And even the birds have stopped singing...
For when all the world's malice is endured by these handfuls of teenagers, the hush of sorrow settles in.
Carly Wren Davies is her parents' boxing bag and the very reason they need one in the first place...
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OVER TIME, one earns the practical ability to tune out the dialogues spoken around them. And the comments whispered, the speculations regarding oneself that are being spread wide, end up losing their frosting bite. Notwithstanding, when your own friends, the very few people you reach your hand toward in trust, abstain from confronting you straightforwardly, you feel urged to retract that hand and crouch into an isolated ball, not wanting to be stabbed in the back again.
You notice what they are telling, and that they appear distraught when discussing your state. The most you can do is attempt to deflect your attention from the fact that your ear canals are soaking up every single phrase. They transmit through your industrious brain much like a molecule of glucose through a membrane that is supposed to hinder it from passing. All the laws of science tear and the statements impale your senses.
Quite often when she wastes her hours lonely, Carly tosses and turns as she mulls about infinite solitude. The girl captures herself ruminating about days when she did not have a singular friend by her side. The sense of shame, however, knocks her like a sledgehammer, into the pit of her abdomen. For, her saviors are not a liability, but a gift.
And that gift in form of humanity is consistently deciding not to include her in discussions concerning herself. Quite often she thanks the three for that, but on some other occasions moral outrage heats up within her as in a witch's cauldron.
"She declined to discuss it, Theo. I will not compel her to speak to me!" Pansy yells in a hushed tone, despair clinging to her every feature.
"That is not what I am asking. But I'm worried." Theo's glance shifts from Pansy, to Carly, the latter of whom is perched on top of the leather sofa inside the Slytherin common room.
"Oh, and I'm not? Even after I woke her up, she wailed and shuddered maniacally. I get the impression that she reflects all of this repetitively as soon as she shuts her eyes." Tears sting the brunette's eyes as she words her ideas. Every syllable is replete with horror, for, regardless of how hard she pleads for it not to be true, she realizes that on nights such as these, Carly must enter a time machine.
Silence. Merely the rubbing of skin on cloth can be perceived as Theodore attempts to soothe an in concern sinking Pansy. He must compel himself not to hurry toward Carly and draw her into a bone-crushing embrace if only to reassure her of his presence.
Carly plays chess with herself. The nightmare is still twitching down her vertebrae. But Pansy is right; she does not want to discuss it. Her night terrors pierce her core. And they persist. The withdrawal of that blade would consequence in a lethal blood flow. And she would never dare crumble to bits in front of her friends.
"I just don't know what to do anymore," sobs Pansy.
Carly inflicts such emotional pain on the few people who genuinely care about her well-being that she sometimes chooses to believe she is justly the victim of any and every conceivable hurt. She detests herself for the tears that rush down Pansy's cheeks, and she wishes to do nothing more than detach herself. But as selfish as the girl is, she never pursues this wish.
