InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "No mattr wher u go, ther u r."

Seamus Finnigan (openbottle) wrote in finnigans_rpg,
@ 2015-05-03 09:38:00

Entry tags:

character: dean thomas, character: gwenog jones, character: seamus finnigan, character: susan bones, character: tristan travers, journal: battlescars

Battlescars: Veterans
Who: Open to anyone willing to sign a confidentiality agreement
What: Battlescars meeting
Where: Finnigan's, The Den
When: Sunday 3rd May
Rating: SFW for now

"Welcome," Seamus said, standing behind his seat in the circle after the door had closed. There was a bigger crowd than usual, which he'd expected, and though he'd explained the confidentiality agreement to anyone he didn't recognise as a regular attendee, he still started off with a speech about Battlescars, its history and its rules - that many people in the room had heard nearly word-for-word before. "Today's going to be a little bit different," he said. "I asked people to write in with their memories of the Battle, or their feelings or thoughts. I've had quite a few people do that, and I've chosen three to read. After that, I'll open up the floor for anyone else to read something they've brought, and we'll finish with half an hour or so just of general discussion for anything anyone wants to say." He sat down, the room even more hushed than it usually was, and picked up a journal from the floor by his chair. It looked like any of the normal journals, except that the cover was soft grey instead of shades of brown.

"All three entries I've chosen came in anonymously," he said - flipping the journal open to the right page and taking a deep breath before he began reading. "I don't have any memories of the battle. I hate Victis Honor day because I wasn't at the battle. I wasn't allowed to be, because I have no magical parents. When Voldemort took over and announced that muggleborns were no longer welcome, I decided not to listen. I tried to go to school and continue my education, an education I deserved as much as any pureblood student. I was captured by snatchers right on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. They took my wand and locked me up. Eventually, they decided I wasn't a threat and they let me go - but they didn't give me back my wand. When I heard about the battle, I couldn't get to it. I let other people fight my battle for me. People who didn't need to. People who Voldemort would have allowed to go on with their lives if they'd wanted to. Some of those people died. Too many of those people died, and I was safe at home. I know I should honour them for what they did, but I can't get past the fact that I wasn't allowed to do it for myself. If I tried to go to school on September 1st, maybe I'd still have had my wand on May 2nd. Maybe I'd have died for my own cause, or saved someone who shouldn't have had to."

When he came to the end of the first reading, Seamus paused - taking a sip of the water he'd brought with him from the bar. "I'd rather we not talk about these now," he added. "You'll see why at the end - so I'll just go straight on."

He turned the page to the next entry he'd copied into the grey-skinned journal - one he thought he knew the author of. "I've lost too many of my boys to war. Brothers, sons, friends and nearly my husband. Though I didn't fight in the first war, I lived through it and I think I know enough to say that there's really no difference. War is always war. It's always death and pain and fear and heartbreak. You lose people. You lose pieces of yourself. Every year we honour those people - and every year we move a little further on. Every year we get a little closer to being whole again. It's not disrespect or disloyalty. It's the way the world is. We don't love those we've lost any less because we live our lives to the full now, nor because we cherish the friends and family we still have. This weekend I'll think about the past - about the boys I lost - but next weekend I'll think about the future. The grandchildren I might yet live to have. And even if I don't, someone will. Some already have. There's a new generation who've lived seven years without a war. I hope they'll live seven more, and another seven after that. I hope the only experience they have with war is old songs and old stories and standing at memorials for a battle they never have to see up close."

After another sip of water, Seamus' eyes sought out Dean. He was one of the few people Seamus was absolutely certain he hadn't had an anonymous contribution from, and thus one of the only people whose eyes it was 'safe' to meet right now. When he felt ready, he cleared his throat and turned the page. "This last one is quite long," he said. "I'm not going to read all of it, but you will have a chance to read it later. Dominic and I have made this," he tapped the back of the journal. "It's a special journal, just for battlescars members who've signed an additional - more permanent - confidentiality contract. Anyone can make an entry at any time, and it won't say who wrote it unless you want it to. It will only be published to other people who've agreed to be part of the group, and they'll be able to comment - anonymously or not." Seamus could feel his voice starting to get hoarse, but he continued despite that.

"When you're in a war, you don't always know you're on the wrong side, not if you believe in what you're doing. I'm not saying I believed in what I was doing, but I was young and naive, and, while I should have known better, I didn't. Not when it was presented to me in a shiny package and in such a way that it didn't appear bad or wrong. Sometimes you get swept up in thinking you're doing good because everyone around you has such faith that you are. No one presented it as a negative. No one ever said, "We are the bad guys, the villains, and we will do villainous things because that is what we are." That only happens in really bad stories, and while this story was bad, it wasn't poorly written with caricatures of people portraying the antagonists.

"I didn't set out to be a bad guy. I wanted to help people, believe it or not. And I was proud in a way I shouldn't have been, in the way teens often are. They think they're invincible, and while I didn't think I was immortal, I thought I was above certain things and would be able to tell what was what. By the time I actually could tell what was what, it was too late."

