate sacrifice, to protect them and the way of life they were trying to reestablish in the midst of terrorism and anarchy. He remembered what hugs felt like after 10 years of never receiving any or at least he thought he remembered. HE couldn't be sure anymore to much time had passed without one. How much he didn't know but the window that was his only portal past his four white walls had shown that winter had come and gone more then the number of fingers he had on one hand. That was another thing he remembered that the number of fingers on each hand was five and to the young man to remember such a thing was an accomplishment indeed.
During the rare times when his rage burst forth he would speak, something that he normally never did. Sometimes his rage would quiet enough that he could actually verbalize questions and the manner in which he asked them spoke of his sanity. Despite the doctors best attempts he was still very much sane and lucid. A prisoner within his own body perhaps but in these instances when he would look one of the doctors or nurses in the eye the chilling clarity in his eyes and words let it be known that the prisoner was very much awake and noncompliant in his ever drug induced compliant body. It was during these times right before the drugs would kick in that he truly remembered life outside those four white walls and window that overlooked a well groomed hospital garden. He could recall life and how much he had fought to save it, not only his own but the lives those he had loved and those he would never know. He could understand how he had been a chess piece and after he took down the dark king and the light lord the people in the position of power had no other choice but to get rid of their white knight when he had chosen to live past his usefulness. These recollections would always end with a traitor tear leaking down from the corner of his eye as his eyelids slid shut.
Sometimes he wished he could go and sit in that well groomed garden instead of just staring at it from his window. The doctors said that he couldn't, said his body was not up for all the germs and diseases that floated around out there. He didn't see how anything out there could make himself sick, everything out there seemed so perfect from the water that flowed from the fountain peacefully tinkling in the quiet air to the evenly cut grass, and the empty benches that asked softly for company. He sometimes wanted to cry at the utter beauty of the garden and sometimes he wanted to cry at the utter sadness that overwhelmed him when he looked at it. How lonely that garden must be with its colorful flowers lining pathways that were never walked on and inviting benches that were never sat on. He noticed that no one visited the Garden…..in fact he often saw people walking in the hallways opposite his room fore the hospital was square in shape with the garden dead center like a court yard. It was like the people forgot it was there never did he see any of them even pause to stare at it. The garden was forgotten despite its well groomed appearance. He often wondered if he could ever sneak out into that garden if he would be able to ease its loneliness by giving it company and reminding the hospital staff that it was there. But it was always just a thought and a fleeting one anytime it came. He was happy within his four white walls and the window that gave him a view of a well groomed garden.
The young man knew he would die in this room and the only regret he could find within the haze of his mind that was a side affect of the drugs was that he could no longer see out the window from his bed. His body was to weak to sit up let alone get him out of the bed and over to his chair by the window where many of the hours in each day had been spent. Not enough food and to many drugs were causing his body to begin devouring itself in a last ditch effort to survive. That was something he could still find ironic humor in that the last effort a body made to stay alive was what ultimately sealed the body's coffin for itself. He missed the garden and the birds that sang from the branches of the few trees and bushes that lined the outer pathway of the garden. He felt the creeping tendrils of clarity begin to emerge like all the other times when the medication began to wear off. This time he knew without knowing how he did that this time there would be no more medication, this time there would be no rage, no time for lengthy recollections about the past or wonderings about the future. It was a always a weird feeling this clarity after so long of haze and subdued chaos. Everything became heightened or perhaps is was that everything came into focus like a camera lens finally adjusted to the right setting.
In some ways the young man preferred the soothing presence of the drugs even if that that presence was forced onto him at needle point. Clarity brought the unwavering facts that he was usually able to dismiss facts like the realization that he had been a prisoner his entire life. A prisoner to fate, his relatives , to people who only saw him as a pawn in a master game, to the doctors, to himself, and to these four white walls and a widow with a view to a well groomed garden. He had let people dictate who he was and what he was supposed to be. He had let them decided how he was to live his life despite the fact that they told him it was his life to live. That it was his choices that defined him and it was in these moments of clarity when he realized he had never chosen anything for himself. These were hard truths, facts cut into stone, and they left him breathless each time he realized them.
The worst and best thing this clarity gave him was his name. In the haze of the drugs his memories became like snapshots of a movie out of focus playing to fast or to slow and left him watching it like a spectator and after awhile he lost the tenuous grip he had on the fragile state of who he was. Sometimes when the clarity came he still couldn't remember who he was. He could distantly recall what he had been called by others who did not know him but he could not always remember what his mother had named him that day that he was born into the world. Those times that clarity did not give this gift were rare even rarer then the clarity surges came. His name though was all he had left and perhaps all he had ever had. His name was all that he would take with him when he died and he knew that time would be sometime soon. There would be no one at his bedside to hold his hand, no one to meet him on the other side wherever that was but at least he would have his name. For him that was all he could ask for and he found that to be enough. He knew it would have to be.
His name was Harry Potter but to those who still knew of his wavering existence knew him only as the Patient in Room 107.
A/N This is the first thing I've wrote that wasn't for school in almost 2 years that hasn't felt forced. The reason for the halt in all my stories and my absence can be found on my profile page. As always thank you to everyone who reads my stuff and a special thanks to those who take the time to review, favorite, or alert me or my stuff.