silent and colourless | d.m. [✔]

01 | in which

IN WHICH,
there is a roof and some interaction with death.

-

Books are exceedingly
Heartbreaking things.

Until I was seven,
           I used to live in the world of books,
           I used to live in a happier world,
           I used to live in a world that
           I made up, to get away
           from the real world.

I didn't exist at all,
Till I was seven,
Yet I lived a happier life
than the one I lived
once I started existing.

In that made-up life,
There was
                    a beautiful princess
                    with golden hair and blue eyes,
                    and parents who loved her forever and ever,
                    and a knight to rescue her from danger after danger.

There were no
                             bullies,
                             lies,
                             hay fever,
                             spectacles,
                             — or anything real at all.

So,
One day,
I wanted to give up on 
existing at all.

And go back to living,
In my dreamland
Of books.

I went up to our house roof,
Just to see how Death felt,
How a life with no whispers or
                                                               mocking laughter,
Felt.

Can you imagine 
the beauty of it all?

I was looking down
At the world,
Admiring the fact that such
a beautiful world,
held such entirely selfish people
— how ironic.

And suddenly,
I was angry
                      at the universe,
                       at myself,
                       at humans,
For doing what they did
the best — existing.

A foot upon the railing,
I could feel Death;
Another foot coming up,
Death was sharpening its knife —
— and then arms held Death back.

 Two strong arms were pulling me backwards,
Off the railing of doom.

My apparent saviour was shouting, 

"What the hell, Rosier?
Why are you on the roof?"

A pause.

"Rosier?"

"Can't hear," I gesture to my ears —
that's right,
I'm deaf,
But I learnt to talk alright.

My parents could do
With a deaf child,
but not someone who was visibly
incapable of any kind of communication  —
they had a reputation to keep.

The lips move again, 
and although I focus,
I can't quite make out what they say.

I gesture to my ears again,
I can't read his lips either  —
they move too fast.

But I can see them,
plump and pink,
perfect as ever.

In fact,
his entire aura was one of
perfection,
and one entirely similar to that of
Draco Malfoy,
a family friend.

He bends down and 
grabs my notebook and
writes something into it  —
What're you doing up here, Rosier?
Get down immediately.

His handwriting was curved,
As complex to read as him,
A certain softness to the curves,
It was quiet when it
needed to be;
yet getting all the attention
it didn't want.

Hadwriting says
everything others don't
tell me —
but I think that's only
true for me.