Harry in Greendale//h.s au

Chapter Eight

Harry

I had always admired perfection. It was the one thing my mother had taught me: she was the Queen of succumbing to the unrealistic standards everyone placed on her and expected me to do the same--that and self-loathing. 

But as I lay here, pathetic and hopeless, I knew I was anything but perfect. I was an insane mess. She would be so disappointed in me. It pained me to just imagine the way her cold eyes would look me up and down, her lips pursed as she shook her head in disgust.  Out of all the kids in the world, why would he have to be mine?

At home she painted on her face; stroke by stroke, product after product, until she was no longer my hollow-cheeked and pale, long-faced mother with pain etched into the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes from all the frowning she did, but a daughter of the golden age.

When I was young I thought that was how people were. They hid their emotions and personality behind a mask they had created from the aspects of people they thought were perfect: If they liked his smile, they'd imitate it. If they wanted to be as skinny as that girl, they'd try the latest diet pill. If they liked that man's hair, they'd get it cut and styled like that.

And whilst I was at Greendale I had learned that humans were the ugliest creatures who lived upon this Earth. They twisted and manipulated everything to suit their selfish fancies, and convinced themselves that they were doing it for the benefit of others.

Behind all the makeup and laughs and fake personalities lay animals capable of inflicting pain on one another for the sake of it.

We were all savages.

I moaned and groaned as I tossed and turned in my sleep.

This room was getting to me. The dull white walls and emptiness had forced me to reflect on my past. While it allowed me to remember all the good things I had buried away in my heart for the sake of my sanity--for I knew thinking about the day I met Rose would only cause the rise of Mrs Grimshaw and her minions and the downfall of a knight fighting off the darkness-- it also allowed all my flaws to rise to the surface.

There was one moment Ma and I had shared, standing in her wardrobe as she tried to find a pair of shoes to match her lipstick and nail polish, talking about who I should be and how and I should act, that stayed with me well into adolescence.

"Boys don't cry, Harry," she had said. A pair of burgundy heels were brought to her face and she observed it in the freshly wiped mirror. Not a single streak was to be seen. Her nose scrunched. "It's too dark, don't you think?"

"I suppose," I said. It was four o'clock and I had just arrived from school. My friends were waiting out on our lawn to play with the trains I bought. "Can I please go--"

"No," she said, sternly. "There's something I need to discuss with you."

The shoes had been returned to their position amongst the hundred other pairs and she placed her hands on the side of my arms.

I just wanted to go play with Tom and Michael.

"Your teacher told me you cried in class last week," she said.

I nodded but didn't understand what she was talking about. It wasn't bad to cry, was it?

"And that it happened often."

I had begun to slouch, my already large shirt extending well over my hands, and I huffed and puffed in the way that annoyed her so.

"People have begun talking," she said. Her hands ran over the crinkles in my collar and tugged on the hem of the shirt. "Don't slouch, Harry! See, this is why people talk about you."