"Boy, go weed the garden."
"Yes, Uncle Vernon."
I got up and carefully felt my way outside. I used to have a special stick for that sort of thing, but Uncle Vernon had 'relieved' me of it. Aunt Petunia got it for me when I was younger. Apparently, it helped prevent accidents and things of those nature. I wouldn't know. I can hardly remember. And if I can remember, what would I remember? Sounds?
You never hear blind people talk about past experiences or memories they've had, and that is why. It's all a constant blur. What might be an everyday thing to you could mean the world to another person. For example, wasteful people that eat half of something, say a sandwich, before tossing it in the rubbish bin. If you were in Africa, you wouldn't do that.
So here I was, using my hands and arms to just barely poke and prod my way out to the garden. You never knew what you might touch. You had to be delicate. Wet things, slimy things, painful things, embarrassing things, rude things, whatever the case might be. You had to be careful.
Weeding the garden was pretty easy, actually. But don't tell my Aunt or Uncle that. They'll just add more work. And the last thing I need is more work. I already do the laundry, weed, clean, mop, dust, and probably about twenty other different things that Aunt Petunia might assign to me on a whim. You'd think these jobs would be pretty difficulty for someone not so able, right? Well, they aren't that bad. Like I said, I'm not trying to complain. That only gives you more work.
And the last thing I need is more work.
Picking and pulling the veiny appendages that were weeds certainly did a number on your hands, I've come to find out. At least, these weeds. I didn't know the difference between Aunt Petunia's flowers and the weeds the first few times. They didn't go well.
But I learned. Now, I know the difference.
I finished up and walked back in slowly.
Uncle Vernon's meaty voice greeted me harshly. "Done already, boy? Go see if Aunt Petunia needs anything."
I guess I wasn't quick enough in my departure, because in that next critical second, he barked at an even louder volume. "Boy! Now!"
I went. I knew my way around the house well enough so as to not break a picture frame or stub my toe. That was good enough. But not at this speed. I felt like a drag racer. Haphazardly leaving so I wouldn't upset Uncle Vernon anymore, I ran into Aunt Petunia in the hallway, to her disappointment.
"Oof!" A collective burst of air came out of both of us. I couldn't have been going that fast.
"Boy, don't run around the house. Do you want to break something?"
I didn't try to get a word in anymore. A couple years ago, sure. But I learned.
"So, since you don't want to break anything, why don't you go make sure it's all nice and clean? Those things seem to go hand-in-hand, right?" Her falsely sweet voice appraised me. "Yes, Aunt Petunia." I intoned quietly and went to the little storage closet. It also doubled as a wonderful place to sleep, but don't tell anyone that. As such, I knew where things where. Probably better than anyone else in the house, to be honest. Losing a sense makes you much more compelled and resourceful. You make up for it in more ways than one.
I expertly dusted the various knick-knacks and trinkets Aunt Petunia owned. I was never to touch them otherwise. They aren't meant for useless blind boys. The walls are. If I wanted to feel things, I could go feel my bed for the next 3 days. Oh yes, I don't remember much, but I remember that. Yes, I remember that.
Settling into the routine was the hardest part. Do this, do that, do this again because the first time wasn't good enough. If you knew just how many things your hands could do, you'd be shocked. Shocked and a little disgusted. But I do them.
It feeds me and it gives me a place to sleep. So I do them. Besides, kids do chores, right? This isn't any different.
The only thing that's different is me. Me and my disgraceful incompetency and shameful disability. I was lucky to be given a home. Not everyone like me is so privileged. That's what they tell me. That people like me don't make it in other countries. That we get snuffed out. That I should be grateful to them. I believe them.
I asked someone, once. They gasped and asked me a few questions, and then they called someone. Calling someone is really what did it. I guess Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon really didn't like that. So, I was told to stop asking questions and to stay in my closet for a week.
And I did, like a faithful nephew. And I learned.
Keep my head down. Don't ask questions. Asking questions makes a fool of myself. That means I embarrass Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. I can't do that. So that's added to the list of things I can't do, like breathe or live too loudly.
Luckily, I have a great sense of hearing, so naturally I'll be able to draw the line.
How nice of me, right?
The everyday routine changed.
I stumbled into the living room blindly to be stopped by my caring legal guardians.
"Boy, what do you know of this?"
A brief flutter of something was all I heard.
I frowned in consternation. "Uncle Vernon, can you please be more specific?" I hoped. Oh, I hoped it wouldn't. God, please.
"There was a letter that we received this morning," Aunt Petunia began mildly. "It was a letter from a place I heard about in my childhood. The same people that took your alcoholic mother want to take you. How does that make you feel, boy?"
A mixture of emotions swam through me. "I don't know, Aunt Petunia. Is that bad? What's so bad about a letter? It's just mail."
You could have heard a pin drop. The television and the fan were switched off immediately. Silence pervaded the space. Silence. Time dragged by. The minutes wore on. Really, what was so bad? It was just a letter! Besides, I'm not my mother. I'm me. Boy.
"It's not just mail. Listen, boy."
Uncle Vernon took deep, heavy steps towards me and whispered in my ear. "Here at Hogwarts, we have sent you this letter to congratulate you on the fact that your nephew is accepted into our gracious institution of schooling and learning! On the first of September, we expect him to be adequately prepared for one of our members to come and receive him. Best wishes, Hogwarts."
He leaned down even further. "I can tell you right now, from what Aunt Petunia has told me, that Hogwarts is not a good place. Do you understand? It made your mother into the terrible person she was. She's the reason you're the way you are! Always drinking and passing out on our couch! We told her it wasn't good for the baby! But no, she didn't listen. And here we are, bound to go through it all over again."
Anxiety flooded my system. I couldn't breathe. "Uncle Vernon, please don't make me go. I'll do whatever you want. I'll even cook! I'll make sure you never have to worry about anything around the house! Please don't make me go! I don't want to! Aunt Petunia, do something, please."
She sighed. "Boy, we won't make you go. We wouldn't let you even if you wanted to. Not after what it did to your mother. The people she chose, the men she chose, the things she did, all bad, boy. Not a single thing she did was ever good. She was beautiful as a child, but not after that. They took her when she turned 11. Now, because you're 11, they want you."
My breath picked up at a rapid rate. I could barely hear her anymore. What was happening? Would I be okay? Would they try to take me anyway? Oh, no. No, no, no, no!
"What's going to happen?"
"Well, I'll tell you." Uncle Vernon got situated before resting a hand on my shoulder. "We're gonna burn the letter and forget all about it. When the First rolls around, you won't even know it. Maybe we'll get a visit, maybe we won't. Who knows? If we do, you'll be alright. Me and your Aunt will not let them take you to Hogwarts. Okay?"
I sucked in some air and tried to steady my breathing. "Okay, Uncle Vernon."
"Repeat after me: My Aunt and Uncle..."
"My Aunt and Uncle..."
"will not..."
"will not..."
"let me be taken to Hogwarts."
"let me be taken to Hogwarts."