Secrets

Somewhere, he knew, the boy who lived was, well, living. Presumably, he was safe, well loved. Maybe he had a kitten named Astro. Perhaps he attended Shabbat services with his family on Fridays, followed by a traditional meal. As he grew up, of course, he would find out he was a wizard. Going off to school would complicate his life a little; his Bar Mitzvah would have to be postponed until summer.

That’s what you’d like to think happened to the boy who lived, isn’t it? You’d like to think that it was all speckled lemonade on a warm, summer evening, that the hardest thing he ever put up with was a baseball injury.

You’d be wrong, though, if you thought all of that.
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Harry groaned as he woke up. His entire body throbbed in pain. Instinctively, he stretched, only to hit his arms and legs up against the walls of his cramped space. He felt for his spectacles and tried to remember where he was. There were days that he didn’t know, mostly due to one too many blows to the head or to the nose. After thinking a moment, he realized that yes, he was still in his cupboard, and no, the light bulb was not going to turn on. Sighing, he fished for a lighter and lit a candle.

The warm light illuminated much. The cupboard was covered with relics of a lonely boy. Tattered sheets of paper containing poems covered the wall, a testament to his treatment here. Pictures he had drawn as child, hopelessly forgotten as life slowly progressed into torture. Once, he had been happy. Then, of course, he had wound up here, with the Durselys.

He ran a hand through his shaggy, rambunctious hair as he looked for his release. A tattered bag, made out of an old sock, contained what he was looking for. One concoction cooked over a candle with a spoon later, and Harry was feeling quite dandy. His muscles began to relax, his mind wandered. Then, the memories came back to him.

*
“But Uncle,” the boy whimpered, “I’ve done the dishes already.” His protests were not heard, as he was grabbed by his hair and slammed into the wall.

“I don’t care, boy,” Vernon growled, “you’ll do them again, until they’re spotless. You see this spot,” he asked, holding the boy’s nose up to the plate. “Being the stupid, lazy boy that you are, you neglected to clean this spot. Just think, Dudley could have eaten off of this plate.”
Vernon began to shake the boy, and then dragged him to the bathroom. Grabbing him by the hair, he forced Harry to stare at himself in the mirror.

“Look at you,” he yelled. “You’re hideous. An abomination to the human race.” His uncle seemed oblivious to the tears that were rolling down Harry’s gaunt cheeks and falling like raindrops onto the floor. Suddenly, however, Vernon threw a punch at Harry’s face, nearly knocking him to the floor.

“You’ll clean up the mess you made crying later, worthless boy. Now look in the fucking mirror before I decide to hit you again.” Hurriedly, Harry looked into the mirror. Had he not been in extreme duress, he might have noticed that he had large circles under his eyes, that his face was nearly skeletal. He might have even tried to do something about it. Now, however, it was all that he could do to hold back the tears to avoid being hit again.

“I want you to say it,” hissed Vernon. “Say it until you believe it, say it until you realize that you can’t possibly be worth anything.” When Harry merely stared at the mirror, Vernon slapped him and yelled.
Mumbling, Harry began. “I am worthless, I am stupid. No one could ever love a freak like me. I am lucky that anyone would ever put up with my oddity.”

“Louder,” hollered Vernon, hitting the boy again.

“I am worthless, I am stupid. No one could ever love a freak like me. I am lucky that anyone would ever put up with my oddity.”

“That’s better,” Vernon said, smirking viciously. “Now continue until I fetch you to prepare dinner.” He exited, locking Harry in the bathroom.

Harry knew better than to stop saying what his uncle had instructed him to say. He’d tried that once and wound up tied to a bed, raped, and without food for days. He also knew, however, ways to cope with what his uncle demanded of him. Yelling the phrase all the while, Harry opened the medicine cabinet and reached for a pair of scissors sitting on the shelf. Without ceremony, he rolled up his sleeve, and slashed at it with the scissors, a river of red coming forth. Suddenly, he felt a release. Although his body was under the control of someone else, his mind, his spirit had escaped. Although his mouth spoke the words, he no longer heard them.