Wither
September 19th
It’s a funny thing, to be in a place you’ve been a hundred times before, doing the same mundane routine, yet feeling so greatly different. A facade—if you will, when one tries to imitate their past self. Almost as such as an actor in theater or a dancer in ballet. At heart, it’s an artform. Yet one that is greatly tragic—as most art is—for the present cannot fully emulate the past, causing one to forever mourn who they once were and the previous world they existed in.
So it's understandable why, as Remus brushes his teeth that morning—completely normally, except for the thinning strands of hair in the sink—that he faces his reflection with an inexplicable weight of dread.
The anxiety comes from the gradual realisation that, however strong Remus may be, he is not invincible.
Remus finds it easy to brush off the internal changes as anything significant, because no one else can see what's inside you. But the sudden and dramatic event of losing hair is impossible to ignore, a loud declaration to not only Remus but the whole world that he’s sick. It's a harsh reminder that no matter how much he tries to hide the changed parts within, to cling onto the past, the truth will always come out.
***
The floor is a different colour today.
“…Remus?”
It’s white, as it always is, but not nearly as yellow. The mustard tone is replaced by a cold, piercing blue.
“Remus, sweetheart.”
The shiny vinyl reflects the new colour, perhaps they changed the light bulbs.
“Remus.”
“What?” Remus finally looks up from the floor, “—Sorry.” He adds quickly. When he’s not met with Poppy expectantly in her chair, his eyes quickly scan the room and find her over near the bed on the other side, as if she had teleported.
Remus knows he’s been a little out of it this morning; floating through the start of the day in a quiet haze, not really registering anything. But the sudden shock of Poppy seemingly reappearing in thin air is enough to shake him awake, and Remus feels truly conscious for the first time that day.
“Tired today, are we?” Poppy asks.
“I guess,” he mumbles back.
“Jump up, and I’ll get you checked up so you can leave.”
Remus mechanically gets up and moves towards the bed, even though the thoughts in his head wish for him to leave, or shout ‘No’ or to just stay in the seat by the desk. This is the worst part of Poppy’s consultations. It’s standard practice and Remus knows she legally has to, but that doesn't stop Remus from hating it any less.
He sits on the side, legs dangling over the edge as Poppy stands in front of him. She starts by feeling his lymph nodes. Her fingers patter from under his chin, trailing down his neck than above his collarbones. She asks him to lie down, which he does awkwardly, his long limbs causing his feet to hang off the mattress. Her hands lift his shirt and feel around his stomach, pressing under his ribs and down near his hip bones—this part always makes him flinch slightly. When Remus sits up again, Poppy brings the stethoscope to his chest, he breathes in deeply before she places it on his back and he repeats the exercise again. With a bright light Poppy looks inside his mouth, before using the reflex hammer to lightly hit his knees, causing them to jerk up. Remus thinks it’s all the touching that bothers him, though he isn’t sure why. He tries his best not to think during it, and is immediately filled with relief when it’s all over.
With Poppy’s approval, Remus and his mother eventually get called into the treatment area for his chemo. Although it's the last one of his first cycle, Remus is not by any means alleviated, the uncertainty of the two week break making this anything but a celebration. He figures he should catch up on some sleep, last night was filled with more restless tosses and irritated turns then slumber. So they draw the curtains in the little corner, covering the window that bathes them in natural light and allowing a soft darkness to envelope around them. As Remus curls up on the chair, he goes in and out of sleep for the five hours it takes for the chemotherapy to be delivered. During this time, the nurses quietly attend to him, making hushed whispers to his mother and trying not to disturb the peace that has settled. Towards the end, his mother wakes him with a ham and cheese toastie on the table in front of him. Remus doesn't feel like eating, the nausea medication makes him drowsy and all he wants to do is sleep. He turns his nose up at the food childishly, but when he realises his body won’t fall back asleep, he starts picking at the bread for his mothers satisfaction.
Effie is off today, it’s the first time he’s received treatment without her. Apparently Minnie had come to check in, according to his mother she asked about his symptoms and how he was—his mother said she mentioned his hair starting to fall out.
