Don't own them. Duh.
This place is a prison.
Harry stared at his beige, pale beige, so disgustingly beige roof. How could it dare to be so mundane? How could the walls stand in the same four places, each day, everyday, taunting him? Always steady. But paradoxically as each day passed, closer they crept to him, invading his peace of mind, his rationality, his sanity. Sanity is such a precious thing, but so often we forget its value until it has packed in and evaporated.
(((((((
How nice it was to give them time together.
"It'll help" said one faceless white coat.
"It'll just bring back painful memories" said another.
"She pines without him, I can tell" said another one. He was still young, with a full head of hair and a tender heart. He patted his frazzle haired patient kindly on the shoulder. She stared straight through the squeaky clean picture windows, green eyes fixed on something not quite there. Her mouth hung open slightly, as if she was perched continually on the precipice of speech. Sometimes her lips would move, forming words. This was a cause for much shuffling and note taking from the white coats, but for naught. She would cease soon enough, and once again it appeared she was just talking to herself. Or someone else. Perhaps it was whatever, or whoever stood on the other side of those picture windows.
Beside her sat an even more tragic being (if it were possible). Harry sat straight backed in the grey wheelchair, his grey skinned hands folded neatly in his lap. Grey hair brushed the collar of his grey robe, which in turn blended quite harmoniously with the grey neck and eventually grey lips. Here was a man who reeked of death in no physical sense, nor any sense that could be described in words or thoughts, for that matter. He gave no acknowledgement of Ginny beside him each day, but white coat Jenkins swore an improvement of his patient's mood each day after the little meetings. Jenkins thought, like many psychologists do, that he had a special insight into Mr Potters thoughts. Harry knew this, and if he could laugh, he would've done so at the expense of every self important medical who had ever 'interpreted' his behaviour.
There were many things a person who cannot speak wishes to say. "What brand of hand soap is in the bathroom?" "For god's sake, I hate pork mince!" "There's no point in making my bed, your going to have to unmake it and help me into it in a few hours anyway" or even perhaps "tell Ginny I love her"
These were things he wanted to say. But not very badly. Otherwise he would have said them. He had a voice, didn't he? Well, the truth was, yes he did, despite his white coats making up all sorts of indulgently stupid theories about how he lost his ability to speak. He just did not wish to use it. It's so often said (generally by a feminist or a veteran housewife) that a man decides what to hear, and what not to hear. Harry decided he didn't want a voice. It was roughly the same principle
)))))
"Oh we're out of milk Gin!" Harry's voice whined from the kitchen. Ginny strolled into the room to see a bottom sticking out from behind the fridge door, soon accompanied by Harry's tousled head.
"Well what are you whinging to me for? You're a big boy; you can find the corner store by yourself, cant you?"
"But Gi-in…"
"I'll give you a clue; it's on the corner of the street"
Harry sank onto a bar stool and scrunched his face up like a baby "but I'm tiiired"
"It's snowing Harry!" Ginny sighed "I'm not going out, so if you aren't prepared to you had better just manage until tomorrow."
"Oh alright. But that means no coffee"
"uhuh"
"And no hot chocolate"
"I guess not"
"Or pancakes"
"mmmnup"
"Or…or…" Harry leapt to his feet dramatically and paced the kitchen "no scrambled eggs!"
"We don't even have any eggs" Ginny raised a brow, smirking
"But, we cant have, we cant have..." what else wasn't possible without the saving grace of milky goodness?
So this is just my take on the psychology. There'll be more, I've got at least one more chapter essentially written. Anyways, review! X x chintz