Poor Neville gets so neglected! This is my short —very- sad story about Neville's "situation" with his parents. Very dark and sad. Kind of a Book 4 spoiler. Please Read! Please Review! Please DON'T flame!
I can't think of a titleYou name it for me!
Neville's hands were sweating. He had plastered them against the glass, staring into the padded cell in which his parents were held. The 15-year-old boy could remember being overjoyed on the occasion when he, once a month, visited his parents in the desolate, grungy old mental hospital. He could still remember
He skipped down the halls. He waved to them. They waved back. They were brought out in straight jackets. He thought they were blankets, because, as he had noticed, it was always cold in the terrible hospital. He gave them both hugs. He tried to speak to them. It wasn't possible. But he was happy anyway.
How wrong I was, thought Neville, staring blankly into the glass as if staring at monkeys in a zoo. The waves, the hugs, the kissesmeaningless. And as he now felt his grandmother's powerful hand on his shoulder, the familiar wave of dread ran through his body. He turned, knowing he had to face those people, the people with the bony bodies, the expressionless faces, with the clouded eyes.
"Hello," said his grandmother, loudly, clearly, trying to be cheerful. The pair stood next to each other, a nurse on either side of them. They stared back.
"Hullo, Mum. Hullo, Dad," said Neville glumly.
They smiled their same stupid fake smiles at him, completely oblivious to the world around them, except for knowing that their son was speaking to them in some odd foreign-sounding language.
Neville felt a stab of pain in his heart as he looked into their eyes. His mother's eyes held nothing. His father's eyes held nothing. They were totally blank. A tear came to Neville's eye and he hastily brushed it away as he gave each of the stiff bodies a hug. After the embrace, he gave each one a kiss.
Neville's parents strained against the straight jackets, forgetting for the fifth time that day that they could not get out of them. The nurses removed them carefully, then quickly grabbed the arms tightly. Neville could tell that the skin was pinched beneath, could tell that there would be marks on the flesh afterwards. There were already dozens of them.
He reached out and touched his mother's face, trying to seem loving.
"NO!" she screamed suddenly, slapping his hand away. Neville cowered back in surprise; she had never been hostile to him before.
A look of fear came into the mother's eyes and she glared almost menacingly at her son. "Who are you?" she asked, stuttering and fumbling for the words, though it was obvious what she was saying.
"I want to leave, Gran," said Neville, turning his head and walking swiftly away from the awful scene.
"Neville, you haven't said goodbye! Come back here!" he heard his grandmother shout after him. But he didn't care. He left them all as they stared back at him. He couldn't see the confused look on his parents' faces, their empty eyes, their sunken skin, or their grimy hair. He was away from them and he wasn't turning back.
Neville sat in his room, looking. He wasn't looking at anything in particular. Perhaps he was trying to see the heat in the heavy August air. Perhaps he was searching for something like a dust particle. But all the while, he was deep in thought. He knew his parents were crazy; he had always known that. But they didn't even know who he was? Not even his own mother?
He was interrupted by a knock on his door. "Neville!" came the shrill voice of his grandmother. "Get out here! You didn't touch your dinner and you're going to eat it all right now! You don't appreciate this good home you live in!" He heard the old woman go rambling on about how he was lucky to be with such a hard-working family as he went downstairs to the kitchen.
He didn't eat his food; he simply took out his wand and made it fly to the dog's dish when his grandmother wasn't looking.
Returning to his room, he also returned to his thoughts. My parents really don't care. My grandmother doesn't care either. She just makes me earn my keep and eat her awful meatloaf. His thoughts then turned to school. I'm a horrid wizard. I can't do anything right. The only teacher who liked me was Lupin, and he's gone now. Harry and his friends just think I'm an annoying tagalong.
The thoughts became more and more hostile and negative. Why am I here? What's my purpose? To be a screw-up at everything I do?
That's when Neville's eyes led him to the pocket knife on his bedside table. He grabbed it, fumbling it around in his fingers, and then opened it. The knife stood out, sharp and silver. Without even thinking, Neville cut a deep slit in his wrist.
Wincing and almost crying out in pain, he grabbed his wrist, writhing on the gorund.
Stop Neville. You're a coward. It doesn't hurt. You're worthless.
He carefully cut another deep slit, letting the blood drain out. The pain was becoming easier to deal with now. Neville didn't even notice the giant pool of blood that was spreading out on his carpet. All he noticed was a wonderful feeling of satisfaction. This was something he could do! He admired his straight, quick strokes with the knife. This was a new pain. It eased the pain of his worthlessness. He didn't need his parents or his grandmother, and they didn't need him. Neville was happy.
Two slits turned quickly into five, and five into ten. More and more blood soaked into the carpet until it began to form pools on top of it. Neville felt suddenly tired.
Why am I so tired? It's only 9 o'clock. What's the
yawn matter with me?Neville collapsed on floor a moment later, feeling spasms of happiness rippling through his body. The knife fell from his hand as it relaxed. Neville closed his eyes, enjoying the blissful blackness. This wasn't sleep. It was too good for sleep. This was something much, much, better. His clothes were soaked in warm blood. It gave him a warm feeling all over. Or perhaps it was something else. He didn't care. He simply let himself indulge in the display of gold and black that danced on the inside of his eyelids. It was like a fire, he thought, smiling. Several minutes later, the fire flickered and died.
Mrs. Longbottom's cell door screeched open noisily as a doctor entered. "Mrs. Longbottom?" he called out. "This may come as a shock, but your son died this morning. He- he comitted suicide. I'm very sorry." And that was all.
She smiled her stupid smile on her stupid blank face until the doctor finally left the room. The woman continued to smile as she turned to face the dark wall. The smiled faded a moment later, though. Mrs. Longbottom sat alone; her husband was out for exercise with the nurses. For a moment, she just stared. Then a tear fell silently down her cheek.
I hope you really like that, because I really enjoyed writing it. Suicide is a horrible thing that claims hundreds of lives every day. I have never slit my wrists or done anything of suicidal-nature, but I know that many people have. If you, or anyone you know, cuts their wrists or has the symptoms of depression, tell an adult or professional RIGHT AWAY. The result could be disastrous. If you think no one cares, you're wrong. Someone in this world loves you, and does care, even if you think they don't. Don't lose hope. Thank you.
~~Mrs. Norris