Written for: QLFC Round 10
Team: Kenmare Kestrels
Position: Chaser 2 – write about a character's will
I interpreted 'will' to mean this definition of the word "will", since there are multiple: control deliberately exerted to do something or to restrain one's own impulses
(willpower)
Prompts:
(object) blanket
(object) television
(image) (Bold and the Beautiful: man kissing woman's hand)
Notes: I'm angry with this fic. Something – I won't tell you what – has sort of been equated with badness, which is untrue; but it's Dudley's truth, and I can't write it any other way. It would be unfair to the integrity of Dudley's character.
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Feel the Burn
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He hadn't watched this show before. It was too girly – something his mother would watch (had watched, no doubt) while delicately sniffling and dabbing at her face with a tissue. It was the sort of thing Piers would mock him for watching. But Piers wasn't here right now. And anyway, even if Piers did walk in on him watching The Bold and the Beautiful and consequently mocked Dudley, he'd just smash the other boy's pointy face in just like he did to that freak cousin of his. Simple. Easy.
There was a woman with short hair. Dudley didn't think it was right that her hair was so short – all women ought to have long hair. They were prettier like that. And she was wearing red. He decided that her tiny red dress made up for her boyish hair, just a little. There were slits cut into the dress, revealing flashes of skin, and he found himself oddly gratified by the sight. But what really captured his attention was the man, who'd drawn her hand up to his handsome face and his full lips and his glittering eyes. The man had muscles, alright – he was bloody built in a way that promised feline grace and strength. Dudley looked from the man's tall form to the woman in the oh-so-gratifying dress. That's what she wanted, wasn't it? She wanted the man with the muscles. She and her glorious tits wanted strength and confidence. The show was called The Bold and the Beautiful for a reason, wasn't it?
"Dudley, love," called Mum, "come and eat dinner."
"Yes, Mum," he said, and heaved himself off the couch. He stood there for a moment, opening and closing his podgy fists, before he tore his gaze away from the flab-free hand of the man on the television. "You can't trust the telly, anyway," he murmured, and waddled off to the kitchen for some proper food.
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The boy in the mirror was not an impressive sight. The boy in the mirror had chubby cheeks, but he wasn't a child anymore. The boy had fat stuck on his frame, and the fat jiggled and wobbled when he shifted. The fat collected like a wet blanket on his tummy – crinkled and heavy and warm. He patted his belly. Stared some more. The eyes that stared back at him were pale under the glaring fluorescent light of the bathroom. He shook his head. "Can't trust lighting like this," he decided, and climbed into the shower. This sort of pale lighting left everyone looking washed-out, sick, and entirely unattractive.
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His dad raised a fist and brought it crashing down onto the table. His mustache wobbled wildly. "I've had it up to here!" he roared. "That freak keeps crying out in his sleep and it's driving me mad. I won't have it. I won't have it under my roof. I need my sleep, bloody hell."
His mum reached a hand over and petted Vernon soothingly. "I'll sort him out, dear. This stress isn't good for you. Remember what the doctor said," she cautioned. "Now, how about some more bacon?"
Vernon sunk into grumbles and muffled complaints and greasy bacon like he'd done it all his life.
But Dudley wasn't watching his father. He was remembering that momentary flash of fear that had darted across his mum's face when his dad had hit the table. The sight of that fear left him uncertain and confused. It was gone now, sure – but it had existed.
"Eat your food, Duddy," his mum ordered. "You're a growing boy."
Where was the freak? Freaks ate. Freaks grew.
Dudley looked down. Stabbed his bacon with a fork. Brought it to his mouth. Shoved it in. Chewed. Swallowed. Repeated.
Freaks were freaks. They didn't deserve bacon.
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"Don't insult my mum ever again," the freak had commanded, as if he had any right to command – and then he'd threatened Dudley with his magic, because the freak thought he could do whatever he wanted … and now … now … the night air was freezing. It was absolutely freezing. "Blimey," he hissed.
And then he stopped hissing, because it was really quite cold, and because it was dark, and he was scared. The freak was saying something, he thought, but he didn't try to interpret the nonsense.
