In Which Remus Indulges In A Great Deal Of Self-Pity
The wolf is watching from deep in the woods. Waiting, behind any and every tree. He’s been hurt, and it’s only a matter of time before it follows the scent of his blood. He’s panting, gasping for air and everything is black, black, black. The searing pain in his leg is all there is. The pain and the knowing that the wolf is coming to finish him off. He’s curled up on the forest floor,
“Dad!” he whispers, as loud as he dares. His father is supposed to be here. He promised he'd be here, always. "Dad!" he calls, again, frantic. And then his father is there, as if he's been summoned by some strange magic. He can’t see him, but he’s there.
The wolf is coming, but his father will take him away. Keep him safe, like he promised.
He grabs onto his father, desperate for comfort, clinging on as if he's drowning and his father's waist is a life ring.
And then his father pushes him away. He stumbles to the ground, cutting up his palms, unable to do anything but repeat:
"Dad!"
"Your fault. This is your fault, get away! You're a monster, you're no son of mine!" His father is yelling, but he needs to be quieter. The wolf will hear them.
“Your fault, your fault, your fault!” He’s shaking his head, because it can’t be his fault, and somehow he knows that it is.
And then the wolf is upon them, snarling, and he can smell the blood dripping from its razor-sharp teeth.
Whose blood?
His father starts to run, and he is left alone, facing the wolf. This is it.
And then the wolf turns away from him, and starts chasing his father.
"Dad!"
But it's too late. He’s tearing after the man, and the only thought in his head is that he must suffer. The man runs fast, but he’s no match for him, on his four legs, used to hunting down prey. He is the wolf, and he's hungry.
Remus bolted awake, left leg throbbing. His face was slick with blood--no, sweat, he corrected, forcing the images out of his mind.
Once he managed to convince himself it hadn’t been real, he reached a shaking hand to his upper lip and wiped the moisture from it. He had to stare at it for a few moments before he believed that it really was just sweat.
He sat up on his bed, which emitted a massive creak, and pushed the covers off of his body and onto the linoleum floor. He pulled his legs close to his body, ignoring the pain in the left one, and stared at the wall opposite his bed, slowly exhaling. He counted the spidery cracks that ran down it, though he could draw them on a map with his eyes closed.
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real, not real, not real, he repeated over and over again until he was sure he’d drawn a clear line between the world he lived in at night and this one.
Finally, after what seemed like hours but might have been minutes, he summoned up the strength to drag himself out of bed. He took the cane from beside it and hobbled to the bathroom. His leg was always worse after the nightmares, which he’d given up trying to understand years ago. It was better to spend as little time thinking about his injury as possible.
His therapist said he'd get used to the nightmares, which he supposed he had, but it didn't make them any easier to bear. At least they weren't a nightly affair anymore, but Remus still dreaded each evening--it was like a game of Russian roulette. He never knew if it was going to be one of those nights, which had driven him to start drinking copious amounts of black tea to avoid sleeping as much as possible. Inevitably, though, he lost his grip on consciousness and tumbled, out of control, into sleep.
The lack of rest had taken a toll on him physically as well as mentally. He couldn't bring himself to look in the flecked bathroom mirror for more than a moment. It's enough, though, to confirm once again what he already knew--he wasn't in great shape.
Okay, so that was an understatement. His bones jutted out under his skin where they weren't supposed to, and there were always grey bags under his eyes. His light brown hair, last cut maybe four months ago, was unruly and wild, and the scars crisscrossing his face certainly didn't help
He’d been trying to get a job as a teaching assistant, but none of those he’d applied to called him back, most likely in part because of his slightly deranged appearance, which he hadn’t made an effort to alter for interviews. It made sense--he wouldn’t want himself around children either.
Of course, this meant he had no steady income, and the money left to him by his mother when she died was steadily running out. The flat he currently occupied, though certainly nothing fancy, was becoming too costly for him; he was already two months behind on rent. When he first woke up and realized what a mess he’d made of his life, he cried for half an hour. By now, he’d made his peace with it--well, the Remus Lupin version of making peace with things, which basically meant ignoring the problem and suppressing any feelings related to it.
