'And he's the best fuck that ever walked. He's beautiful - rich, in money and everything else; he's a rockstar to boot, trapped in the body of a fighter. And how he fought; at a state of turmoil with himself - somewhere inside his soul that only she...
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'the blue trellised lights gave him an unusual aura like a halo or something - made him 8 feet or taller i remember just thinking he looked out of his body but definitely like a God on stage'
The final evening of Marge's stay brought a new sense of deliberation - it seemed a cause to celebrate, Harry and I could finally take a breath of relief as Petunia, ever the hospitable housewife, brought out the alcohol and an assortment of meals that just the sound of made me feel queasy. Marge had been incessantly drinking every day since her arrival and would start before lunchtime, leaving her well and truly drunk by the evening. Her face had gained a pink tinge to it, and she seemed as addicted to the rum as the rumours circling at the dinner table on this August evening that had as much fortitude like that of a shattered bottle of wine.
Marge's aggressiveness - heightened by alcohol consumption - caused her words to elevate in despondency, desperation and disparagement. But as the rum she relied so heavily upon, it was clear something was wrong with her, her eyes more woeful than usual. The little pity I had remaining for the woman had run dry; Marge's morose look was hardly of concern to me, especially if it kept her quiet and us out of conflict.
"Pardon me. But I do like to see a healthy-sized boy," she spoke scratchily, her voice infected by the molasses residue in the rum. "You'll be a proper-sized man, Dudders, just like your father!" Dudley was far from healthy, and his weight had been a great source of concern for those around him. His parent's neglect had taken its toll over every aspect of his life, Petunia and Vernon did all they could to deny his declining health, but it was evident to anyone that the boy was deteriorating rapidly.
"Now, this one here --" Her attention turned to Harry, but not before her beady eyes lingered over me for a brief moment with a small glisten to them: her examination ended when she returned her unforgiving glare upon him, "Looks like a weak, mean dog." "You see Petunia, it all comes down to blood. Bad blood. Now, I'm saying nothing against your family, dear." -- she patted Petunia's spindly hand with her elephant-sized one, "but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best of families, and then she ran off with some deadbeat. She got pregnant far too young - but no offence to you, Hera,"
I had never felt as fragile as I had at that moment, who would've thought I'd be built up from the ground existing by means of others who took turns in living vicariously through me; sucking the soul and paradise from my body, the little good and golden I had left in me being removed as I had nothing left to give. "It seems you've managed to stray from that life. But your brother..." her mouth clicked obnoxiously, "Well, it's safe to say we all know how he's going to end up!"
