It’s The Bitch Of Living, Just Getting Out Of Bed
*1996*
...
Thirty.
“You didn’t tell me she’d have a roommate.”
Thirty one.
“Oh, it’ll be fine. Maybe Par can make a friend.”
Thirty two.
“I hope so. It’ll be a hard transition.”
Thirty three.
“Here we are.”
The door opens, but I don’t care who’s coming in. I never have. I resume my counting of the individual dots inside the squares lining my portion of the room.
Thirty four.
“Hi, Lavender!” Nurse Pomfrey says cheerily. “This is Parvati, and she’s going to be your new roommate!”
I don’t answer. Pomfrey sighs and turns back to the new family scrunched up in the room. “Sometimes it takes Lavender a bit to get used to new people. She’s certainly seen a lot of them!”
I don’t see this, but the mother of the family gives a thin smile. “Yes,” she says. I hear her shift uncomfortably.
Thirty five.
“Well!” Pomfrey looks back at me. I hear her shoes move. “I’ll give you four a little time to get situated then. I’ll see you soon!”
She strolls out of the room.
Thirty six.
I can hear whispers from the other side of the room. I try to ignore them, but they float inside my ears nevertheless.
“I think I’ll take Pad to get a snack,” a man’s voice says. “Dear, would you like to come with us?”
“For heaven’s sake, no. I cannot leave Par here with a stranger in a foreign place.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure the girl is fine.”
The woman gives a huff, and the whispers get softer, although not soft enough for me to block out. “I’ll only be a few minutes, alright Par?”
Pause.
“Maybe you could try talking to her or something.”
Another pause.
“Perhaps you’d like her, I don’t know.”
I shut my eyes and don’t open them again until I hear the door shut. I’ve lost track of the numbers. Oh, well, I suppose I’ll start again later. Maybe when what’s-their-name is out of the room.
“Hello,” a voice says timidly.
I don’t move. I never do when this is said.
“Er… how long have you been here?” They try to reach me again. I know what they’re doing. They want to ‘see inside my mind’ or some bull a little boy told me once. I think it was a few months ago. I don’t answer.
“This… this room is pretty.”
Damn me to hell. "Get used to it, kid," I snort, trying to give them some half-assed hope. They'll need it in this shitty place. I doubt they'll stay longer than a few weeks. A month, tops. And then I look over and realize she isn't a kid at all.
She’s pretty, wrapped in an over sized nightgown, staring at me curiously.
No. She’s stupid.
“So you talk.”
“Yes, I talk.”
“Good. I thought you were dumb or something at first. It would be awfully lonely without someone to talk to.”
I refuse to indulge her any longer, anger growing inside of me. I’ve never said more than three words to a roommate. I just cracked the entire dam I was building around me. Fuck. I won’t say anymore. She’ll be gone soon anyway, wrapped in a coffin instead of her nightgown, and I won’t have to deal with her stupid chatter any longer.
“Ok. I guess you won’t talk. I understand.”
No she doesn’t.
I hear rustling. I assume she’s taking out her Jane Austen novels and some toiletries, arranging them into a neat pile on the night table beside her bed. I know her already, just from having said a few words. She’s probably a hopeless romantic, sad because she had to leave her dopey boyfriend to go live in a hospital. She’ll be heartbroken when the boyfriend never visits, and will cry to her parents about it. Or maybe her sibling; I vaguely remember Pomfrey saying something about four people, and she couldn’t have been talking about me.
But I don’t care. About her, or Pomfrey. I’ll just do as I always do, staring at the wall, watching the music channel (because I swear, that’s the only thing on these days beside stupid romcoms, and there’s no way in hell I’m watching those), waiting to die. Wishing I’d die. And on Tuesdays and Thursdays I’ll amuse my tutor as always, pretending to know maths and asking if the Cold War is still going on.
“Your name is Lavender, right?”
I knew she didn’t understand. No one ever does.
“I love that color. It’s the perfect shade of purple, in my opinion.”
I don’t reply.
The girl scoffs. “Ok, fine. I was just trying to be nice. I won’t talk then.”
I don’t reply. I grit my teeth and focus on ignoring her. I watch Harry and Ron talk to each other from across the hall. If only I could have a roommate that would be in my room as long as they have. I see Harry drop something off of his bed and struggle under his wires to retrieve it. Clumsy git.
The girl must have looked up when she heard the noise, because, forgetting her statement from a few moments earlier, she asks, “Who are those boys?”
“Harry and Ron,” I grumble, knowing that when it comes to boys, girls don’t stop talking unless they receive an answer.
“Which one is the dark haired one?”
“Harry.”
“He’s quite handsome.”
“He’s a klutz.”
A pause. “I don’t fancy him or anything,” the girl says. “I was just wondering.”
I shrug. I wouldn’t give a fuck if she did. She wouldn’t have a chance, anyway; Harry’s sought after by most of the girls in the wards (it's like he's famous of something). Except Hermione, I guess. However, assuming the girl is indeed enchanted by novels such as Jane Austen’s or Julie Garwood’s, she’ll probably fancy Harry by the end of the week, hoping he’ll come in one day to sweep her off her feet. And she’ll be disappointed when he never will.
At that moment, the door opened, and the girl’s parents returned. My eyes close as they offer the girl a snack they brought back with them. The girl accepts gratefully.
“Did you say hi?” I hear the mom whisper to the girl.
The latter mumbles a response. The mom makes a disappointed noise. “Well, maybe tomorrow.”
Pomfrey then comes in to give me my meds for the night, and draws the curtain closed behind her.
“Did you like her?” She asks cheerfully, as if she expects a response. I don’t give one as she attaches a new wire to my port and presses some buttons on the machine I’m hooked to.
“She’s really nice,” Pomfrey continues as if I had answered. “I’m sure you two will be the best of friends. It’s been a while since you’ve had a girl your age in here.”
This is true; for months I've had roommates who were in their fifties and older, and roommates who weren’t even in their teens yet. One sixty five year old once told me that I’d never get a man if I didn’t know what a red card was in football. I flipped her off, and she was offended at me until they wheeled her out of the room, a sheet covering her wrinkly body. She's probably still mad at me in hell right now.
Pomfrey cups my face, and I almost swat her hand out of the way, but she brings it back. “Try to be nice, alright? Remember how scared you were when you first came here.”
I roll my eyes, but don’t deny her words. Pomfrey turns out my light and says to me, “Your parents will be here tomorrow.”
I grit my teeth.
On her way out of the room, Pomfrey wishes the family around the curtain goodnight, and then the door closes. The door opens again as the parents (and possibly the sibling who may or may not exist) bid their goodnights. Apparently the girl’s name is Parvati.
I don’t care.
When the door closes for the final time (until a few hours later when the hourly rounds start to begin), I hear Parvati rustle her blankets as she slides deeper into them, and sigh as she switches off the light.
She’s probably crying. She seems like the type.
I don’t care.