He brushed his teeth and then limped back out into the main room of the flat. It served as both the bedroom and living room; he slept on a pullout couch. He couldn't make himself fold it up right now, though, so he sat down on the edge of the mattress, set his cane down and reached for his laptop.
He was supposed to write a blog about his life. It was supposed to help him with recovery from the accident, though he couldn't fathom how. The cursor rested at the top of the page, expectantly. Remus sighed. There was nothing blog-worthy about his life. Remus closed the laptop. He had just reached for the TV remote when his mobile rang from next to his pillow. He reached across the bed to pick it up. Marlene McKinnon, read the text onscreen.
“Shit,” he muttered. They were supposed to meet up for lunch today. They’d met at uni, she was majoring in physics, he in English. Back when he’d thought he might really like to be a teacher, or a writer. She’d been his best friend for five years, but it had been nearly one since they’d seen each other. He’d already postponed the lunch date twice, and he would do it again except it would cross the line from forgetfulness into cruelty.
He loved her, but the thought of having lunch with her filled him with dread because, if he was being honest, he was embarrassed for her to see him in this state. She was the only one who knew almost all of the details relating to the accident, and she’d been there to support him through the first few months, but he’d pushed her away. He’d pushed everyone away, and he never really apologized for it. He’d been putting off talking with her about it because it would take the kind of mental energy he was in short supply of right now, and besides, he'd never been the most eloquent--he was sure to muck it up somehow.
He was sure Marlene expected him to be back up on his feet, or at the very least have a job, and the thought of facing her now made him wince. He’d acknowledged he was a wreck; he didn't need his best friend to know. And she would know, whether he told her or not--Marlene had always been very adept at reading people.
He fumbles with the phone until his thumb hits the answer button. He lifts it to his ear.
“Hey, Marls."
“Hi! How’ve you been?” Marlene greeted him. He felt like she usually sounded more enthusiastic on the phone, but he couldn't be sure; it'd been so long.
Was she as anxious as he was? Had she forgiven him for how he’d treated her after the accident? He could imagine her right now, pacing around her flat (it was a nervous habit she'd never managed to break), pretending she wasn't still angry. Okay, not angry--if there was anyone who couldn't hold a grudge, it was Marlene. Pretending she wasn’t still hurt, then. He had hurt her--there could be no doubt about that.
“Good. Fine. Er, how’re you?” Remus asked.
“Oh, I’m alright. I was just calling to make sure we’re still on for today?” Her voice was tentative, and Remus was hit by a wave of guilt.
“Oh, yeah, we are, for sure,” he replied quickly, hoping that somehow that would fix everything, and that he wouldn't have to give a whole apology speech.
“Okay. Good! Well, I'll see you later, I s'pose,” she said, dashing his feeble hopes. It was usually--it used to be so easy to talk to her. Now, though, Remus felt like years of friendship had been erased, and it was all his fault. He tried to think of something that will make her laugh--show her he’s truly sorry, and that of course he still cared about her. An inside joke, maybe. But nothing came to mind.
Marlene had always been the one with a talent for cheering people up, making them feel better; Remus had never been very good with emotions. They’d never really had any conflict before, though, and Remus had a sinking feeling that this time, it was up to him to fix things. And he had absolutely no idea how to go about doing that.
"Yeah, alright, Marls. See you then,” he said, but when he brought the phone down from his ear he saw she’d already hung up.
Remus let out a groan. He’d really fucked things up. Glancing down at the phone screen, he saw it was already 10:30. He’d have to figure out how to apologize to Marlene in the next two and a half hours.
He’d just set down his phone when it buzzed again, this time with a reminder that he had therapy in fifteen minutes.
Shit. He always forgot, maybe in the hopes that Dr. Pomfrey would forget too. She was nice enough, and going to therapy made it easier for Remus to pretend he was making progress. He didn't enjoy it, though, and she was always pressing him to talk about the accident.
He crossed the flat and pulled on one of his less hole-ridden jumpers, and then his sneakers, leaning on his cane for support while he did so. He hated using it at first, but he'd gotten used to it, even come to appreciate it. It did help ease the near-constant pain in his leg.
