the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 84: Christmas, 1977

No one knows what it's like,
To be the bad man;
To be the sad man,
Behind blue eyes;

No one knows what it's like,
To be hated;
To be fated,
To telling only lies;

But my dreams, they aren't as empty,
As my conscience seems to be;
I have hours, only lonely,
My love is vengeance that's never free... 

- "Behind Blue Eyes" The Who, 1977

If you'd have asked, nine times out of ten, Remus Lupin would've told you that he did not dream. This was a lie of course, because everyone had dreams—Remus just barely remembered his. Every morning he woke up with the wisps of the night's recital slipping away into the forgotten void, and he would go about his day thinking he had not dreamed at all. And really, this was how he preferred it. He had no interest in imagining that he could fly, or that he'd lost all of his teeth at once, or woken up in a room full of people completely starkers. In his later years, it'd even become a point of pride not to dream.

But you know what they say, the more you chase a high, the harder it is to achieve.

The memories came all at once as they tended to, tugged to the surface on an invisible line made of sickness and drugs. It was as though admitting his deepest secret had drawn them forth like an angry mob to the hanging. They came to him in night visions—cruel and lonely dreams built to fuck with his head. On those nights, he might have preferred the impossible. He'd have taken any hideous monster or man-made horror over the trudged up memories of his tiny, helpless self. It was like a trick—he was getting pranked by his own brain and he couldn't even find the words to describe it afterwards. He simply woke up, memories made of the shape of his shirt buttons or the smell of a cooked meal dancing behind his eyes. Going from darkness to light as though he were leaving the theatre of a film without any meaning.

Just as a sad, sad film.

* * *

"Here, darling, open this one next. 'To Remus, love Mummy and Daddy'."

He took the gift eagerly. His fingers were small and round. Young, then. Inside the wrapped box he found a pair of gloves, made from hairsheep leather and fitted especially for those tiny fingers. He tried them on, mostly to make his mother happy, but when Hope slid the next present toward him, Remus quickly tossed the gloves back into their box to be forgotten.

"This one is from Mummy," she grinned. It was a fully transistorised record player, complete in his own little plastic carrying case.

"It's got five records even," Hope preened, pointing to the outside of the box; The Four Seasons, Petula Clark, Herman's Hermits, Peter and Gordan, and yes!—The Beatles.

"He's never going to sleep now. He'll be listening to that thing all night," Lyall said, sitting behind them in one of the salon's expensive carven armchairs. He had a glass of sherry in one hand. Remus stared at it, and the glass winked at him in all the colours of the glittering Christmas tree.

"Music is enriching," said Hope, as Remus forwent the winking glass and began tearing into the turntable's box. She was sat on the rug beside him, hands folded neatly in her lap like a true lady. She looked pretty too, with her hair and makeup all done-up despite the early hour. It was astonishing, considering she'd only left the hospital the week before. Remus couldn't remember how he knew that.

Parallel to his wife, Lyall wore well-fitted slacks and a dress shirt, suited like he was ready for a day in the office rather than a holiday off. He was handsome too. Remus hoped he'd be handsome like that one day. For now all he had to wear were pyjamas with cowboys on them. After all, it was Christmas morning and he was only nine. Nine... It was to be expected.