Carvings and Countdowns

1 RL

Remus Lupin

Remus Lupin

Remus Lupin

Was what he scratched into the wood of his bed with a knife. It was getting easier to write, but with a quill it was still difficult. For some reason, as along with most of his other struggles, a more practical way of doing it felt more comfortable. He tended to stray away from his animal-like behavior, the archaic way to do things; but it never prevailed.

He always cozied right back up into the one niche where felt he belonged: The instinctual one.

It's not that he was stupid, and certainly not dim-witted. He just had certain ailments that most thirteen year old boys didn't. Every month, rarely twice but sometimes, every bone in his body would break. The days before called for aching, never-ending hunger, habitual scratches at places that didn't even itch, the heightening of senses, and perhaps the worst of all: his skin feeling like an extrinsic cage that he wished to rip out of. He wished more than anything that he only had growing pains to worry about. Oh, how he envied the boys with that being their top physical worry.

Or perhaps, he was being too pessimistic. He always did hate people that complained.

"You could always have it worse", his Grandfather would say.

Yes, I could, he always thought...but it still wouldn't change the fact that I transform into a fucking werewolf every month.

He didn't see it as something that was so easily escapable that a cliche motto could patch up. No, a better mindset wouldn't heal his scars or set ease to the burning fury in his heart. It took a toll, and no matter who else was suffering more in the world, he still had to bear this suffering alone. It didn't do well to compare pain to other pain when your mind is only capable of wrapping its head around your own experience. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Remus Lup

He stopped scratching midway.

"God, this is pathetic", he exhaled and laid back onto his pallet of a bed.

It was raining outside, and that seemed to calm him as much as it could. Three days time. A subconscious clock always ticking in the back of his restless mind. The rain set ease to it. The smell of wet soil and damp bark helped calm him. The sound of light thunder and droplets on rooftops brought him as close to serenity as he could get, if he had ever managed to conjure up such a feeling.

This was the last full moon he had to endure before the start of the school year. He was dreading it more than ever. Two years he had been to that school. That wretched, gross pit of testosterone. He often wondered why his Uncle had thrown him into that one of all schools. He received a letter from Hogwarts, all sealed up with wax and pretty writing, but it was left unopened to this day.

"Your parents would want ya to attend this one 'ere", he held up the letter from Durmstrang all that time ago, "Seems the more prestigious type."

If Remus had met anyone that was considered daft, it was his Uncle. He'd be considered a complete imbecile in most people's eyes. The only thing he was good at was chopping wood, which also happened to be ninety-percent of what he talked about. A big burly man, with callus-covered hands and an empty head. That's all it really took to explain him. Working in the factory all day, fixing muggle cars for extra cash on the side; that was his way of living. He barely could even cook up a meal. Remus would find himself drooling at the thought of returning to school just for the damn lunches. His stomach growled thinking about it now.

"Three more days", he muttered to himself, "Twelve until school, thirty-one until the next cycle", he sighed, "About five and a half minutes until Uncle calls me down for 'dinner'."