At Home
I am on the train from Hogwarts going back. Throughout the whole trip, I nod, shake my head, whisper, and cheerily and falsely said hello and goodbye. The purple pimple scars are still there. I cover my face with the balaclava. I had been doing that for the past six months, ever since getting out of the hospital. It was routine now, but covering me still felt humiliating.
With a heavy heart, I walked out of the train station wheeling my trunks. I said goodbye to nobody, because nobody cared about what happened to me anymore. Besides, everyone already had tightly clustered into their own groups. I might be a somebody in a crowd, but a nobody when everyone was within their threads of friendship.
I stopped dead when I saw my angry mother. She was breathing fast and was going red in the face. She took one look at me and started to shriek, her face in an uncontrollable fury, her voice shaking. She painfully wrenched my hand and jerked me away from everyone else, still shouting.
As my dark eyes flittered from person to person getting out and watching the spectacle unfold, none showed any sympathy, alarm, or surprise. Or that they cared what happened to me when my mother got home and was done with me.
Surprise.
Nobody would care. Would you care? The annoying, sniveling, bitch who squealed on the most popular kid, Harry Potter? Betrayed all of her friends in one stroke, wrenched and destroyed those strong bonds? The whiny little bitch who always giggles and hangs around with the most popular girl in the school?
No, you wouldn't. I know you wouldn't. Unless you saw the fear in my eyes after I told, or realized that my motivation was out of fear, not out of vindictive spite or pleasure.
Thank you for being honest.
Once inside the house, she wrenched away from her grip by knocking me to the ground. I was used to her flashes of anger. But in-between those moments of anger came brief moments of happiness. Now there was no happiness and even more anger.
Pity.
With her voice mingled with fury and rage, she told me what happened.
Umbridge had fired her.
Umbridge cited a lack of cooperation on my part in breaking up some group called Dumbledore's Army. She claims that I reported it to her, and then said "no" when she asked me if meetings had gone on for six months. My answer led to my mother's firing and blacklisting. Now my mother is screaming how I brought shame and dishonor to the family, and how she can no longer hold the good job of a Ministry and now has to work at a pub as a dirty and low waitress.
My mum's whole life was in the Department of Magical Transportation. When Umbridge put her on probation for failing to alert her fast enough to catch Sirius Black in the fires last October, she had a breakdown. She now tells me this all of this –her October probation, what happened in April, and the result of the April event. Scathingly, she tells me how I've ruined her whole career and life in the Ministry.
I do not tell her about the Memory Charm. She'll only get madder at me.
Each word falls like a blunt object to my skull. My head swims with pain. Somewhere in my mind, I think, she's really not like this. She's just angry with me – very angry – and then she'll step off of me and make me feel all right. She'll tell me that she loves me and that I'm her one and only star.
But as the shouting continues my paranoia and fear bubbles up and washes all over me. My god, I silently think.
She thinks I really was defiant too, intentionally and purposefully not telling Umbridge the truth. Out of my own accord, out of my own will, I made Umbridge upset. I say nothing. My opinions and feelings are unimportant. Out of all people, I foolishly hoped that my mother would try to understand, but she won't even let me talk. Stupid fucking Marietta, you put your fucking hope into something that would never ever happen.
The towering, screaming, red-faced woman in front of me is not my mother. She's not the person that soothingly told me to have a good year at the Hogwarts Express in September. She is this wretched job-obsessed lady who puts her job over her own daughter. She doesn't like me anymore, I tell myself. As she rages, my eyes become blank and unfocused and I repeat it over and over: She loves her job, not me. She loves her job, not me.
Two hours later, after being yelled at, I get sent up to my room. I feel wet tears, but do not wipe them off. I later hear the clinks of dishes being passed out around the table. I walk downstairs. There is only her own plate and setting on the table. Stiffly, my mother tells me to "get your own plate and settings."
My soft and fragile mind instantly hardens, but on the outside I shake a little. My mother is blind to the drying streaks of tears on my face, the balaclava I wear all day, or the warmness of a simple, "How was your school year?" I simply block out the silence and grab a plate from the cabinet and start reaching for the dishes myself, because I know she won't hand them to me. The dinner is eaten in total silence. But even the silence is unbearable.
Daddy isn't back. He'll never be back. They broke up a long time ago and he hasn't seen me for more than ten years. I used to write him a birthday and father's day card every year. But last year, on the tenth anniversary, my hands were shaking so badly that I closed up the card and never touched in since.
Oh, if anyone knew about my problems at home. But not only would they not understand; they might use it against me. There would be the rumors, poor Marietta who isn't strong and submits to her mother.
