Spider
A/N: Um, I've been wondering something...has it occured to anyone other than Phantom and I that fanfic authors aren't insane? Because we all brag that we're insane, we obviously know we're insane, which means we're not insane! Foo!
~~~
The day is almost out. One more day in the plethora of sounds and images that is life.
Why do I see it from this place, from this condition, from this pit?
Why?
My cell is soft and white as a cloud. Boring. It makes me feel trapped. All too trapped.
They say I am abnormal. They removed me from my mother, my only living relative, because I am dangerous.
I am not dangerous.
Not dangerous.
Not dangerous.
Am I normal?
Yes. I am deathly normal, too normal to be reckoned with. What is normal? I know not.
Am I insane?
Am I insane?
What is it, to be insane? Nobody knows. They don't ask us. They don't treat us like people here. If you are insane, you are no longer a true human being. I am not insane.
I do not remember what happened. I remember vague images of my father...and the one time I had ever seen Voldemort take any semblance of pity upon someone.
He told my father he could no longer use me, that insane people held no significance. I remember the pain he caused my father...my father begged Voldemort to let me stay, to let me stay with him.
Voldemort refused.
My father pleaded.
Voldemort refused.
My father retaliated.
My father was killed.
And I landed here.
I have no real control over my life.
Not anymore.
I am the spider, sitting in the center of my web. If a fly or a moth should come by and pluck at one of the strings, I can be there in a flash and suck its blood out. Delicious.
Divinely delicious.
I hate this.
I hate being labeled insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. What is normal? Are normal and insane opposites? What am I?
Where do I fall?
I cannot do anything to alleviate my pain. I try curling up into corners, trying to disappear and be as small as possible, which makes me feel more insignificant. Doomed. I am doomed to this confusion, this poison that they call insanity.
Why do the so-called normal people think insanity means no control? I have control. Years back, I had less control than I do now. Now I am calm and quiet and never react to anything anyone says or does. I am merely the spider, basking in the middle of my home, waiting, waiting...
The words I hear myself say to other people, when they come by, make sense to me. I remember using them and having people understand me...they don't even listen. They pass me off as insane.
I am not insane.
It is they who are insane. I am the norm. I am the standard. They are wrapped up in the siren song of false normality, of false stability. I am normal.
I am the spider.
And they are my flies.
There is a single window in my cell, barred just like the door. If I lean up against the opposite wall, I can see through it. Sunset. The sky is stained like a pallid bruise with unfinished, cloudy lines marked over its perimeter. From the right angle, it looks like insect blood.
Insect.
Arachnid.
The spider.
A fly unwarily floats in between two bars and lands in my open hand. I close my fingers around it and feel it trying to escape. Resistance is futile.
Insanity is futile.
I am not futile.
I am not insane.
I tighten my grasp on the fly and wait for it to stop vibrating. Dead. The fly is now dead. Will I ever die? Am I insane? Am I wrong? Will this thing they call insanity ever die?
Perhaps.
Time will tell, I think, licking the remnants of the fly from my palm.
A/N: Um, I've been wondering something...has it occured to anyone other than Phantom and I that fanfic authors aren't insane? Because we all brag that we're insane, we obviously know we're insane, which means we're not insane! Foo!
~~~
The day is almost out. One more day in the plethora of sounds and images that is life.
Why do I see it from this place, from this condition, from this pit?
Why?
My cell is soft and white as a cloud. Boring. It makes me feel trapped. All too trapped.
They say I am abnormal. They removed me from my mother, my only living relative, because I am dangerous.
I am not dangerous.
Not dangerous.
Not dangerous.
Am I normal?
Yes. I am deathly normal, too normal to be reckoned with. What is normal? I know not.
Am I insane?
Am I insane?
What is it, to be insane? Nobody knows. They don't ask us. They don't treat us like people here. If you are insane, you are no longer a true human being. I am not insane.
I do not remember what happened. I remember vague images of my father...and the one time I had ever seen Voldemort take any semblance of pity upon someone.
He told my father he could no longer use me, that insane people held no significance. I remember the pain he caused my father...my father begged Voldemort to let me stay, to let me stay with him.
Voldemort refused.
My father pleaded.
Voldemort refused.
My father retaliated.
My father was killed.
And I landed here.
I have no real control over my life.
Not anymore.
I am the spider, sitting in the center of my web. If a fly or a moth should come by and pluck at one of the strings, I can be there in a flash and suck its blood out. Delicious.
Divinely delicious.
I hate this.
I hate being labeled insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. What is normal? Are normal and insane opposites? What am I?
Where do I fall?
I cannot do anything to alleviate my pain. I try curling up into corners, trying to disappear and be as small as possible, which makes me feel more insignificant. Doomed. I am doomed to this confusion, this poison that they call insanity.
Why do the so-called normal people think insanity means no control? I have control. Years back, I had less control than I do now. Now I am calm and quiet and never react to anything anyone says or does. I am merely the spider, basking in the middle of my home, waiting, waiting...
The words I hear myself say to other people, when they come by, make sense to me. I remember using them and having people understand me...they don't even listen. They pass me off as insane.
I am not insane.
It is they who are insane. I am the norm. I am the standard. They are wrapped up in the siren song of false normality, of false stability. I am normal.
I am the spider.
And they are my flies.
There is a single window in my cell, barred just like the door. If I lean up against the opposite wall, I can see through it. Sunset. The sky is stained like a pallid bruise with unfinished, cloudy lines marked over its perimeter. From the right angle, it looks like insect blood.
Insect.
Arachnid.
The spider.
A fly unwarily floats in between two bars and lands in my open hand. I close my fingers around it and feel it trying to escape. Resistance is futile.
Insanity is futile.
I am not futile.
I am not insane.
I tighten my grasp on the fly and wait for it to stop vibrating. Dead. The fly is now dead. Will I ever die? Am I insane? Am I wrong? Will this thing they call insanity ever die?
Perhaps.
Time will tell, I think, licking the remnants of the fly from my palm.