Was this a sudden cold front? Dudley released a breath. He didn't feel well. He was feeling like he had last night, when he'd looked into the mirror and the mirror had looked back at him – unsettled, accusing … and even betrayed, maybe. And he was feeling like he had this morning, when that flash of fear had danced so easily and naturally across his mum's face.
But it was more than that: he was feeling the same way he'd felt when the freak had shoved a wand in his face in righteous fury – inadequate, weak, and useless.
There was more – more feelings, shoving their way into his reluctant attention. There was a lack of happiness – a lack of light – a lack of confidence.
He was so cold. So sad. So pathetic, his mind said. So fat. Lazy. Ugly. So bloody useless. He tried to move and realized he was on the floor. When had he decided to lay down? He couldn't concentrate. He was so cold. He just …
… wanted to die, his mind whispered. And then it wasn't whispering. It was yelling. Saying 'enough'. Saying 'no more'. He sunk deeper into himself.
Something that was fast and that blazed white danced over him – he could see it even with his eyelids closed. And then that cold and that pain receded, just a bit … then just a bit more … but he was tired …
He couldn't think. He wanted to sleep for hours and hours and hours and maybe never wake up again.
There were more noises. "Dementors," someone said – was that a woman? It didn't matter.
"Come on," someone said, and grabbed him.
That 'someone' was the freak. He didn't even care.
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It must have been hours before he properly roused and felt human again. The first thing he did was shower. He turned the water on at full blast and made sure the temperature was hot enough to hurt, but not burn. Dudley stripped achingly slowly. The last thing to go were his boxers. Then in he went, under that water, as if it could wash away the memories of the night – as if it could wash away the pain and the guilt and the sadness.
As if … it could wash away … Dudley.
He spent too long in the shower, and when he climbed out everything was steamy. The fluorescent lights lit up the steam attractively, turning the bathroom into a calm, mysterious place. Out of habit, his gaze flicked to the mirror as he slowly dried his hair with a small towel. He couldn't see himself. The steam covered the mirror. He leaned forward and impulsively swiped a hand across the mirror. It was cool to the touch and small droplets of water formed wherever he swiped.
His eyes stared back at him. He looked empty.
Abruptly, he felt very nauseous, and drew back. The eyes that stared at him were too open and vulnerable to be his. Those eyes kept reminding him of memories – his mother's flinch at breakfast; the freak's strength and confidence; Piers' fear of Dudley's fists but also his simultaneous disdain; the little girl crying after he'd stolen her money; his teacher's face at his grades; the muscled man in The Bold and the Beautiful; the cold air from a few hours earlier …
He closed his eyes. He had never felt … this … whatever this was … so strongly before. He had never regretted wiping steam off a mirror as much as he did now. He had never regretted himself as much as he did tonight – regretted the fact that his overweight self used up extra space than a skinny person would. But more than that: he regretted the things he'd said and done, as fucking ridiculous as that sounded. Could a few minutes with … with … what had his cousin called them? Dementors? ... do this to him? Or had these thoughts always been there? Maybe they had. He just kept ignoring them. He was good at ignoring things.
He didn't feel the same. He opened his eyes. His fat belly wobbled as he dried off his chest. It wobbled like it always did – just like a wet blanket curled up on his stomach, because that's exactly what it was: it was his security blanket. It was physical proof of something, and he couldn't say exactly what that something was – maybe because he wasn't bright enough.
But that something was his mum's sweet smile as she said, "Eat up! You're a growing boy," and his dad's look of approval as he crowed, "You're my son, for sure."
Panic clawed at his chest. He couldn't breathe. You're my son. You are my son. You are just like me.
The television couldn't be trusted, sure. But where there was smoke, there was fire. The fluorescent lights were unflattering, of course, but they did not have as much power over his appearance as he often pretended.
"I'll … I'll start running, or something," he whispered to his reflection, and it whispered the same words back to him. "Box, maybe." He would do this. He would. He could. And he wouldn't change because he was fat. He would change because he was his father's son in many ways – too many ways.
The fatness was a warm blanket. And he had felt true coldness tonight.
It was time to cast off the heat.