“She asked if maybe you wanted to speak to Matilda privately, or someone else. I said I'd let you know.” She says hopefully.
Remus only laughs.
When they leave he walks ahead of his mother like always, choosing the stairs today instead of the lift and welcoming the burn that begins to arise in his legs. She stays behind him for longer this time, even when he comes to a stop by the doors to wait for her.
“Oh, honey.” She mutters, brushing the top of his back, freeing his jumper from the loose hairs. Remus ignores it the whole walk back to flat, taking the time to focus on every other small detail; the line of smokers outside the hospital premises, tweeting birds in the treetops and the greying sky. People rushing past him in the busy intersection, an ambulance siren somewhere in the back. Children playing on the steps outside the apartment building, seeing who can jump down the furthest. Mr. Thomson carrying a bag of groceries in the corridor of their floor, leaving Remus wondering how he managed to get up those flights of stairs.
He lets his shield down the movement they get into the flat. Remus barricades himself in the bedroom and whips out his phone.
I want it gone.
It takes Sirius all of a minute to reply.
Tomorrow. 10am.
September 20th
Leave it to Sirius and James to turn a ugly, sterile hospital bathroom into a full on barber shop. A stool, from god knows where, is propped up in the center facing the mirror. Upon the sink is a salon smock and a set of clippers—they’d even brought in a dustpan and broom that sits lazily in the corner.
“Welcome to Marauders Haircuts!” James announces enthusiastically, before gesturing to the chair. “Take a seat and I'll introduce you to our lead hair stylist!”
Sirius exits a bathroom stall, as if he came busily from another room, stressed from taking imaginary appointments all day.
“Hello there, I’m Sirius Black, head stylist—what are we doing today?” he asks in a rush.
“Getting rid of it all.”
“Well, you wont believe this, but that's actually my specialty cut!”
Remus chuckles, “think it’ll suit me, Black?”
“Oh, for sure.” He grins.
Somewhere along the way, James put’s on music; there’s a strum of an electric guitar and Ozzy Osbourne’s voice loudly reflects off the bathroom walls.
Remus mutters along to the lyrics and James drums on the wall with his hands.
“Are you sure no one will come in?” he finds himself asking as Sirius fiddles with the clippers. They’re in the bathroom off the hallway with the broken vending machine, in the most isolated part of the hospital, yet Remus is still not entirely convinced they won’t be heard.
“Nah, not a chance.” James replies, hoisting himself onto the bench beside the sink.
“No one ever comes down here.” Sirius adds. “This is the old part of the hospital, bloody ancient. They mostly use it for storage now.” He presses a button and the clippers start vibrating, sending a loud buzz into the air that cuts through the music. “Ready?”
Remus swallows a lump in his throat.
“Yeah.”
“You sure? we can always do it another time.”
“No.” He says quickly, “I need it off. I’m ready.”
“Ok—but you have to do the first bit.”
Sirius hands him the scissors. Remus looks up at himself in the mirror, and without thinking much of what is to come next, he takes a fist of hair and snips it off. Nothing happened. In fact, Remus didn’t feel anything at all.
“Go on then,” he pushes, a strange smile appearing on his face.
“Yes, Sir.” Sirius replies, taking the scissors and starting to cut all over his head. The past few months he’s neglected his hair, letting it grow longer than he usually would, now the long tufts of hair leave his head and settle to the ground. When Sirius is done shortening it, they all can’t help laughing at him, his hair looking like it’s been hacked off in a terrible lawn mower accident. Remus catches sight of the floor beneath them, the chair is surrounded by tawny coloured waves. Then came the buzzing. The clippers are so close to his ears that the distracting noise of the songs are hidden behind its violent humming. So he watches intently as Sirius drags them over his scalp, revealing parts of his head he’s never seen before. Despite the violent nature of it all, Sirius is ever so gentle. Lightly tilting his head this way and that
“When’d you lose yours?” Remus finds himself asking, breaking the silence of Sirius’ concentration. Remus sees him bite his lip in the mirror’s reflection.
“About the same time as you. They give everyone the same chemo at the start. But I refused to shave it, mother made a fuss about how she would find hair all round the house—like a shedding dog—and I was a stubborn thing, didn’t let anyone near it.”
