Never Just a Dream
Holding his wrists and wondering if he should perform the counter-spell to the one which made them appear healed ( he could FEEL the blood slowly oozing along under his skin, even thought he Obscuro charm had slowed down the flow significantly). Settling under some large cedar bushes at the far edge of the park, he decided to continue with his plan. In committing the act upon himself and watching the crimson flow begin again, dark shadows filled his eyes, and he slumped prostrate to the ground, rare thoughts flying through his head. They would indeed be surprised at him, that much was for certain. How they had all marvelled at him, amazing Potter and his amazing scar that came with his Amazing dreams. What had they called it again.. That was it..
A Gift.
He began an inner conversation with himself, one which he assumed would be his last. The bushes above him rustled slightly, as a bird of pure white landed, but in his altered state he did not notice this, so lost was he in his communiqué with himself.
How often do I get asked the question, how many people want to know where I developed the innate ability to gauge a person instantly, or a horse or other animal for that matter? They are so intrigued by it, it seems so amazing and brilliant to them . "You must have such great deductive reasoning" they might say, or maybe they add "you are so perceptive," "You are so aware of the subtle nuances" My personal all-time favorite "you have such an understanding of human nature." I snort at that one. Just because I am AWARE of it certainly does not mean that I UNDERSTAND it. God help me that I should understand the horrible things I feel when I am around those types. Understanding does NOT necessarily give you power, not even so much as the truth might set you free.
The ability to know, instantly, if someone has been abused at any level, but most especially those whose childhoods were torturous rather than simply tumultuous as they should have been. Does one not recognize a whipped dog when they see it? Does one fail to acknowledge their own kindred? The fear, loathing, hurt, pain, terror, confusion, self-hatred? The weakness, pity, the RAGE that seethes below? How is it possible to look into the eyes of the man whose childhood dreams were torn from him by the hands of his father and NOT see it lying there, even under the most cleverly constructed façade? To me, these things lay about on a person, a book ready for the reading. You can be as successful in the game of life as you want to be, you can have it all financially and prosper at all levels, but there are certain things which no amount of time nor money will ever erase from your soul. They are those things which created you into who you are, your core being.
I laugh that people might actually call this a gift, this curse which I alone seem to possess. A skill, most assuredly, though not a skill won by hard work and studious practice, no .but a gift - how ludicrous is that? What a fine gift indeed - to be given the option to awaken (repeatedly) in the middle of the night by your own howls of anguish as the tears course down your face onto that already sodden pillow and blankets. Hands entangled in sheets which had been unknowingly shredded in your blind panic to escape the terror? All the tears that were shed before you could tear yourself away from the horrors you witnessed.
To know that you have seen someone you loved die. not only that you SAW it, but that you were part of the event - not simply a spectator, but taking a role in the final role of the drama of their life. And the knowledge that there was nothing you could do about it, as you lay shivering under the covers, lights blazing and body soaked in an unnatural sweat. Nothing could be done to prevent it, nor change it; you simply got to wait with baited breath to see the cleverly woven foreshadowing come to fruition.
Never knowing if that vision will come true in a day, a week, a few months, but that inevitably, it WILL come true, though most likely not exactly as portrayed to you in the grand theater of the night. No, you see, that would be far too simple, and you would most likely be able to change things for the better if you recognized that course of events. but a simple switch of characters in the scene in question might prevent that. A Léger-de- main, a carnival trick with mirrors and yet so effective, time and time again.
"This gift which was so unwittingly given, which made you wish that the night would never come with it's darkness and exhaustion, the gift which prevented you from closing your lids at night for fear of what you may see. To punish yourself with night after night of forcing yourself to stay awake, until your body screamed no more and you merely collapsed?"
"Gift indeed." He spoke aloud, just barely audible. This was no gift. "A Curse, and one for which there is no counter."
"Ah, Potter," A smooth voice spoke to him from behind the bushes. "That is where I beg to differ with you".
