Library Girls

Hogwarts without him

I like to think of it as an art. Pretending to be fine. It's a science to a degree too I suppose.
A strategy of not letting anyone catch me crying. A plan as to when and where it's safe to breakdown. But I guess you know it doesn't work like that. You just catch the scent of a wood-fire or the glance of a quidditch match and it brings back all the memories.
It was a game of smiles when my mum picked me up. She hugged me and kissed me while I stood there numb except to the feeling of her lips on my hair and her hands on my arms.
I promised I was okay.
I promised.

I thought maybe if I promised it to her I could promise it to myself too. She's basically me but twenty-eight years older.
But it didn't quite work like that.
I took on the responsibilities of my siblings while she worked. I took them to grandma's when the house was too messy and left them there to clean. I made dinner each night, I put them to bed with stories.  I kissed their heads when they cried and I played games around the house with them. And each night, I microwaved Mum's dinner, poured her a glass of wine and put on her telly show for her before I went to bed.
And then I could be alone. I used to go up to my room and get dressed until I could feel the comfort of pyjamas on my body.  I cleaned, in the aspect of cleaning my life up and sweeping my mind of thoughts I didn't like. I brushed my teeth until all I could taste was mint and washed my face until I felt clean from the memories. I tied my hair up until I forgot I was human. And I climbed out of the window and sat on the roof.

Sometimes I didn't even cry. Sometimes I just let the worst of it crush my heart. Those were the worst nights. They weighed on me until I felt I would splinter and crack into pieces never to be put back together. An inescapable sorrow that I couldn't release, but swelled until the sky seemed to scream at me.
And sometimes I did cry. And scream. And throw rocks into the pond below. And wreck my room. In the rage and unfairness of it all. I would feel like it could never just get better. And then I would sleep with the tears still on my cheeks. And I would wake the next morning to a room absolutely torn apart and the tap of Daisy on my door, asking me when breakfast was. And the smile I injected onto my face each morning already tattooed onto my lips with the art of fine-ness faked in each pore of my body.