Keep on keeping on

When will this end? Harry lay awake in his cupboard staring up at the cobwebs that clung to the stairs above his head. His stomach turned and ached. How long had it been since he ate? One day? Two? Harry wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his family were sat outside at the dining table gorging themselves on the food that he had prepared. Roast chicken, crispy potatoes, carrots cooked in lashings of butter and herbs, rich, thick gravy. Harry longed just to taste a nibble of a carrot, but he knew, oh he knew, that if he even mentioned being hungry or got caught even smelling the air for too long he would face Uncle Vernon’s rage; that pure hatred that Harry had known all his life. Harry hated his life and was jealous of his cousin. Dudley was never treated the way Harry was. He was never starved. He was never kicked into the cupboard like a problem that gets swept under the rug. It infuriated Harry but he knew that as long as he was quiet and kissed Uncle Vernon’s filthy boots then he could just about get by. Just about survive. Harry could keep on keeping on.

Harry could hear the laughing and the sound of the inane chatter coming from the television. He heard the heavy footsteps walk past his cupboard prison and enter the living room, closing the door behind them. Harry let out a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding. Carefully, slowly, the small boy prised the door of his cupboard open hoping, praying to any god that would listen, that the door wouldn’t make a sound. He was just relieved that Uncle Vernon hadn’t locked it after Harry was banished there after finishing his chef duties. Luckily, the door made no sound and the boy crept slowly out, blinking at the sudden brightness of the hallway that assaulted his eyes after the darkness of the cupboard that he had become accustomed to. Still holding his breath, Harry tiptoed along the hallway and reached for the door to the kitchen, pushing it open slowly and cautiously. The need to eat overwhelmed Harry, more than the fear of punishment. Just a slice of bread from the cupboard. No butter – he couldn’t risk the sound of the fridge door opening alerting his family. Harry reached the cupboard and took out a slice of bread and slumped down onto the floor, clinging to the singular slice like his life depended on it. On reflection, it probably did. His eyes closed as he breathed in the smell. He was so caught up in his hunger and his need for sustenance that Harry didn’t hear the heavy footfall approaching the kitchen. He didn’t hear the slamming of the door that opened with such force that frosted pane cracked. But Harry did hear the guttural yell that surrounded the small boy. He felt the rough, large hands grab him by his hair and drag him up. Harry’s eyes widened as he was lifted into the air until his panicked green eyes met the eyes of Uncle Vernon.
“Boy! What do you think you are doing! Do you think you can steal from us!” Uncle Vernon spat in Harry’s face. The man’s face was contorted with rage, his eyes black with anger. He dropped Harry suddenly. The boy crumpled to the floor, his ankle twisting uncomfortably at the crash. Harry winced but did not look up, too afraid to make eye contact with the man before him. He just mumbled his apologies, whispering the word sorry over and over again, praying for this to be over.
“Answer me!” Uncle Vernon shouted again. Harry shook his head but once again, he found himself being yanked upwards again, his head being thrown backwards.
“I’m sorry. I was just so hungry. It was just one slice of bread Uncle Vernon.” Harry whimpered. He was startled by the sudden pain he felt on the side of his face as Uncle Vernon raised his hand and slapped Harry. The boy fell to the ground again, reeling from the punishment.
“Do we not give you enough? We took you in after your waste of space parents ran off, leaving you on our doorstep. We made space for you in this house. We put a roof over your head. We feed you the scraps from our food – food that you do not deserve. What more could you ever ask for!” Uncle Vernon was so close to Harry’s face now that Harry could feel the spit from his Uncle landing on his face. The boy cowered away from the imposing man. He saw the large hand lift in front him, a fist this time, and he felt it come down onto his face with such force that Harry felt his nose break and the warm blood flow freely down his face. The blows just kept coming. Harry curled in on himself, trying to protect himself. He felt the heavy boot kick his ribs, his empty stomach. The small boy felt the pain radiate up his frail body.
“Please. Stop. I’m sorry.” Harry gasped out, breathlessly. He held his shaking hand out, trying to stop the boot from falling onto him again.
“You deserve this!” Uncle Vernon screamed. His boot pressed down on Harry’s arm, pinning it to the floor, punching the boy who now couldn’t fight back. Harry clenched his fist, screwing his eyes shut to block everything out.
“You are worthless. You are disgusting. You. Deserve. Noth-“ Uncle Vernon’s tirades of insults we cut off when the man was thrown back by an invisible force. Harry opened his eyes, confused by why the hitting had suddenly ceased. But he watched as the man approached him again, unsteady on his feet.
“You freak!” Uncle Vernon grabbed his nephew by the neck and carried him out of the kitchen, ignoring as Harry cried out when his head hit the doorframe. He threw the boy into the cupboard and slammed the door, shutting out all light. Harry curled up into a ball on the dirty mattress, hugging it ragged blankets tightly, and let the tears flow freely from his eyes, tasting the mix of salty tears and coppery blood fill his mouth.