“Still are.” James adds, “can’t put a finger within a meter radius without hell breaking loose.”
“Jealous of my good looks, Prongs?”
James scoffs playfully.
“What ended up happening—to your hair?” Remus goes on.
Sirius swallows before clearing his throat.
“It got to the point where I could just pull on it lightly and the whole strand would come out. It mostly fell out in the shower. I haven't cut my hair since, you know.”
“Really?”
Sirius nods.
“I don't think I could do it—even now, not for a while anyways.”
They go back to silence that isn't very silent, the music and loud clippers still going. Remus hopes he didn't kill the mood.
“Hey,” Sirius pipes up. “James, you wanna turn?”
“Yes!” James practically yells, eagerly jumping off the sink. Sirius shows him where to shave the last patch, directing him on how to hold the clippers the angle he should have on Remus’ head.
“Ah! Look at you!” Sirius says when James finishes, the two boys crowd around and look at him proudly in the mirror. “And still quite sexy, might I add—right James?”
It’s thinning, that's for sure, but the result is much more of a buzz cut than a bald head.
“Oh yeah, dashing.” James flashes a toothy grin.
“Piss off.”
“Nah, but seriously, it suits you.” Sirius exclaims.
“Don’t get too used to it. It won't be there for long”
Sirius just shrugs before turning to the mess on the floor. Grabbing the broom, he carefully starts sweeping the hair into a pile as James gathers the tools and curses when he can’t get the guard off the clippers. Remus would help his friends clean up, but he is inexplicably drawn to his reflection in the large mirror. All it takes is a glance for him to be completely hypnotised. Remus slowly watches himself bring a hand up towards his head. It pauses for a second, scared that touching his new hair would somehow make something bad happen. Pushing the stupid thought back into the depths of his mind, he does it anyway. The first thing he notices is that it’s sharp, the short hairs are prickly under his fingers and slightly itchy. As he moves his hands around, he feels the strange shape of his head. It’s weird how such a part of him can feel so alienated, especially one that holds all his memories and life.
Although he watched as his friends cut his hair, saw with his own eyes as it slowly left his head and fell to the ground, Remus still can’t fathom the person in front of him, can’t understand how it's still him. He tries to look beyond himself, to where the colour and shapes of his face and head don’t put together an image, but instead a jumble of light and space. He hides there for a long time before he eventually pulls himself away to wash down the sink littered with pieces of hair. Despite this, he really doesn't feel anything. Not guilt, not sadness, not relief or joy. Remus is surprised how quickly he’s accepted it all, perhaps even a little proud of how emotionless he is.
Some time later, as Remus goes to walk out the door, he’s shortly stopped by a hand on his arm, pulling him back into the bathroom. Sirius’ eyes look up at him, his brows furrowed.
“What's up?”
He falters, stumbling back slightly and for a moment losing that Sirius Black charm.
“I, uh, have something I think you might find useful.” Remus looks down to the little cloth tote bag in his hands. “—not that you have to take them or anything.” He adds with a nervous chuckle, as if the contents would somehow offend him. Curious, Remus peeks inside, it’s full of hats of different textures and beanies of many colours. “I’ve quite a collection, from all these years. They’re mostly from donations, also friends and family. I've never used these ones though, figured you might wanna take a look.” Remus nods along, only half paying attention to the other boy blabbering on, he’s too transfixed on the hats and the kindness that came with them. “You're lucky, it'll get cold soon and no one will really know. I got so many looks walking around in a beanie all summer, not that—”
“Thank you,” Remus interrupts, finally looking up from the bag to Sirius. A small smile creeps onto his face, “really.”
Sirius beams back. “Yeah, anytime.”
Sirius’ comment about the weather held true, for as soon as they left the hospital they were met with grey skies and a damp drizzle. The rain is not uncommon for the summer months, but the nasty cold bite in the wind suggests that autumn is very much on the horizon. It helps as Remus makes the walk back home, the chill sends a shiver down his spine and makes him forget to worry about how his mother will react. Simultaneously, he’s overwhelmed with new sensation. For the first time in his life, the wind does not blow his hair around, and he feels awfully exposed, naked almost. The air wraps around his head and he can detect every atom upon it so intensely. He even nearly reaches for one of the hats in the bag he now carries from Sirius, but can’t yet bring himself to.
