She sat up abruptly, throwing the white sheets off of her body as she did so, new and fresh tears brimming her eyes at the dream she'd had. The girl then blinked rapidly, successfully ridding the droplets before they had a chance to fall onto the covers.
Another nightmare.
This one was of her mother sneering at her, and her father growling before informing her that they never loved her, that they had wanted nothing more than to make her suffer because she deserved it. They continuously hurt her when she wouldn't speak.
Melaina shuddered, trying not to imagine what that would have felt like had it been in reality.
The days flew by so quickly for one Remus Lupin, and for that he was utterly grateful. He couldn't mask his elation at entertaining even the mere indulgence of attending one of the most prestigious schools out there, Hogwarts.
When his father had discovered the boy's acceptance letter, Lyall Lupin was uncharacteristically giddy for the month prior to when school started back up again. Hope had had a similar reaction, though she didn't completely understand its significance due to the fact that she didn't use magic. She wished him well, telling him how proud she and Lyall were of him, and then retreated back to the kitchen where she was in the process of cooking chicken.
It had been such a touching moment for the eleven-year-old, experiencing the full extent of his parents' combined love.
"Now, son," Lyall had begun one evening, peering at Remus with an amused glint in his eye. "I honestly do not care about the House you are put into—as long as you make an effort to not get into Slytherin," he'd added, nudging the younger playfully.
Remus had grinned, and pushed his father back with a laugh. "Yeah . . . Alright, Dad. Promise."
Everything had gotten much worse since she'd received it. People wouldn't ignore her anymore, as the majority had used to do; no, they would hurt her, torment her, threaten her, and all around make her feel terrible about herself, about existing.
Hellen had taken to referring to her a lot as her playmate, which was a term she had come to really dread and loathe—exactly like everything else in her pitiful excuse for a life, as one of the boys had called it only that last depressing Thursday.
Never had she felt so alone before.
Sure, the girl had reflected on everything that had happened many a time in the past. She had always felt that dull ache in her chest, originating from where she suspected her heart was located; she used to cry herself to sleep every night without fail as a child.
Now, though, it was as if she had only truly realized that she had nobody at all, not one person that cared enough to keep the girl from suffering any further.
Her parents were gone, and, for all she knew, dead.
She was stuck in a stupid orphanage, and she had no friends. No friends. None whatsoever.
The phrase repeated itself in her mind, only resulting in dragging down her self-confidence even more. My parents are gone. I've got nobody to turn to.
I'm worthless.
Why haven't they gotten rid of me already?
It was these thoughts, her hate for herself, that led to her doing it. Doing the thing she had once promised herself she wouldn't do—ever. The thing she instantly regretted.
Her eyes clouded with defiance and doubt, she turned the corner and crept down the stairs on nimble feet. Her soundless steps and agile movement allowed her to race back to her room unnoticed, where she then threw the door—the chipping, painted yellow door—closed with her lithe and starved body.
A rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins, caused by a sudden wave of anxiety and fear, along with the odd but strong feelings of resignation yet determination.
Swallowing, she drew the object in her left hand nearer to her right; both were shaking furiously as she held it up.
It inched closer, closer, closer still.
As she was about to use it, she stopped—and an emotion flickered in her eyes. Was it surprise? Shock?
Astonishment?
She shook her head slowly, as though having an inner debate and ultimately losing herself even further. Seemingly without another thought, she gathered her remaining courage and traced a thin line over her wrist.
Blood spilled out and a slight pain caused her to wince, but it paled in comparison to the pure relief she felt from that simple action. The cold blade against her skin made her shiver in anticipation, as she found herself wanting to understand the alien feelings more.
As she was about to plunge it in again, deeper this time, a timid voice in her head broke her out of the trance-like state she had fallen into.
What am I doing to myself?
That brought her back to reality; the girl took one look at the situation, at the small blood-stained kitchen knife gripped in her hand fiercely, at the gash she herself had caused.
No more did she feel at peace with herself, but a storm brewed inside her in its stead. She gasped, horrified, and nearly dropped it upon her foot—lashing out when it clattered to the ground, and then scrambling away from it with a speed even she herself could not comprehend.
A broken Melaina sat in the corner of her room, curled into a pitiful ball; her body racked with sobs, yet she never once made a sound.
She was repulsed. Completely, utterly disgusted—at herself, to boot. Congratulations, Melaina, she thought, sarcasm and bitterness dripping venomously from the tone her mind had taken. Now I hate myself, even more than I had before. Good going, me.
The truth was that she had never wanted to cut herself. She didn't want to permanently scar herself, to have a constant reminder that what she had done was stupid and selfish. She wasn't a coward, however, and even though she had done something she didn't truly want, she was not going to harm herself anymore over it.
Suicide isn't an option, she told herself firmly. It really shouldn't have been one in the first place. I don't deserve it. I've got it off easy compared to many others.
For the rest of the summer, she sank into a depression, guilt mercilessly gnawing away at her insides.
Remus grinned, staring at his calendar. The words Trip to Diagon Alley could be read easily, the print neatly scrawled in one of the small boxes separating the dates.
"Today's the day I go pick up my supplies," he mused, seemingly to no one in particular. "I hope I meet someone nice—it'd do good to have some friends . . ."
"Did somebody say my name?" Hope smiled, gently rapping on the door to her son's room before gracefully stepping inside.
Remus looked up. "Mum," he greeted, smiling.
She glanced at him, a smile dancing across her lips. "You all ready, dear?"
"More than ever," he replied quickly, immediately finding a marker in his tidy room before slipping it into the current book he was paging through.
He shut the novel—Hope noticed the title read A Face Like Glass by FrancesHardinge—and gazed at her lovingly.
"Let's go, Rem," she said, grasping his arm and leading him down the stairs.
"Let's," the boy agreed, allowing her to guide him.
After insisting that Melaina—that ungrateful hag—come and eat practically every day, to no reaction, Ms. Hughes finally gave up.
This time, however, she had a better reason than for the girl to not waste her life in her room because she was anorexic or whatever the hell was wrong with her.
"Melaina! Get your fat ass out of there, because today's the last day I will let you get your Goddamned shit for that freak school!"
Slowly, almost robotically, the brunette exited the safety of her room.
She looked and felt despicable; her once beautiful, glossy, dark-chestnut hair was dirty and positively hideous, not having been brushed in a long while.
She appeared as though she had gotten no sleep at all, which was true.
The girl's eyes were bloodshot, and they conveyed inescapable pain and so much self-loathing. Her right was a soft blue, and her left was a coffee-brown, due to her heterochromia iridis.
She was dressed in torn, navy-blue skinny jeans; a dirty, ruffled, violet tank-top; and a tattered, cropped, black cardigan. Old, heeled, dark-brown boots that reached just below her kneecaps were on her feet, her pant-legs tucked in.
The girl shook her head, her left hand held to her face. "Fine," she groaned, too done with the world to argue about anything anymore. "Just let me fix my hair up."
Ms. Hughes eyed her disapprovingly. "Yes, that would be ideal," she snapped. "Very well; move along now. Can't have you looking like a homeless person now, can we? Despite the fact that you are one, you still live at this orphanage, and we cannot have you out in the public looking like that."
By that time, though, Melaina had already gone and returned, as she did not have the energy to listen to the woman's rant.
"Yes, now, are you done? Because I'd like to get my school supplies sooner rather than later."