Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch.
Details: (Need it for the challenge)
Soul, Uagadou, Biloko
12 Days of Christmas: Day 5: Write about Dudley Dursley getting bullied.
A soft, near inaudible sob echoed from the bedroom of Dudley Dursley.
Here, at home, with his parents out and the Freak at his freak school, only here...
Only here could he ever truly let loose his bottled emotions.
And thus, he wailed, with only the empty house to hear his voice.
He was a proud boy, valuing appearance over all else, taking great efforts to appear unflappable, unshakeable. He was a rock, something that others would need to adapt to work with, rather than ever be forced to change.
His parents saw this side, the Freak saw this side as well: a strong, brave boy.
But still, the little words hurt.
Despite his appearance, he was not perfect. Far from it. And from the corners, he could always hear the muttered murmuring.
"What a whale!" they'd murmur as his back turned, but he could never narrow down which person ever said so.
"Who could ever love a face like that?" would call another.
"Die in a hole, fatty!"
"Hey, did you hear? Dursley at an entire tub of lard last summer!"
And it hurt. When they'd trip him as he walked by, and laugh as he struggled to right himself. When they'd steal his lunch, forcing him to take the freak's.
He never let it show. He was raised strong, he would always be strong.
And if he wasn't strong, he'd be the Freak.
The freak was punished because he was weak: every name he was called, every single freakish thing he did, he showed it. Proved that he was wrong. Proved that he didn't belong.
And he was a Dursley. He couldn't be a Freak.
He wouldn't let himself be a freak.
He couldn't.
And from fear became anger, and from anger he lashed out.
But only the Freak stayed near, only the Freak let himself be punched.
The rest danced out of his grasp in moments, laughing as he winded himself. Laughed as he screamed at them, laughed as they jeered and pointed, mocked and sneered.
The Freak was only fun to beat on when he had screamed, years ago.
It had been at least three since he had let out more than a whimper. The freak was dead on the inside.
Yet, Dudley still did it.
Kept up appearances.
The Freak never knew it, but he was just as dead. That the eyes of both boys were just as glassy. That it was a play with no script.
He had tried to break free once. They had put him on a diet, to shape up, to break free. He couldn't handle it, couldn't bear it. It wasn't him. It was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
So he sat, in his room, amidst the toys he had amassed, among the trophies he had gathered.
Proof that he was good. Proof that he was worth keeping
Proof that he wasn't the Freak. Proof that he'd never be the Freak.
Proof, he promised himself,
That one day would be the truth.
