Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you may recognize…I only wish I did.
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I am sitting here at this computer, typing words that will mean nothing to me tomorrow. It's only 9:03 p.m. but I am already showered and dressed for bed, a new record. The humid summer air hangs about me, rubbing against my unusually pale skin. My back aches, my brow is furrowed and I have a headache, and yet I keep typing, trying to rid myself of the overwhelming anger building up inside of me. Tiny black ants scurry across the pine wood surface, drawn to the sweet scent of orange juice that is long gone. I feel upset, but I will never let anyone know it. I just keep on pretending that I'm okay, shielding my true emotions from the world.
Two bottles of port sit next to me, nothing but tiny drops left in the bottom of the first one. I am drunk, I know that much for sure but one learns to love it. My parents are bickering in the background over money, such a petty thing to fight about. They have always been like this, for as long as I have known them, they have lived for the dollar. I hate it but then again I am just a kid and my opinions count for nothing in this house. That's the way it always has been, and the way it always will be. My parents never listen, they don't care that maybe I have the power to affect change in the world.
A spider hurries across the floor and I let it go, marveling at it. This spider seems so insignificant, and yet it has a family too. I think I may be beginning to lose my mind in this hellhole I'm supposed to call home. The furniture is immaculate, the ornaments gleaming as always. My father, he is a perfectionist. The house must always be clean or my mother shall suffer the consequences. When that happens, I simply lock myself away in my room. Nobody deserves that kind of punishment but my father is not only a perfectionist, he is also an uncommonly cruel man. He is nothing like the rest of our society.
I pause in typing, listening to my parents argument and tears sting in my eyes. But I hold back, refusing to cry for to cry is to show weakness. My vision blurs as I continue to type whatever you may call this. A story, a poem, an expression of sorrow. I wish that my life was different, that I had parents who appreciated me. They will continually ignore me until one day I do something beyond my control to get their attention, if only for a second, and then it will be too late. I tilt the bottle of port to my lips and drain it, the soothing honey-colored liquid streams down my throat. I can still see straight, which leads me to believe that it isn't doing its intended job.
A loud smash and I know that the fight has turned physical. A few quick smashes follow, quick in succession, telling me that the crystal ornaments in the living room are no more then piles of dust, innocent victims of my fathers rage. A fly buzzes around my head and I bat him away, reaching for the bottle again. I lift it to my lips, only to remember that I drained a mere few minutes ago. My little sister, Albina Malfoy, enters the room, tears streaming down her beautiful face and it pains me. She hugs me and I do not need to ask what is wrong for I already know. She is too young to understand why our parents fight but she does not like it.
We embrace and she buries her head in my shoulder. She smells of sunscreen though I cannot think why. She should not have to live like this; she is only five years old. My anger boils over and this time, typing cannot cure it. I pace her down on my chair and I promise her I'll be back. I walk into the lounge room were my father is raging and fuming, my mother cowering in a corner. I take one last, fleeting glimpse at them before fleeing. I hurriedly pack my bags, and my sisters. I grab some money from the jar hidden away under my parent's bed. I walk back into the den and pick up my little sister. We flee into the night, to somewhere better.
Our parents will not know until morning that we are gone. Even then they probably won't notice, too wrapped up in their own senses of pride that they will not notice that their son and daughter have run away from the violence that fills their home. We sit at a bus stop, Albina dozing on my knee and I fling out my left arm. The oh-so-familiar bus appears and we board it, our destination still unclear. All we know is that we are headed away from our mother and father, who care more about their precious high-status lives then they do about their own two children. I sigh and pull a blanket from the cot and wrap it around Albina, protecting her the best way I can.
When the bus arrives at the leaky cauldron, we get off and thank Stan. The bus disappears into the dreary grey night. Rain begins to sprinkle down and I carry inside Albina inside. She is tired, not having ever stayed up this late in her young life. I rent a room and ask the barkeep not to mention that I was here to anyone asking for Lucius and Narcissa. I know in my heart that even if they do look for us, they would never do it themselves. We enter the room and I place Albina on the bed. She drifts off almost instantly, her thumb in her mouth. I sit watching this tiny body, and tears trickle slowly down my face. She is only five but she can make all the difference in the world.
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Please Read and ReviewThanks to everyone who has either read or reviewed my story ♥Hands out freshly baked virtual cookies♥