October

2. A-side: Delirium

"I'll call out your name, but you won't call back."

Thermometer | "They don't care about you."

"Remember, boy," Uncle Vernon's voice had hissed through the crack in the door " I don’t want to be called again because you fainted like some freak, and you better not lose that scholarship because of this. You're lucky we even keep you here. Don't think we won't toss you out onto the streets if you dare to cause us any more trouble"

And with that final threat, Uncle Vernon walked away, leaving Harry in the darkness.

The air in the tiny cupboard under the stairs was stifling, and Harry sat huddled in the darkness, tears streaming down his bruised and swollen face. He cradled his throbbing cheek where Uncle Vernon had struck him earlier that afternoon, the pain still fresh and sharp. 

Alone in the cramped space, Harry's sobs echoed against the walls. He had been in this cupboard countless times before, but today, it felt different. The pain in his cheek throbbed with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of his powerlessness.

In a fit of rage, Uncle Vernon had struck him hard across the face. Then, without a word, he had locked him back in the cupboard under the stairs, and slammed the door shut, the latch clicking ominously, where he was now suffering from a high fever.

Harry lay on a thin, threadbare blanket, his small frame shivering with fever. His forehead was hot to the touch, and his skin was pale against the backdrop of the cramped, dirty cupboard. He clutched a worn stuffed animal—a tattered shaggy black dog that had seen better days—as if it were his lifeline. 

Harry didn’t even know if he had a fever, the thermometer laid forgotten on the floor. The single, dim light bulb that hung from the ceiling cast long, eerie shadows that seemed to whisper tales of misery and neglect but not enough light to see the red line reaching a dizzying height.

Harry's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and he coughed weakly, the sound echoing in the confined space. As his fevered mind wandered, the shadows in the cupboard seemed to take on a life of their own. They whispered cruel words, taunting him with their relentless accusations. 

The fever transported him into a state of delirium, where the boundaries between reality and dreams blurred. He found himself trapped in a nightmarish landscape, where the whispers of his own insecurities took on tangible form.

"They don't care about you," the shadows hissed, their voices cold and heartless "No one cares about you."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the voices. He knew they were just echoes of his own insecurities, but that didn't make them any less painful. The words cut deep, reopening old wounds that had never fully healed.

"They don't care about you," a harsh voice echoed in his mind. It was the voice of Uncle Vernon, the one person who had made it abundantly clear that Harry was unwanted "You're a burden, a freak. They left you here because they don't want you"

Harry knew it wasn't true. 

Wanted to believe it wasn’t. 

Deep down, he held onto the belief that his parents had loved him. But the delirium, the fever, and the cruelty he endured made it hard to distinguish between reality and the twisted words of his uncle.

"They don't love you, Harry," a voice whispered in the recesses of his mind "Your parents never loved you. That's why they left you here with these people"

Harry's brow furrowed as he lay there, the words echoing in his fevered brain. His parents, James and Lily Potter, were little more than distant memories, their faces fading in the recesses of his mind. As the fever raged on, the voice grew louder and more insistent.

"They didn't want you, Harry," it continued "That's why they're gone. They left you to suffer in this place. After all, why would they want a freak like you"

Tears welled up in Harry's eyes as he clutched his throbbing head. The room seemed to spin around him, and he felt utterly alone and abandoned.

The hours stretched on, and Harry's condition worsened. He could feel his strength slipping away, his body growing weaker with each passing moment. But he refused to give in. He kept whispering their names, the names of the parents he had never known.

In his delirium, he reached out as if trying to grasp something that was just beyond his reach. He wanted to hold onto the memory of his parents, to believe that they had loved him, but the darkness in his mind was overwhelming.

The hours passed in a haze of pain and confusion. The fever ebbed and flowed, and Harry's consciousness drifted in and out. He cried out for his parents, but there was no answer. The only response was the cruel laughter of his cousin Dudley, who had no sympathy for his suffering.

Harry pressed his palms against the wooden door, longing for the comforting presence of his parents. Of someone who loved him "I'll call out your name, but you won't call back," his voice getting fainter. The words were a desperate plea, a yearning for a love he had been denied for so long.

A plea that continued ignored as Harry spent another night alone trapped behind a wooden door, resigned to his reality. 

"They don't care about you," the voice in his head persisted "They never did. You're all alone, Harry"