Remus left his flat at 10:38 and got a taxi outside. The fare would cost more than he was quite comfortable with, but he couldn't take the bus today or he’d be fifteen minutes late to his appointment, and he didn't want to deal with a talk from Dr. Pomfrey about how timeliness was important to ensure he got the most out of it.
He stooped to enter the taxi. It was raining lightly out, which Remus only noticed when he ran a hand through his hair and found it was a bit wet.
“Where to?” the grey-haired cabbie asked, adjusting the mirror. Remus told him Dr. Pomfrey’s office address and the taxi started through the streets of London. Remus made no effort to start a conversation, not out of disdain but exhaustion. He simply didn't have the energy right now.
Remus’ thoughts soon turned back to the matters at hand. First, Marlene, although after a minute or two of thinking about that and getting nowhere he decided it was probably better if he thought about it later. When he’d had more time to reflect, he told himself. Dr. Pomfrey was big on reflection.
The next thing that surfaced in his mind was his rent. He’d been trying to avoid thinking about it, because that usually worked so well, but he knew he’d have to find a solution sooner or later. Later rather than sooner though; the longer he could put it off, the better.
Arriving at the office gave Remus another excuse to not think about any of his problems. He paid the cabbie and exited the taxi, only realizing once it had driven away that he forgot to thank the man. Ah well, what was one more mistake, really?
It was drizzling earlier, but it was pouring now, and Remus hurried to get inside.
Dr. Pomfrey’s office was located in a deceptively small brick building, two-story and clearly meant to appear non-threatening. It sat on a small lawn, neatly manicured, with a small sign that read Please keep dogs off the grass.
The five-step climb up to the front door caused Remus’ leg more pain than it should, but he made inside, where Dr. Pomfrey was sitting on one of the waiting room chairs, the slightly cushiony kind that looked like they were going to be comfortable but weren't, really. She must have been in her 40s, with graying brown hair tied up neatly in a bun.
She smiled when she saw him, and greeted him with a “Hello, Remus.”
“Hi,” he replied, damp and uncomfortable but making an effort to maintain the level of politeness that would be his default if he was warm and dry and less irritable.
They walk ed into her office, which had a desk in the corner and two brightly colored beanbags in the middle of the room. The desk used to be in the middle, and there were chairs on either side of it instead of beanbags. Remus would sit in the chair facing all the plaques and diplomas and whatnot on the wall behind the desk, which always made therapy oddly reminiscent of his primary school dressing downs from the principal.
A month or so ago, though, he’d come in and the beanbags had been there. Dr. Pomfrey said the change was to make clients feel more comfortable, but Remus found it awkward and overly personal. There was nothing between the beanbags, nothing separating them. The desk had made therapy feel like nothing more than a professional exchange, even if it did remind him of his childhood detentions.
Now, Dr. Pomfrey motioned to the blue beanbag, and sat on the green one herself, clipboard in hand. Remus lowered himself with the help of his cane.
She asked a few questions before getting to the one Remus had been dreading.
“How’s your blog going?”
“Good. Great. Er, yeah, good,” he replied quickly, looking to the side as if the wall had just said something very interesting.
He glanced at the clipboard on Dr. Pomfrey’s knee as she scribbled something down.
“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues,’” Remus noticed.
“You just read my writing upside down,” she shot back, giving him her ‘This is a losing game’ look.
Remus sighed; he knows she’s right.
“Remus, you’ve been in a terrible accident. It’s going to take a while to adjust back to normal life completely,” she said sympathetically, changing gears.
What Remus wanted to say was that he’d had a year, and everything had just gotten worse. He wanted to ask how long a while is, because he didn't know how much longer he had in him.
He stayed silent.
Dr. Pomfrey clearly didn't hear the rant in his head because she continued, “Writing a blog about everything that happens to you really will help.”
Remus resisted the urge to laugh. What really would help would be not having to choose between rent and food, but he didn't voice these thoughts. Instead he exhales, and said,
“Nothing ever happens to me.”