Hero.
One
Every morning was the same in the small house on Cherry Street. The worn down house was quiet except the moans of horror coming from the room to the right. Looking inside, one could see a bed pressed against the wall, a small closet full of little clothing, and an old guitar sitting abandon in the corner. Looking deeper though, one could find the white walls carried secrets written deep into the wood.
In the bed, one could find a fifteen year old girl sleeping, the term “sleeping” being used loosely. It was as if she was being held underwater, and she was gasping for air. Her wet, brown hair stuck to her pale forehead as she thrashed around the bed. The gray tank top she wore rode up exposing the angry, red scars that adorned her tan body. She shivered in the humid air pulling the thin, ratty bed sheet closer to her.
With a start, she sat up alert. Her dark brown orbs searched the room as she tried to control her breathing. After pushing the covers off, she got up and slowly made her way to the bathroom. She flicked on the switch causing bright light to flow into the room.
Ophelia Rose Andrews looked at her reflection. Her lean, muscular body was covered in sweat; her plaid shorts and gray cotton top stuck to her body uncomfortably. She shook her head causing her shoulder length hair to go flying. Letting out a groan of frustration, Ophelia tried to fix the messy strands of shit she had to call hair.
She walked back into her room and went over to the bedside table, her tired feet pressed lightly against the wooden floor. Ophelia had no intentions of waking the other occupants of the house. After turning on the table lamp, she glanced at the clocking against the wall. “4:58,” Ophelia read, shaking her head. Frowning, she opened the window and crawled outside feeling the summer breeze brush through her hair.
Ophelia bit her nail as she sat on the roof. Deciding not to delay the inevitable, she placed a cancer stick to her pale, pink lips before lighting it. Ophelia watched the red flam coming out of the lighter dance. Lying back, she closed her eyes in relaxation while taking a deep drag of the cigarette.
Her left hand, not holding the cigarette, moved up to her neck where the old, silver chain laid. Sighing, Ophelia ran her finger along the shapes and the indentations on the locket. A bright aqua stone stood against the dark silver. In the center of the circular locket was a big, cursive A that stood out against its stone background. Around the stone was an imprint of a rose, the Andrews’ family symbol.
Thirty minutes later, Ophelia was breathing heavily while her feet pounded against the tar that made Cherry Street. For an odd reason, the teenager enjoyed running especially early in the morning. She liked the way breath came short and her stomach rolled in knots of pain. It made her feel real. It made her feel alive.
Ophelia slowed her pace to a walk as she raised her arms over her head trying to catch her breath. The lose, black tank top she was wearing was soaked in her own sweat along with the black sports bra located underneath it. Her hair was up in a high pony tail bouncing up and down as she walked. Ophelia’s short blue shorts showed off her long legs as the soft cloth stuck to her muscular thighs.
She looked down at her old, holy sneakers. The black fabric was covered in dirt and stains; the bottoms were falling out from all the use. Sighing, Ophelia glanced up to see the residence that she been raised in. The years haven’t been good to the house. It was like her shoes, cruddy and worn-out.
The once white painted home now looked like a beige dump. The siding of the house was falling off; a few windows were broken and covered with wood and black garbage bags. The front door showed wear and seemed that it would fall off any moment. The porch had completely broken apart.
With no emotion on her face, Ophelia opened the side door into the house. Rubbing her eyes, she took off her shoes and made her way quietly up stairs. Smiling, Ophelia looked into her little brother’s bedroom. Mathew James Andrews was sleeping soundly, rolled into a ball in the corner of his bed. His curly blonde hair was the only visible feature of the little boy. The brown blanket was wrapped around him and his face was shoved into his pillow.
Feeling content with the sound of his breathing, Ophelia closed the door and went into the bathroom. She turned the shower knob on to cold before starting to undress. Ophelia looked at her reflection in the mirror for the second time of the day. Shaking, her fingers traced the scars that were abundant on her abdominal.
A section of Ophelia’s mind was stuck on the fact that the scars would never go away. They would always be there to remind her of her past, to remind her of where she started and where she came from.
While in the shower, Ophelia’s mind drifted off on what would happen the next few days. Soon she would be back in the Wizarding world. Ophelia thought of all the things she had to buy before going back to school. She had a long list of books, and was overdue in a new pair of robes.
Ophelia let the freezing water run down her back. The water relaxed her muscles and her mind. Too soon, she got out of the shower and started getting ready. Dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a sea blue tank top, Ophelia began to start packing her trunk. She lined the bottom of the trunk with packs of cigarettes that she had been hording over the few months. After placing a false bottom, she began pilling in her clothes. She pulled out two white blouses and put them into the trunk.
After the matching the gray knitted jumpers Ophelia grabbed a frail black robe that she had owned since turning eleven. It had holes in various places and had so many different patched spots. Ophelia ran her finger along the red and gold patch that stood out against the black fabric.
A vicious looking lion was in the center of the crest and the word “Gryffindor” was written in script. “House of the brave,” Ophelia muttered sending a disgusting look at the badge. Her dark brown eyes held angry tears. “Like that’s where I belong.” Her sarcastic comment went without a reply.
In Ophelia’s mind, she didn’t belong in the Gryffindor house, she was far from brave. She didn’t want to be a hero like most of the Gryffindors. She didn’t belong in Slytherin; she had no care for blood purity nor was she cunning. Hufflepuff was no place for the fifteen year old, Ophelia was far from loyal. Ravenclaw wouldn’t take the brunette, who had difficulty focusing on her school work.
And yet, Ophelia gave no care that she had no place at Hogwarts. She just wanted her mother to look her in the eye.
