He was indulged in one of his insane drunken furies again. Cauldrons were crashing all over the floor , the greasy contents sprawling heavily out of them. Furniture was flung over, broken pieces of wood slamming on the unstable walls, shattering the fragile windowpanes... The unbearable destructive banging seemed to be challenging the rumbling of the thunderstorm raging outside.
And yet, on he went with the tantrum, destroying what was left of this shallow shack of a house. Flashes of lightning showed glimpses of the state of this place. The dishes that used to lay unwashed, piling over the kitchen sink, were now broken to bits, scattering all over the kitchen floor. The filth, now adding up to the moldy mass that had managed to layer over the ages. Unmistakable stench of alcohol lingered in the air, and countless empty bottles could be seen everywhere.
My father, with his wild, matted hair and lifeless eyes that now blazed with the thirst for power, those yellow teeth and the husky breath that stank of liquor, the ungroomed, bulky body that showed no traces of humanity left inside, now turned around and lunged for me. As I knew he would.
I felt my senses numbing, and my head throbbed searingly. I could feel bruises forming all over my body, adding up to the sickening ones that hadn't yet managed to fade away from the last time this had happened. I could sense the floor being patterned with the splashes of my blood, mixed with the alcohol dripping from the bottle in his hand, and after bearing a final blow to my chest, I blacked out, being knocked unconscious.
It wasn't very unnatural for me, the heartless bashing. For the past ten years of my life, I'd had more than my fair share of it.
Sometimes, my mom would meet me in my delusional unconscious state. She would tell me that she would always be watching over me from the other side. She would hold my delicate little face in her warm palms, look me in the eyes, and tell me that it was going to be okay, that she loved me to bits, and that she wanted me to stay strong, hold on.
She would reassure me that she would always be there for me, no matter what. She would then kiss my forehead, whisper a lullaby into my ear and watch me fall back asleep. After a few hours, the morning lights would plunge me back to reality again, summoning me into this nightmare of a life. But... the memory of that dream would just about give me enough hope to keep pushing on.
If only my mother were alive... How I wished my life was as full of love as that of all those little children in the park... Those kids would come there, bursting with happiness, with their mothers who loved them more than anything else in this world, with their fathers who were always ready to protect them from whatever obstacle that might come along their way...
And... There I would crouch, behind the bushes in the park, watching those kids trot around happily, wondering why I couldn't have a normal, carefree, happy life like them.
Sometimes, I would try to approach those smiling kids, hoping against hope that they would include me in their merry little groups as well, let me be one of them. But, even at the sight of me coming anywhere near them, they would alarmingly look up, like deer caught in headlights, and run up to their parents, frightfully rambling about how that strange freak from across the valley just tried to approach them, with god knows what intention.
Me and my father... We didn't exactly have the most impressive reputation in the village. We lived in isolation, never attempting to socialize. Sure, things were different when my mother was alive. She was an absolute sweetheart, really popular among both the elders and youngsters alike. People couldn't help but... Well, be dazzled by her flawless aura. But now, with her gone, and my father constantly submerged in a drunken haze ,violent temper tantrums exploding in our unkempt house everyday, people looked down upon us, like the disgraceful dark spots on the flawless surface of the moon.
Some of them were even convinced that we performed unthinkable law abiding crimes for a living. I didn't blame them for thinking so disrespectfully about us. If I were in their place, I would probably be thinking the same way, too. No one in their right mind would ever guess about the heaviness of the responsibility that in reality rested upon my innocent shoulders. If only they knew how it was me, who had the worst share of the hasty conditions, how I was the one who was compelled to scrape a living out of pure labor and hard work...
If anything, these soul shattering situations were just another reason for me to numb-en my senses, to try to ignore this living hell that was life. It was unfair, and I felt more and more depressed about it everyday. As my father's attitude had cost me my reputation as well, I had no other choice than to start keeping to myself, ignoring my childish enthusiasm, wondering how it could possibly be this messed up.
But then I would tell myself, the people who underestimated me, the very ones who pretend to loathe me all the time, they were stupid muggles, who had no idea whatsoever about half the things the world keeps hidden. The wizarding world that exists in secret caution, those magical beasts that can snap you into pieces in less than a heartbeat... Yes, the secrets this world keeps hidden, they are of the most powerful content. Those muggles had no clue how insanely powerful spells can be, how if used properly, they can even destroy the world within fragments of seconds. That ancient magic, if mastered, can penetrate many layers of one's soul, and force out all its thoughts. Yes, you could even gain unnatural control over every single thing this world has to offer. But how could the muggles possibly know that?
Maybe my overly dominating and yet reasonable thinking was also one of the reasons why I always had to grow up alone. In other people's eyes, I was this strange boy with greasy black hair, and dark eyes that were as lifeless as the winter woods, those same ragged and baggy clothes that I would always be seen in... something in my mere personality seemed to make me look repulsive, threatening even. But over the years, I had managed to convince myself that as long as I kept on managing to look out for myself, how others thought about me didn't matter in the least.
Deep inside, all that I knew was that I couldn't afford to be shallow and simple minded like the rest of them, I was destined for greatness, and it was my responsibility to take matters into my own hands, and try to work hard, and contribute to the high intellect that I was born with.
But beneath that mask of repulse.. I, the kid who was hated, and even feared by everyone, was longing for company, starving for protection, desperate for someone to take care of me. Sure, intellect is important, but.. I couldn't help but feel miserable about all those dirty looks thrown at me everyday.
There wasn't a single soul who seemed to notice how lonely I really was, how sad and withered my soul really felt, how my bruise marks reminded me each and every day of the grief my life really contained... But nobody seemed to care about me enough to make me feel like I even deserved to be happy. There was nobody in this world that I could really call my own.
No matter how much I tried to ignore these emotions, no matter how many times I tried to convince myself that there is no love, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it, all these crushing emotions... they would always keep nagging at me on the back of my mind. But I kept all of them bundled up within the darkest corner of my heart, as I simply couldn't bear to unleash them; they were too deep and too consuming.
Maybe I would have been different, if my father weren't so delusional all the time. I cringed to think about how my father would react if I told him about my feelings, which felt lost all the time. 'You stupid scum, How dare you disrespect my honor? Speaking about your petty emotions when I'm in the middle of my ...' He would probably keep on rambling, while downing a bottle of liquor or two for that matter.
I often wondered what could possibly have happened to him, to make him so dependent upon his delusional world, what could possibly have convinced him that this virtual nightmare of a life was better than the reality of the outside world. But I never dared to ask him about that. I wasn't allowed to talk about my mother either, and I suspected that she had a lot to do with my father's sorrow. But... I had long since learnt to keep my suspicions to myself.