The Altering of a Boy

The darkness permeated throughout the thicket of trees, all sound lost amongst the dense, humid air. Hopelessness was reflected from the still air in the unwavering beam of light, splicing the darkness in an irrational way. Guiding the two bodies through the winding wildness of the night. The flooding calm of the dark, however, did not permeate throughout the bodies. Anger, fear and unresolved tensions ran their course in the bodies and minds respectively sitting in the vehicle.

The winding road turned swiftly into a sparse dirt road, narrow and lengthy. Tense traveling was the way all the way up until a small secluded house rose into view in the distance. Perched haughtily atop on the top of a low hill. Without a protest uttered, the machines engine died down from a frightful roar, into a soothing lull. The last sound heard was the disturbances of locks, and ten their reacquaintancing, both from doors and the rear end of the car. The taller of the two fell fast into pace ahead of the younger, shorter boy, whom had to shift the large piece of luggage between hand and hip to try and achieve a better grip.

The shadows on the house were creeping down the lawn, but did not hide the mid calf length grass, or even the overgrowth of weeds choking the already dried up rose bushes. The venom coursing through his veins, the one of the werewolf's, showed him the underside of the veil the darkness had provided. But not a soul had known, not one he had been acquainted to. If they had cared enough, they would have found out his true abilities, but alas, the darkness had told him. Whispered it into his delicate ears that nobody really cared about him. The darkness showed him what people would not. What they would not give him. A future. A future albeit masked in gloom, cold, and disgust. The very vibe that the looming dwelling gave off, was forever going to stick with him. As did the grime from the doorknob. It laced through his fingers as he closed the door behind him, shutting out the future, or maybe the present, at least for now.

The house was small, untidy and unkempt. Leaves of paper strewn about, crumpled with dislike, and thrown into piles. Un-organization was what was spelled out in the mess, but it was what was known, and what was known, was what worked. The placid yellowing color of rows upon rows of books contrasted with the dark stain of the wood that covered every wall. Sparse and widespread were the decorations, a single mismatched pair of trinkets lay upon each barren table. The floorboards groaned underneath the shifting weight of the bare soles. Shoes forgotten at the door.

The house was one level, splayed out in an orderly fashion, entrance, small study area, a hall that held four doors and an open arch way that lead to the kitchen. Moving quickly to the last door, struggling o balance belongings and self as he reached out for the door was hopeless as his luggage toppled over, creating a loud ruckus in the silent house. His presence was soon joined by another, ranting about the disturbed peace but the short-lived rant fell on deaf ears. Making no impression upon the boy, the ranter left quietly, only to be replaced by another, larger presence, who made itself known, only it was angrily patient as the boy started to leisurely pick up his belongings and put them back into his trunk.

Struggling again once his belongings were in their rightful place, the doorknob slipped in his hand and the door only opened an inch or so, enough for his foot to kick the door open, to reveal a narrow set of stairs. Unsteady feet stepped onto the thin layer of dust, unsettling the particles, becoming as displaced as feelings had become after being thrown back into a most unsavory situation. He stopped to contemplate, still oblivious to his observer, if everything had its place as the dust settled back down. And if everything did have its place, then why was his here? He set his trunk down, back in the hallway, and looked up when it touched something animate. He gripped the doorframe, bracing himself for some verbal attack.

The man was about half a foot taller than him, and a larger build. The same mirroring eyes, although a shade of slate gray. Now flecked through with black from repressed anger. "Move your shit worm waste." There it was. His greeting from being away three quarters of the year and not even a simple hello. Hoe quite typical of his father, Roy Lupin. "You don't give a shit about your brother or I. Always thinking of yourself. Pathetic. It seems that you haven't even thanked Romulus for giving up his time to pick up your sorry ass. I didn't have to make him you know. I thought I'd do you a favor."

Again, the topic of his ungratefulness. "Did I ask you to pick me up? I would rather have stayed at school, or, or even with a friend." Remus' mouth took on a mind of its own. The school year long and drawn out must have taken its senses with its passing.

"I didn't say you could talk." Undeterred anger was starting to edge at his mood, unadultured by his fathers potent inscrutable frustration. " I went through hell to make sure you and your brother would have a place to live and eat this summer. And this. This is what I get in return? This bullshit. Well it ends now. If you want to eat or even come out of your room this summer, not another word unless I say so."

Remus' eyes narrowed as he listened to his fathers ridiculous commands. "Why?" One simple word, that hung in the air as the tension rapidly grew. His father sputtered slightly before talking. "Because…I said so..." Roy snarled before slamming the door on his sons hand. With a loud yelp of pain, Remus pulled his hand back causing him to stumble into the wall of the stairwell, clumsily losing his balance and tumbling backwards down the stairs. A sickening crack resounded as Remus' skull hit the cement floor creating a flow of hot sticky blood to pool on the cool dry floor.

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And that was just the first of many passing injuries, some worse than others, fractures of the wrist and leg the most common besides the vast amounts of bruises that littered his body. But by far the most prominent of the injuries lay upon his left forearm. The tender underside was marred beyond recognition of skin. Just pink, faded crisscrossing scars running in every which direction. The scar tissue pink stood out well against the white almost iridescent skin. Each scar engraved deeply, if not in his flesh, but his soul.

The largest of all memories of his families hatred for him. Instilled deeply into his mind of how he was nothing important, a burden to others, a nuisance to those who knew about his curse. And a danger that needed to be tamed. Blade in hand, shaking like usual as pressing the sharp, taunting metal over an already healed scar, that was in a background of a healing yellow-brown bruise. The pain was ignored, as he had learned to deal with it. With the dripping blood being washed over the millions of pores, washing away all his insecurities, fears and thoughts as they slowly dripped into the rushing water, and started to spiral down into the black depth of unreachable stillness.