My mum doesn't see that I became ostracized and an outcast at Hogwarts. I don't need another person hating me. I need someone to love me and make me feel better.
But she doesn't. By the end of dinner, in my mind, I'm not a good little daughter anymore. I don't deserve a mother; it's my fault that she's so angry and tired and exasperated. Anyway, what kind of daughter would be so cruel to cause her own mother to be fired? Nobody but stupid Marietta Edgecombe. She bitterly and truly hates me for dishonoring the family and losing her job, prestige, and pride. And she's right, and I'm wrong.
I walk up to my room. I curl up in my bed, hatred and tears welling up in my throat; I'm barely able to breathe. At school, I often drifted into nothingness for hours, blocking out everything, but this time I listen and wait. This time, I'm waiting for my mother to come upstairs and get into bed.
I make the decision. It seems so easy, just to make a quick decision now. If I 'd done it, I could have saved two months of agonizing and pain.
At midnight, I quietly edge the door open. I hear her deep breathing and know she's asleep. I silently walk down the stairs. I turn on no lights. My hand runs along the wall and refrigerator, feeling for what I need. I open up the utensils drawer and grab the sharpest, longest utensil I can find.
I stole in the night back up into my room. Moonlight splashes on to my desk and bed as I open up the shutters. My eyes widen as I see the blade, long and devilish. But I do not hesitate. Sitting up in my bed, I take one last look at my room. And on her bed, and in a single instant, unpopular, delusional, and stupid Marietta Edgecombe, who lived the rest of her school year scarred and unpopular, has ended her own life.
Bye.
There will be no note. There will be no established reason why Marietta Edgecombe died. They will all speculate, but nobody will ever know of the hidden, brutal, and silent misery that took place. Because everyone is apathetic to others until something happens. Hindsight is always 20/20. Not until they find out that I killed myself will they realize how much they ostracized and forgot about me.
The warm blood has stained the bed sheets and pillow. My eyes are tearing, but it's a warm and tingling feeling of happiness. It tastes so bitter and sweet at the same time; the first real happiness in months. I sway a little as my vision blurs, but my eyes finally close. My body shudders one last time before lying still for the final time.
Goodbye, life, for I had little use for. May my afterlife be better than my short fifteen years on earth...
I am on the train from Hogwarts going back. Throughout the whole trip, I nod, shake my head, whisper, and cheerily and falsely said hello and goodbye. The purple pimple scars are still there. I cover my face with the balaclava. I had been doing that for the past six months, ever since getting out of the hospital. It was routine now, but covering me still felt humiliating.
With a heavy heart, I walked out of the train station wheeling my trunks. I said goodbye to nobody, because nobody cared about what happened to me anymore. Besides, everyone already had tightly clustered into their own groups. I might be a somebody in a crowd, but a nobody when everyone was within their threads of friendship.
I stopped dead when I saw my angry mother. She was breathing fast and was going red in the face. She took one look at me and started to shriek, her face in an uncontrollable fury, her voice shaking. She painfully wrenched my hand and jerked me away from everyone else, still shouting.
As my dark eyes flittered from person to person getting out and watching the spectacle unfold, none showed any sympathy, alarm, or surprise. Or that they cared what happened to me when my mother got home and was done with me.
Surprise.
Nobody would care. Would you care? The annoying, sniveling, bitch who squealed on the most popular kid, Harry Potter? Betrayed all of her friends in one stroke, wrenched and destroyed those strong bonds? The whiny little bitch who always giggles and hangs around with the most popular girl in the school?
No, you wouldn't. I know you wouldn't. Unless you saw the fear in my eyes after I told, or realized that my motivation was out of fear, not out of vindictive spite or pleasure.
Thank you for being honest.
Once inside the house, she wrenched away from her grip by knocking me to the ground. I was used to her flashes of anger. But in-between those moments of anger came brief moments of happiness. Now there was no happiness and even more anger.
Pity.
With her voice mingled with fury and rage, she told me what happened.
Umbridge had fired her.
Umbridge cited a lack of cooperation on my part in breaking up some group called Dumbledore's Army. She claims that I reported it to her, and then said "no" when she asked me if meetings had gone on for six months. My answer led to my mother's firing and blacklisting. Now my mother is screaming how I brought shame and dishonor to the family, and how she can no longer hold the good job of a Ministry and now has to work at a pub as a dirty and low waitress.
