Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Chapter 7

((Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story except for Alexandra. I wish the twins were mine, but we can't all get what we wish for, can we? Because if we did, this world would have an unlimited supply of chocolate pudding and everyone would skip around singing "Like a Virgin." But I digress. Sorry for the wait, but I haven't been getting reviews. Enjoy Chapter 7!))

It was lunch time and I had managed to get a date… with Damon. I was leaving my last class before lunch (potions) in a very angry mood. Professor Snape already decided that I am a disrespectful American girl with only air floating around in my head. Fred and George decided that they didn't want to go to potions on that particular date, and essentially left me for dead. Was I supposed to know Snape was a dick? Of course I was. So when nobody warned me I decided it was a good idea to ask him if his class was behind me so I can possibly move up a level, got insulted several times and was sent back to my seat. Faaaaaantastic. I skulked over to the Gryffindor table, away from the twins. I fumed silently as I piled some potatoes on my plate.

"What are you doing over here?" a voice teased in my ear.

"Definitely not eating, if that's what you mean," I snapped back. The voice slid in between me and a startled looking first year. The voice had flaming red hair.

"Aww, what's wrong Alex? Did you get rejected in your futile attempt to beat me?" Fred asked.

"Yes, that is exactly what happened. So if you don't mind, would you leave me alone so I can wallow in my self pity?" His brow furrowed.

"Y'know, Alex? You're really confusing sometimes." Simply shaking my head, I stood up and left the Great Hall. I wandered around the nearly empty corridors, thinking to myself silently. Something didn't feel right to me. It felt empty, as if I were missing something. I, unfortunately, couldn't place my finger on what that something was. Assuming it was my hormones, I shrugged off the feeling as I turned and began to head back to the Great Hall. A confused looking red head emerged from another corridor as I approached, and he looked rather relieved to see me.

"Alex," he exhaled. "I was afraid you would get lost. You run off a lot, don't you?"

"You don't need to worry about me, Fred," I answered truthfully.

"It's George," he mused, grinning.

"Damn. I usually guess right."

"So what's been going on? Are you okay? Is it your…?" he inquired, alluding to my PTSD.

"No, it's nothing to do with my PTSD. I'm fine," I said with a reassuring smile. "Really."

"I was going to say 'Your time of the month,' but okay. That's good." An involuntary snort of laughter escaped my body, but I quickly composed myself.

"I'm okay in that department as well. Care to show me where Transfiguration is?"

"Not particularly. But I suppose I will anyways," he said with a sigh.

"You're such a drama queen," I giggled as he led me up some stairs.

"I resent that," he said with the scowl. "You're the drama queen. Passing out in the train, screaming about your brother, telling off Trelawney, chopping your hair off, making a bet with Fred…."

"Okay, okay. Point taken."

"Fred's really intrigued by you, y'know? You sort of make no sense and we can't put our fingers on why," explained George as we turned left down another long hallway.

"I wish I could explain why. I honestly don't completely understand myself, either." A lump began to form in my throat. "You'd be surprised by some of the shit that goes on in my head."

"Like what?" he asked as we stopped in front of one of the classrooms.

"Like the next attack I'm planning. Fred kept going on about being a player so I'm going to mail him a giant bra filled with rocks," I answered with a playful smile, but behind it was a painful jolt of sorrow. I hated myself for lying, and I hated how quickly the bad feelings could come and go.

"I'm going to ignore the fact that I have no idea what a player is," replied George, "and use potatoes instead."

"Why?" I laughed.

"It's funny?" he responded, looking slightly confused and very amused.

"Potatoes are random, and smoked sausage is funny. Tsk, tsk, I thought you'd know better."

"Oh, well excuse me."

"You're excused," I answered, nodding my approval. He maintained eye contact with me for a couple of seconds. Feeling awkward, I dropped my gaze to my shoes. I peeked up again to see him examining me still, smiling crookedly.

"What?" I giggled uncomfortably. He took a deep breath and pushed my bangs out of my eyes. He leaned forward slightly, and into my ear he breathed,

"I really am Fred."

I could feel my cheeks blazing as the bell conveniently rang. I ducked under his arm and entered the classroom in time to see Professor McGonagall transform into a cat.

"Holy-!" I exclaimed, barely able to hold down the curse words that were threatening to escape my mouth. She gave me a stern look, so I made my way to the front of the room and sat down. Fred followed.

"You aren't going to say anything?" he teased as he sat next to me.

"No need to," I said stiffly.

"Aww, it's funny. You know it is."

"Ha ha."

"And you aren't going to say anything about how Professor McGonagall turned into a cat?"

"No need to," I answered again, my voice extremely strained.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked, leaning in towards me again.

"Define 'mad'." Not wanting to be near him, I started to scoot away as far as I could. He tilted himself even closer and pouted at me. He almost looked, dare I say it, adorable.

"You are mad at me, aren't you?" he said in a whiny, baby talk sort of way.

"Would you just leave me alone? It's not funny," I snapped, my eyes flashing dangerously. Shock seemed to wave across every inch of his body. His lips parted slightly as he leaned back towards his own desk. More and more students began to enter the room, so I didn't feel the need to explain myself to Fred.

"Hey you two. Where did you run off to?" asked George when he saw us.

"Nowhere," said Fred blankly. To my dismay, a jolt of guilt washed across me. He eyed us warily, and then sat at Fred's other side. Lee Jordan followed. George and Fred whispered to each other quietly, heads bowed. They occasionally would look up at me, and then continued on. I hated knowing that they were talking about me and there was nothing I could do about it. Once the room was nearly filled, Professor McGonagall transformed back, gaining a very bored sounded round of applause. She "humpfed" and straightened her robes before beginning. She was giving a lecture that I didn't feel like listening to, and once she turned around a piece of parchment was slipped onto my desk.

It read: Meet me in front of the kitchens before dinner so we can talk?

I replied: Fine. See you then.

After the time and place was set, there was no need to talk to him during class. Our next, and last, class was A History of Magic. I didn't sit near them, but during class I could still hear them murmuring to each other.

"You must have done something, mate," said Lee quietly.

"Nothing too bad," admitted Fred. The professor (I didn't bother learning his name) glared at the group, and in a painful monotone he said, "Would the group of you stop talking, and listen." They straightened up and nodded. Fred caught my eye momentarily and looked away quickly. I pulled out some parchment and began to write, not having anything else to do. It wasn't particularly good writing, it wasn't a story, and it wasn't some tragically beautiful love poem. I just wrote. I wrote about thoughts, I wrote about emotions, I made up random characters that I could possibly write about later, I wrote about who I am. Or rather, I wrote about who I wanted to be. I want to be the perfect, beautiful, smart, and funny girl that I attempt to be when meeting new people. I wish I was secure, I wish I had really gotten over my brother's death and could smile about it. I wrote about how I felt as if I were trapped inside an Iron Maiden. Smiling and beautiful on the outside, but in reality I am a pierced and bleeding mass of flesh trying to avoid the iron spikes that the lie has created. As the time passed, the darker and more real my words became.

I am not real. I am not okay. And I never will be genuine or happy until I learn to open up. Opening up is not saying "Oh, my brother died, I have PTSD and I'm okay now!" Opening up would be me saying "MY FUCKING BROTHER DIED, I'M CRAZY AND HAD TO STAY IN A LOONY BIN, AND SOMETIMES I WISH I WERE DEAD, TOO! I HATE MYSELF FOR IT!" Biting my bottom lip, I angrily scratched the last two words I could fit on the parchment: No more.

No more lies, no more infuriating perfection, no more fake smiles. I will be me, and even if that means not everyone likes me, I will be okay.