Seamus paused when he came to the mark he'd made for himself last night, when he'd decided where to cut this particular submission off. It wasn't that the rest wasn't worth reading, nor was it too uncomfortable (though it was certainly intense). No, Seamus's reasoning was that the author might well be in the room, and might not want to have to watch a crowd of people react to his nightmare experiences being read aloud. "I'm going to end it there. There's a lot more - I'd definitely encourage you to read it." He gulped down more water and then smiled, looking around the room. "Anyone else want to read something to save my voice?"

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	Other Written Submissions openbottle 2015-05-03 08:40 am UTC (link)
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Anonymous (Tristan)
(Anonymous)
2015-05-03 08:41 am UTC (link)

When you're in a war, you don't always know you're on the wrong side, not if you believe in what you're doing. I'm not saying I believed in what I was doing, but I was young and naive, and, while I should have known better, I didn't. Not when it was presented to me in a shiny package and in such a way that it didn't appear bad or wrong. Sometimes you get swept up in thinking you're doing good because everyone around you has such faith that you are. No one presented it as a negative. No one ever said, "We are the bad guys, the villains, and we will do villainous things because that is what we are." That only happens in really bad stories, and while this story was bad, it wasn't poorly written with caricatures of people portraying the antagonists.

I didn't set out to be a bad guy. I wanted to help people, believe it or not. And I was proud in a way I shouldn't have been, in the way teens often are. They think they're invincible, and while I didn't think I was immortal, I thought I was above certain things and would be able to tell what was what. By the time I actually could tell what was what, it was too late. After a certain point, there is no backing out except by death.

I was a Death Eater in part by choice and in part by force. I know that excuse has been used before, and I know people don't believe it so much anymore because of it being used so much in the First War. But people still have ways of making others do what they want. Sometimes they use Unforgiveables on you. They use the Imperius Curse to control your will. They use the Cruciatus Curse to break your will so you're more susceptible to the Imperius Curse. They use other means of torture and other means to brainwash you. Not everyone goes willingly, but by the time they're done -- these people you trusted -- you start thinking they're right and the others are wrong. Because why would you be locked up with no food in your own filth if the other side were right?

How do you cope with someone you trust betraying you in such a way that you're scared to mess up, scared to not do what they want, scared that the last fuck up might be your last because there's a very good chance they'll kill you or torture you beyond repair? How do you cope with the fact that you've killed people, and some of those people you killed weren't because you were under a curse but because you were one part afraid and one part believed, even briefly, that you were doing the right thing? How do you cope with people looking at you like you're less than pond scum and wanting to explain everything to them but knowing they won't believe you? How do you cope with nightmares that you're back in that small room and just blacked out and hallucinated a whole other life? How do you cope with not sleeping and a desperate need to have some semblance of control in a group of people? How do you cope?

I don't cope. I'm trying, but I don't know how. I don't have any methods for coping, though I'm seeing someone who's trying to help. Although maybe not coping and just shoving it all away as often is possible is how I'm coping. And I know, on some level, that isn't healthy. But I don't know what else to do. Because there's a lot of waiting for the other shoe to drop. There's a lot of waiting for someone to decide I don't deserve what I have and to throw me back in Azkaban, to be accused of something I didn't do, to be attacked verbally or physically because I trusted someone I shouldn't have but didn't know at the time that I shouldn't have trusted; because I made a mistake.

I'm just waiting for it all to fall apart again because of a mistake I made years ago.

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nottfinished
2015-05-05 09:09 pm UTC (link)

To my father, to many father's of the war, the whole concept of lineage and ~~bree~~ breeding was very important, of utmost importance - I can name my ancestors back for generations and they keep going even after I've forgotten the names - but in the end it all came down to the importance of blood. Blood and inheritance. I can do no more than anyone else to change the blood in my veins, but my inheritance is that of the men and women who thought that the blood of the Wizarding World could be changed by removing that which didn't fit, didn't fit into their veins; their hearts pumped differently, still pump differently but the most we can do, as a civilised society, is lock them away. They didn't have to spill their blood into the cracks of flagstones of an institution that sheltered so many, or be forced to spill it in order to follow the path that was put before them. They made that path, they wanted those flagstones soaked in blood, the wrong kind of blood, so that the right kind of blood could walk over it. They didn't have to spill anything or sacrifice anything to keep their blood in their veins, but they're still allowed to keep it now, who didn't have their chests cracked open and their innocence pulled out when their lives should have been Quidditch and studies, who are imprisoned but safe, safe when every victim walks around and can't remember what safe feels like anymore, aware that there is no such thing. Chests still hanging open and everything inside vulnerable and raw. Bloody. It all comes back to blood. And they love it; nothing excites them so. Pleases them more, even the wrong kind.

I have inherited their crimes; a legacy as ingrained in me as blood, condemning fingerprints in secret parts. All I can do in memoriam: craft small punishments; accept blame; give each small piece of me to the wronged or waste it away in some small apology now mine to give for those who do not feel remorse for what they've done, and ensure that inheritance stops with me. At least that small piece.

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