Holding his wrists and wondering if he should perform the counter-spell to the one which made them appear healed ( he could FEEL the blood slowly oozing along under his skin, even thought he Obscuro charm had slowed down the flow significantly). Settling under some large cedar bushes at the far edge of the park, he decided to continue with his plan. In committing the act upon himself and watching the crimson flow begin again, dark shadows filled his eyes, and he slumped prostrate to the ground, rare thoughts flying through his head. They would indeed be surprised at him, that much was for certain. How they had all marvelled at him, amazing Potter and his amazing scar that came with his Amazing dreams. What had they called it again.. That was it..
A Gift.
He began an inner conversation with himself, one which he assumed would be his last. The bushes above him rustled slightly, as a bird of pure white landed, but in his altered state he did not notice this, so lost was he in his communiqué with himself.
How often do I get asked the question, how many people want to know where I developed the innate ability to gauge a person instantly, or a horse or other animal for that matter? They are so intrigued by it, it seems so amazing and brilliant to them . "You must have such great deductive reasoning" they might say, or maybe they add "you are so perceptive," "You are so aware of the subtle nuances" My personal all-time favorite "you have such an understanding of human nature." I snort at that one. Just because I am AWARE of it certainly does not mean that I UNDERSTAND it. God help me that I should understand the horrible things I feel when I am around those types. Understanding does NOT necessarily give you power, not even so much as the truth might set you free.
The ability to know, instantly, if someone has been abused at any level, but most especially those whose childhoods were torturous rather than simply tumultuous as they should have been. Does one not recognize a whipped dog when they see it? Does one fail to acknowledge their own kindred? The fear, loathing, hurt, pain, terror, confusion, self-hatred? The weakness, pity, the RAGE that seethes below? How is it possible to look into the eyes of the man whose childhood dreams were torn from him by the hands of his father and NOT see it lying there, even under the most cleverly constructed façade? To me, these things lay about on a person, a book ready for the reading. You can be as successful in the game of life as you want to be, you can have it all financially and prosper at all levels, but there are certain things which no amount of time nor money will ever erase from your soul. They are those things which created you into who you are, your core being.
I laugh that people might actually call this a gift, this curse which I alone seem to possess. A skill, most assuredly, though not a skill won by hard work and studious practice, no .but a gift - how ludicrous is that? What a fine gift indeed - to be given the option to awaken (repeatedly) in the middle of the night by your own howls of anguish as the tears course down your face onto that already sodden pillow and blankets. Hands entangled in sheets which had been unknowingly shredded in your blind panic to escape the terror? All the tears that were shed before you could tear yourself away from the horrors you witnessed.
To know that you have seen someone you loved die. not only that you SAW it, but that you were part of the event - not simply a spectator, but taking a role in the final role of the drama of their life. And the knowledge that there was nothing you could do about it, as you lay shivering under the covers, lights blazing and body soaked in an unnatural sweat. Nothing could be done to prevent it, nor change it; you simply got to wait with baited breath to see the cleverly woven foreshadowing come to fruition.
Never knowing if that vision will come true in a day, a week, a few months, but that inevitably, it WILL come true, though most likely not exactly as portrayed to you in the grand theater of the night. No, you see, that would be far too simple, and you would most likely be able to change things for the better if you recognized that course of events. but a simple switch of characters in the scene in question might prevent that. A Léger-de- main, a carnival trick with mirrors and yet so effective, time and time again.
"This gift which was so unwittingly given, which made you wish that the night would never come with it's darkness and exhaustion, the gift which prevented you from closing your lids at night for fear of what you may see. To punish yourself with night after night of forcing yourself to stay awake, until your body screamed no more and you merely collapsed?"
"Gift indeed." He spoke aloud, just barely audible. This was no gift. "A Curse, and one for which there is no counter."
"Ah, Potter," A smooth voice spoke to him from behind the bushes. "That is where I beg to differ with you".