Hurt

I've been lying in this bed for a while, now. Kinda getting sick of my very own smell - yucky, someone'd say, but I've learnt to like that. It's comfortable, it's safe. It tells me I'm still here, still solidly anchored to this world that I don't want to let go, that wraps me up like a cocoon.

I get up and turn on the radio that sits on the pembroke table, still tuned on that Muggle station you used to listen to all the time. What's it called? Ol' Time Classics, isn't it? You, you, you. Sodding idiot! Would you ever stop singing along all those crappy songs? They're all so depressing and gloomy, when not about some juvenile puppy love. A lad meets a girl, he dreams about her, they fall for each other, they're both oh so beautiful and their world turns pink.
A girl, Padfoot? There's never been a bloody girl, we both quite know that.

Oh, listen up. You used to be hooked on this track. By that old man, that famous singer, right?

"What have I become, my sweetest friend,
Everyone I know goes away, in the end."

The words hit me like a big pot of boiling water. They run down over my skin from the top of my head, like hot droplets of pain. Everyone did, in fact, go away. You, Prongs, Wormtail. Well, alright, we can maybe forget about the latter. Damn it, damn it! Why do I still get stuck on these hideous thoughts?

Uh, you've no idea. No clue absolutely. How it feels like, at night. When everything gets so real once again. Like swimming in an endless river of reality and dreams, I sometimes pretend nothing ever happened. As I feel those droplets burning on my hands, I'm not able to utter it out loud. That you've died. You're dead, but only in my mind. Only in that frozen frame of my memories, where it doesn't really hurt, for I can get some relief from pain just by fluttering my eyes closed and picturing your face.

Here, on a daily reality, it's way too difficult. Way too arduous. Staring at the teapot, skimming through the pages of the Prophet, looking at myself in the mirror - I don't think I'll ever manage this much. That day, that day you passed away (what a dainty way of rephrasing it -you would've murdered me, if I had said such a thing.), what a terrible yet lucid memory.

"And you could have it all, my empire of dirt.
I will let you down. I will make you hurt."

That's freaking right, old man. He could have it all. All this pain, all this torture. But he left. Kinda forever, and I don't think he'll ever come back. When I saw you Padfoot, when I saw you slipping through that veil, uh that was majestic. My very first instinct'd been trying to hold Harry back, trying to hold back his pain, as mine left me flabbergasted for a split second and then it exploded like a nuclear blast inside me. How much can a single man bear?

"Beneath the strains of time, the feelings disappear.
You are someone else, I am still right here."

The teakettle is whistling. I pour myself a cup. Sipping my tea slowly, I look out the kitchen window. The sky is still very grey, it seems to merge with the smoke coming out from the chimney cowls.

I take another sip.


I carry on.