barty crouch jr (mask) wrote in raveled, @ 2017-01-25 18:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! decade: 1980s, ! log, barty crouch jr |
WHO: Barty Crouch Jr and himself
WHAT: sleeping, part 1.
WHEN: 1982 - 1990s
WHERE: his mind
"Barty my love, wake up." If you had known beforehand that this would be the last, would you have done more? Perhaps every child in their mind's eye has been poisoned by fantasy novels and moving pictures that describe the ideal goodbye: with tears and violence and fully translated gratitude and the absence of regret. Or would you have still hated her for trading her life for nothing? For relinquishing you to a life as someone else's toy? Perhaps it is the divine irony of the unforgivable, which wraps all who uses it into its seductive curse and eternal condemnation. Or would you have still let yourself fall victim to a word, the mouth which slowly feeds off your soul replaced by a golden chain around your mind. For it is warm, warmer than you have ever been, happier than you have ever felt. -- "Barty my love, wake up." Sometimes a memory threatens to reach through the fog and grasp you from its warm, loving embrace. You're not certain any more how much of it was real or imagined, but in the narrow space of your reality lays your own obituary on parchment and a viciously moving photo of who you once were. Or was that you? He is taller, thinner, and more in pain than you could ever fathom. You can't imagine that kind of pain, especially not in the happy trio you currently inhabit. Father is good and kind. Winky is the mother you have lost (where is she?). You are obedient. You are finally the son he has always wanted you to be. That is not your reality. -- "Barty my love, wake up." Why do you wake up screaming? The darkness that inhabits an unknown corner of your mind is all encompassing at night. You dream of dark magic and dark hair and dark blood and dark walls, and like God's hands through the clouds is a woman of golden hair who is somehow even closer to death. How can one be cognizant of temperature in a dream? And yet her hands, though filled with Her warmth and love, make you shiver to the touch. You would ask your father, had not it be certain to widen the gap you have sought your entire life to narrow, to narrow a brow you have sought your entire life to relax. You learn to loathe this nightmare. -- "Barty my love, wake up." Her voice is more insistent now. You look down at the diary Winky has encouraged you to keep, or at least pages 1, 14, 18, 20, 21, and 34 all claim that she has. Inbetween these pages you are starting to piece together the memories, and at least you can start to take an educated guess at time, a series of corrugated quill marks along the spine, when you're not so busy trying to convince yourself that this world is not a dream. Your pen breaks between the unease of never having an answer and never grasping what you're looking for and never understanding why or whether or not you exist. The questions, in a fever dream, become louder and blotchier with urgency: Do you exist? Why do you exist? What is real? Awaken, you urge yourself. And whenever you feel close, behind you is your father and his gentle, warm fog, that reaches out to bring you back into the happy, blissful emptiness of obedience. Fatherhood, you sigh. You are happy again. |