As Remus opens the door to the flat, his mother is standing conveniently in the kitchen over a pot of pasta. It doesn't take long for her to notice he arrived, and once she catches a glimpse of his figure, she stares at him for a long time. Apart from her wide eyes, Remus cannot begin to tell what she’s thinking. Why won’t she say something? Do anything?
When his mother does eventually move, she doesn't offer any words, rather she closes the space between them and places a hand on his cheek like she always does. Remus manages to look into her glassy eyes, but as he does he feels a strange sense of guilt. She turns back to the stove, stirring the pasta, and still not speaking.
Remus pivots to the bedroom, angered. The novelty of it all is starting to wear off, dread beginning to creep back in. The sight of himself in the little mirror on the back of the door worsens it all, and in a fit of rage he rips it from its hanger and throws it across the room.
Oh.
Oh god.
This is awful isn't it? It's wrong and it feels funny and it hurts.
God it hurts.
Where'd it go? Where'd it go when it was there a few hours ago? Remus didn't mean it, all the time he complained about the length, the waves, the dull sandy colour. He hates it now. It’s so fucking ugly it disgusts him.
He goes to fist his hands in his hair but is met with nothing. Instead he grips his head, trailing his hands down his face to cover his eyes, pushing on them so hard that colourful spots appear within the darkness. Maybe he wishes to blind himself, so that he never has to see his face again. Remus is even joyous for a moment when, as he releases the tension, his vision stays dark. But that quickly dissipates as his body adjusts a few seconds later, and he begins to make out the shapes of the bedroom. The sickening dull revolting bedroom. He crouches down on the floor, bringing his knees to his chest and trying to make himself as small as possible.
Please, make it all go away, turn back time.
Please please please.
How could his whole life be there one day and gone the next? Why’d it have to happen so fast?
He lets out a choked sob, quickly fisting a hand in his mouth to stifle the noise. It doesn't stop though, the tears keep coming. It becomes increasingly hard to breathe, however Remus still refuses to remove the hand that blocks his airway.
He thinks of all the times he cursed his hair; when he would mention how he hated the way it sat, or complained about how annoying it was when it blew into his eyes in the wind. Now he realises how utterly stupid he was. Oh, the things he’d do to have it back. Although Remus is glad he gets to keep a little of his hair for a while, the buzz cut is sharp and cruel. It exaggerates the point of his nose and cut of his jaw. The world can finally see the parts of Remus he tries so hard to keep hidden, and it only adds to the sickness in his stomach.
He feels quite light headed now that he thinks about it, and when did his legs start to shake like jelly? He stumbles into the bathroom—avoiding his reflection in the mirror—and bends down over the toilet, vomiting up the little food he managed to eat that day. When he’s done, the pain doesn't go away and Remus can no longer tell the difference between the nausea and anxiety.
He isn’t able to for a long time.
Remus knows how the seasons work. For a few fleeting moments that world is green. The grass of the farmland is colourful and the vegetation vibrant. Fruit ripens and swells in the warm air, causing it to turn sickly sweet. Serenity takes over, and in the long sunlit days, all is calm. Summer used to be Remus’ favourite season, if simply for the fact that everyone around him seemed happier. His mother more bubbly, his father much brighter. They would dance together in the kitchen and sing to the radio around the house. And Remus was allowed to disappear into the shady woods for as long as he liked, spending hours discovering hidden water springs and old trees. Looking back, he thinks these were the best times of his life.
But nothing gold can ever stay. Remus learnt that very quickly.
The flowers lose their freshness, they slowly begin to wither and before you know it, they die. Trees stand bare, the magic that comes with their leaves gone. The sky cries and the wind bites.
Remus knows that nature changes, the old perish and give birth to the new, what he didn't know was that people do the same. So as Remus begins to wither, not knowing if he will survive the winter, there’s a part of him that's ok with it. This is how nature works. From the death of winter, summer will come, the world will keep spinning and time will always go on.