Dangling Off The Edge

Free Falling

Though he should be used to it by now, he really isn't. All of this chaos, it's just- He doesn't know how to describe it. All he can say is, I don't want this. Why me? Out of all the people in the world, why me? There's nothing special about me in particular.

Harry, hasn't been doing so well you see. All his thoughts race, and he's still not used to being famous. He still feels like he's in a monochrome world, and he can see himself walking. He walks and walks, but nobody sees him. The people are pure black, no features, but blurry around the edges of their silhouettes.

It drives him crazy. "Look! It's Harry Potter!" "Is that- Oh My God it is!" Everyone is always talking about HIM. Why Him? When someone tries getting closer to him, he changes the subject, so it's kinda his fault.  He can't be seen like anyone else, Can he? He can't explain why, or how, or- Anything! It frustrates him.

All that attention makes him nervous, and he keeps being reminded of how they don't care. They just want to use them and they don't care. Over and over. He has trouble breathing in crowds, too little oxygen he guesses. He gets hot and he feels his gut sink. He's constantly reminded of his size, and how he looks. " He's so small!" "Did he even try to brush his hair?" He swears everyone's always looking at him. He can't tell anyone though, cause they'll call him self-absorbed.

Sometimes, when he can, he'll go to the empty Quidditch court. He'll fly his broom around a bit, then he'll sit sideways on his broom, and swing upside down. He'll let himself dangle and just be. Alone, and there. He feels safer that way, upside down with only his legs to support him, and stop him from plummeting to the ground. The control he has over his own life thrills him. He could let go if he wanted, could get down if he wanted, he could do what he wanted without fate or other people stopping him. He could be here for hours, he could just sit and waste away. It clears his head and keeps him calm. It makes him happy-Ish.

For as long as he could remember, he's always felt empty. He feels lonely and useless, he's stupid and ugly, and people don't even have to tell him that, he just knows. He knows that they think of him like that. He can see it in the way they look at him, they cover their thoughts with cement. But he has x-ray vision. He knows what they're thinking, " This is it? This is the boy who lived?" They don't have to tell him, the voices already do.