My mum's whole life was in the Department of Magical Transportation. When Umbridge put her on probation for failing to alert her fast enough to catch Sirius Black in the fires last October, she had a breakdown. She now tells me this all of this –her October probation, what happened in April, and the result of the April event. Scathingly, she tells me how I've ruined her whole career and life in the Ministry.
I do not tell her about the Memory Charm. She'll only get madder at me.
Each word falls like a blunt object to my skull. My head swims with pain. Somewhere in my mind, I think, she's really not like this. She's just angry with me – very angry – and then she'll step off of me and make me feel all right. She'll tell me that she loves me and that I'm her one and only star.
But as the shouting continues my paranoia and fear bubbles up and washes all over me. My god, I silently think.
She thinks I really was defiant too, intentionally and purposefully not telling Umbridge the truth. Out of my own accord, out of my own will, I made Umbridge upset. I say nothing. My opinions and feelings are unimportant. Out of all people, I foolishly hoped that my mother would try to understand, but she won't even let me talk. Stupid fucking Marietta, you put your fucking hope into something that would never ever happen.
The towering, screaming, red-faced woman in front of me is not my mother. She's not the person that soothingly told me to have a good year at the Hogwarts Express in September. She is this wretched job-obsessed lady who puts her job over her own daughter. She doesn't like me anymore, I tell myself. As she rages, my eyes become blank and unfocused and I repeat it over and over: She loves her job, not me. She loves her job, not me.
Two hours later, after being yelled at, I get sent up to my room. I feel wet tears, but do not wipe them off. I later hear the clinks of dishes being passed out around the table. I walk downstairs. There is only her own plate and setting on the table. Stiffly, my mother tells me to "get your own plate and settings."
My soft and fragile mind instantly hardens, but on the outside I shake a little. My mother is blind to the drying streaks of tears on my face, the balaclava I wear all day, or the warmness of a simple, "How was your school year?" I simply block out the silence and grab a plate from the cabinet and start reaching for the dishes myself, because I know she won't hand them to me. The dinner is eaten in total silence. But even the silence is unbearable.
Daddy isn't back. He'll never be back. They broke up a long time ago and he hasn't seen me for more than ten years. I used to write him a birthday and father's day card every year. But last year, on the tenth anniversary, my hands were shaking so badly that I closed up the card and never touched in since.
Oh, if anyone knew about my problems at home. But not only would they not understand; they might use it against me. There would be the rumors, poor Marietta who isn't strong and submits to her mother.
My mum doesn't see that I became ostracized and an outcast at Hogwarts. I don't need another person hating me. I need someone to love me and make me feel better.
But she doesn't. By the end of dinner, in my mind, I'm not a good little daughter anymore. I don't deserve a mother; it's my fault that she's so angry and tired and exasperated. Anyway, what kind of daughter would be so cruel to cause her own mother to be fired? Nobody but stupid Marietta Edgecombe. She bitterly and truly hates me for dishonoring the family and losing her job, prestige, and pride. And she's right, and I'm wrong.
I walk up to my room. I curl up in my bed, hatred and tears welling up in my throat; I'm barely able to breathe. At school, I often drifted into nothingness for hours, blocking out everything, but this time I listen and wait. This time, I'm waiting for my mother to come upstairs and get into bed.
I make the decision. It seems so easy, just to make a quick decision now. If I 'd done it, I could have saved two months of agonizing and pain.
At midnight, I quietly edge the door open. I hear her deep breathing and know she's asleep. I silently walk down the stairs. I turn on no lights. My hand runs along the wall and refrigerator, feeling for what I need. I open up the utensils drawer and grab the sharpest, longest utensil I can find.
I stole in the night back up into my room. Moonlight splashes on to my desk and bed as I open up the shutters. My eyes widen as I see the blade, long and devilish. But I do not hesitate. Sitting up in my bed, I take one last look at my room. And on her bed, and in a single instant, unpopular, delusional, and stupid Marietta Edgecombe, who lived the rest of her school year scarred and unpopular, has ended her own life.
Bye.
There will be no note. There will be no established reason why Marietta Edgecombe died. They will all speculate, but nobody will ever know of the hidden, brutal, and silent misery that took place. Because everyone is apathetic to others until something happens. Hindsight is always 20/20. Not until they find out that I killed myself will they realize how much they ostracized and forgot about me.
The warm blood has stained the bed sheets and pillow. My eyes are tearing, but it's a warm and tingling feeling of happiness. It tastes so bitter and sweet at the same time; the first real happiness in months. I sway a little as my vision blurs, but my eyes finally close. My body shudders one last time before lying still for the final time.
Goodbye, life, for I had little use for. May my afterlife be better than my short fifteen years on earth...