The Freak
A rock sailed past Harry’s head.
Another one followed, this time smacking into his leg. That was going bruise.
He quickly scrambled up, his head ducked low and shoulders tensed up. Dropping his choice of book for the day, The Witches, onto the ground, Harry ran.
The young, scruffy eight year-old boy took great care in finding a secluded spot during recess to hide from both the teachers and the other students.
Harry had learned from a young age that other people didn’t like him very much. Not the Dursleys. Not the neighbors. Not the teachers. Not his fellow schoolmates. Not even Miss Dalton, an elderly widow who lived right by the school and occasionally handed out handmade cookies and other baked sweets to the children that walked home. Harry hadn’t gotten a chance to try one. Ever.
He remembered the first time he was lucky to be handed one, cradling the warmth of the freshly baked chocolate chip cookie in both hands. It got stolen by Dudley who scarfed it down and then hoped into Uncle Vernon’s shiny car that sped off home without him. Once, he summoned up the courage to try and ask if he could ride with Dudley back home after school, Uncle Vernon snapped at him, “You’ve got legs boy.” The driver’s window rolled back up.
Other kids easily picked up on his weakness once they saw that his own cousin picked on him at school. If they didn’t need to worry about the large portly boy, then Harry was free game in their eyes. A loser. A nobody. A freak. They saw it as an opportunity to get an extra sweet seeing as it was too easy to knock the smaller boy down and take it for themselves the next couple times he had tried to get one. Harry stopped trying after that.
For some reason Miss Dalton started glaring at him when he walked by her front yard. Harry felt bad. He was sure she had seen him accidentally drop her baked goods multiple times when other kids knocked into him for the fun of it. Unappreciative brat hissed the imaginary voice in his head that suspiciously sounded like Aunt Petunia. Aunt Petunia hated when he made a mess or dropped things. Miss Dalton probably thought he was ungrateful too.
Miss Dalton never said it but Harry didn’t need to hear it from her directly. The widow had sprayed Harry with her front hose when he had paused to watch a caterpillar inch its way on one of the Hydrangea bushes. He yelped at the sudden shock of cold water soaking him and Dudley’s old school backpack throughly and had taken off. Scampering home, he was immediately shrieked at by Aunt Petunia for leaving puddles of water everywhere, her hand snagged the back of his oversized shirt as she threw him out into the backyard to dry. Harry quickly laid out his school work onto the grass in an attempt to get the paper to dry, the numerous holes in the backpack didn’t help shield anything inside from the spray. It didn’t help. Dudley had decided to use his homework as stepping stones and took great pleasure in shuffling his shoes all over it. His teacher was not happy with Harry. Nobody was ever happy with Harry.
Harry stumbled a bit as he ran, shoes that were too small for his feet were not the best footwear at this moment. His toes were cramped and felt like they were bruising as he pounded down on the gravel, darting through the occupied swings and up the giant play-set. Shoving his way to the top he took a moment to catch his breath, heart pounding furiously in his chest. His green eyes quickly latched onto the sight of Dudley’s gang clambering their way up to him, Dudley himself was puffing behind them.
Harry slid down the slide quickly and took off again, heading towards the side of the school building where the back of the cafeteria was. There was a small hole in the fence line behind one of the dumpsters. A hole small enough for Harry to wiggle through and hide as the larger boys couldn’t follow him. Harry never had the greatest amount of luck though.
A water bottle was thrown with great precision by Piers Polkiss, which hit their intended target. Harry. The metal bottle hit the side of Harry’s right knee, knocking it into the other. He hit the rough ground in a tumble, the bottom of his palms burned along with his elbows and legs. He shakily got up, wincing as he wiped his chin, a bloody streak appeared on his hand though he barely had time to comprehend the rest of his injuries before he was knocked over again.
“Tried to run huh Freak?!” Dudley huffed red-faced at him rolling him onto his back and grabbing the front of Harry’s shirt and shaking him roughly.
“Good throw Piers,” hollered Dennis who gave the boy a high-five. Gordon threw Piers his water bottle back while Malcom hovered behind them. The four boys crowded around Harry, making him nervous. It was never a good time when he was caught during Harry-hunting. It was a great risk for him to come behind the back of the school where the “supervising” teachers couldn’t see them and now he would pay the price. If only he had made it to the hole in the fence.
Harry was desperately trying to unfurl Dudley’s grasp on him, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen this time. The last time he was caught during Harry-hunting, the gang had tried to force him to eat a worm that they had found before a swarm of birds had attacked them, allowing Harry to escape unscathed but shaken. He didn't like worms very much after that encounter.
“Hold him up,” Dudley commanded, “Dad’s been letting me watch WWE, this one dude did this elbow move to the other and knocked him out in one move!
“I saw that, it was the fight on Saturday right? Roller Ball Rocco versus Tyrone Terror!” Piers laughed while pretending to box the air. Well… judging by how this conversation was going, Harry wasn’t sure if it was going to stay as pretend for very long.
Gordon and Malcom dragged Harry up to his feet, holding the underweight black-haired boy by the arms who squirmed in their grasp, trying to find an opening to get away. Harry knew better then to call for help, no one would show. He knew better than to try and talk Dudley out of this, Dudley didn’t use words. He used his fists. Harry knew better then to cry, Uncle Vernon hated crying which ment that Dudley hated crying too. Men don’t cry.
All Harry could do was clench his teeth and shut his eyes tightly, desperately trying to find that small kindling of warmth he had felt once last year. It was similar situation where he desperately wished to escape and get away from Dudley and his friends. Wishing he could be anywhere else but in their clutches. That warmth had flooded through his body and when he finally opened his eyes to see what was taking Dudley so long to throw the first punch all he saw was the sky.
He got a stern talking to by the school principle about how dangerous it was to be up on the school roof before being taken home by a furious Aunt Petunia who shoved him into his cupboard, too angry to even speak to him. The anger from his Aunt was nothing in comparison to his Uncle. Uncle Vernon came home stomping heavily down the hallway and opened the cupboard door where young Harry was trembling, huddled in a corner awaiting his punishment. Uncle Vernon already had his work belt stripped off and in his hand.
Anytime an odd thing happened, it was Harry’s fault. It was always Harry’s fault. Even when he tried to be really really good; staying quiet, not complaining, doing all of his chores, doing Dudley’s homework, making breakfast, helping Aunt Petunia with dinner, and even pretending he was invisible when guests were over. He even had the phrases Aunt Petunia drilled into him down perfectly whenever someone asked him about how it was living with the Dursleys. Which wasn’t asked often. Harry thought he was being good but it was hard to figure out what he did was good. According to everyone else, Harry was bad.
Harry squeezed his eyes tighter, the outside argument of who got the first punch steadily buzzing out as he desperately wished for something to happen. For him to escape. For him to stop being Harry. Nothing good happened to Harry. Everyone else seemed to be happier not being Harry, so he wished he wasn’t either.
I wish I wasn’t here.
I wish I wasn't a Freak.
I wish I wasn’t Harry.
I wish—
Pain bloomed from the side of his face and sharp crack pierced through the buzzing in his ears before Harry slipped away.
Into nothing.