Chpt.4

I will not Love. I hate people.

- From some French play.

I feel cold and hungry. But beyond a doubt I'm starting to feel lonely. Painfully so.

I hate it. I don't like feeling as if I need people around me. I've always considered myself as one of those people who don't believe in people. In fact I've always been one of the people who hate other people. Not just Mudbloods or Traitors. Just people in general.
It makes it easier to manipulate them to do what you want them to do. Besides it's something that only a Malfoy could master.

At least that's what my father used to say.

But then my father always did talk too much.

Sort of how I think too much.

I have a headache and this sore feeling in my throat so I'm getting slowly more irritable.

Which makes this sudden need to be around people even more odd.

I think that I'm too emotional.

I get angry all the time; I get too passionate during the oddest of times.

I've made a shitty Malfoy.

Though, when one sits to think about it, maybe the end result will be better than if I was a proper Malfoy.

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The Centre is rather pathetic. Sitting on a corner and beside what looks like what may have once been an apartment building. Not that much else but rats would live there. Yet I'm sure that there are kids like me in there. Hiding from the sun because one can tell they are either not ready to face the world or just plain don't fuckin' care too.

The graffiti is not at all complimentary.

I think that it would have a better impact if instead of saying "Fuck!" you could say "Cheese!"

Ok, so I'll admit the reason why I'm really here is to see if Muggles give enough of a fuck to get me something for my head.

And I'm lonely.

The latter is not one that I'm all that comfortable admitting.

Inside the little hovel there are tables that are so rickety I can't help but think that the Weasley's surely had better than this. But then I remember that if they did…

I need help if I can't think of a proper insult towards the Weasels.

"Oh, hello. Seen you around haven't I?" This boy is rather scary to me. He's a brunette but mousy. He has bruises underneath his eyes and they have this crazy glint to them. I've learned to tell the cocaine addicts who've come from rich families and are running away from home for the summer, and the one's that are true addicts that are the one's who are likely to come up to you and rip your stomach open for drugs.

I heard that from a man whose wife wanted to give me money.

Anyways this boy has the glint that the rich do. For some reason those ones give me the real creeps. Maybe because when they laugh it seems real, unlike the raspy bagpipe sound you hear from everyone else.

"I'm Tyson." A boy who thinks of a name that sounds American and like a muscle man. Wow. How original.

I nod and offer nothing myself.

Turning to one of the tables I survey the room once more.

Three tables. All shabby and falling apart. Mismatched chairs. And a dart board on the other side of the room. There is paper and pens lying around and I debate whether or not to go and get one.

"You know, if you're hungry if you go into the backroom they'll give you some soup and bread." I realize I don't like Tyson. Especially the fact that he's the only one in the room with me.

I get up to go into the room that Mouse Boy tells me to.

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By nightfall I've been fed and have used the first flush toilet in three weeks.

Strangely that makes me feel beyond content.

I've looked at myself in the mirror and seen the face of death. But when I look around the room to the other homeless and depraved I realize that I'm not too bad. I've managed to keep myself from falling too low.

Yet at the same time we are the same.

My head aches. My throat hurts.

I think I may be becoming sick.