Shaking her head, Ophelia finished packing the small trunk full of her belongings. She filled up her brown backpack with her favorite book, and some other things she would need to make it through the school year.
She pulled out two envelops and a small silver carton. Ophelia made her way back into Mathew’s room. The seven year old frame was exactly how she left it. She placed one of the two envelops on his side table along with the box of chocolate chip cookies she made him. Ophelia hated having to leave without saying goodbye but London was four hours ahead of the small American town.
Sighing, she kissed his forehead and exited the room. Ophelia made her way to the only bedroom left. She slowly opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and was automatically hit with the strong scent of alcohol and weed. Empty beer cans and bottles were thrown carelessly on the floor. She saw her mother’s petit body lying in bed.
It killed Ophelia to know that she was the reason her mother became this emotionless rag doll. Tears formed her dark eyes as she knelt down next to the once blonde beauty. The frail, young woman was passed out, snoring lightly. Ophelia put the letter on the table before turning back to her mom. Her hand made it’s was over to Emily Jane Andrew’s hair. Ophelia started to brush the golden locks out of her mother’s face softly. A small tear slowly slid down Ophelia’s cheek as stood after kissing her mother’s forehead.
Ophelia’s favorite pair of auburn boots made a loud thump as she walked across the wooden floor towards the large fire place. Holding her trunk and her backpack, she took some silver powder out of a small pouch in her backpack. “Diagon Alley!” Ophelia said in a loud, clear voice while throwing the powder into the fire. Quickly, the flames became a deep emerald green. Smiling slightly, Ophelia step into the flames and quickly closed her eyes.
In the bed, one could find a fifteen year old girl sleeping, the term “sleeping” being used loosely. It was as if she was being held underwater, and she was gasping for air. Her wet, brown hair stuck to her pale forehead as she thrashed around the bed. The gray tank top she wore rode up exposing the angry, red scars that adorned her tan body. She shivered in the humid air pulling the thin, ratty bed sheet closer to her.
With a start, she sat up alert. Her dark brown orbs searched the room as she tried to control her breathing. After pushing the covers off, she got up and slowly made her way to the bathroom. She flicked on the switch causing bright light to flow into the room.
Ophelia Rose Andrews looked at her reflection. Her lean, muscular body was covered in sweat; her plaid shorts and gray cotton top stuck to her body uncomfortably. She shook her head causing her shoulder length hair to go flying. Letting out a groan of frustration, Ophelia tried to fix the messy strands of shit she had to call hair.
She walked back into her room and went over to the bedside table, her tired feet pressed lightly against the wooden floor. Ophelia had no intentions of waking the other occupants of the house. After turning on the table lamp, she glanced at the clocking against the wall. “4:58,” Ophelia read, shaking her head. Frowning, she opened the window and crawled outside feeling the summer breeze brush through her hair.
Ophelia bit her nail as she sat on the roof. Deciding not to delay the inevitable, she placed a cancer stick to her pale, pink lips before lighting it. Ophelia watched the red flam coming out of the lighter dance. Lying back, she closed her eyes in relaxation while taking a deep drag of the cigarette.
Her left hand, not holding the cigarette, moved up to her neck where the old, silver chain laid. Sighing, Ophelia ran her finger along the shapes and the indentations on the locket. A bright aqua stone stood against the dark silver. In the center of the circular locket was a big, cursive A that stood out against its stone background. Around the stone was an imprint of a rose, the Andrews’ family symbol.
Thirty minutes later, Ophelia was breathing heavily while her feet pounded against the tar that made Cherry Street. For an odd reason, the teenager enjoyed running especially early in the morning. She liked the way breath came short and her stomach rolled in knots of pain. It made her feel real. It made her feel alive.
Ophelia slowed her pace to a walk as she raised her arms over her head trying to catch her breath. The lose, black tank top she was wearing was soaked in her own sweat along with the black sports bra located underneath it. Her hair was up in a high pony tail bouncing up and down as she walked. Ophelia’s short blue shorts showed off her long legs as the soft cloth stuck to her muscular thighs.
She looked down at her old, holy sneakers. The black fabric was covered in dirt and stains; the bottoms were falling out from all the use. Sighing, Ophelia glanced up to see the residence that she been raised in. The years haven’t been good to the house. It was like her shoes, cruddy and worn-out.
The once white painted home now looked like a beige dump. The siding of the house was falling off; a few windows were broken and covered with wood and black garbage bags. The front door showed wear and seemed that it would fall off any moment. The porch had completely broken apart.
With no emotion on her face, Ophelia opened the side door into the house. Rubbing her eyes, she took off her shoes and made her way quietly up stairs. Smiling, Ophelia looked into her little brother’s bedroom. Mathew James Andrews was sleeping soundly, rolled into a ball in the corner of his bed. His curly blonde hair was the only visible feature of the little boy. The brown blanket was wrapped around him and his face was shoved into his pillow.
Feeling content with the sound of his breathing, Ophelia closed the door and went into the bathroom. She turned the shower knob on to cold before starting to undress. Ophelia looked at her reflection in the mirror for the second time of the day. Shaking, her fingers traced the scars that were abundant on her abdominal.
A section of Ophelia’s mind was stuck on the fact that the scars would never go away. They would always be there to remind her of her past, to remind her of where she started and where she came from.
While in the shower, Ophelia’s mind drifted off on what would happen the next few days. Soon she would be back in the Wizarding world. Ophelia thought of all the things she had to buy before going back to school. She had a long list of books, and was overdue in a new pair of robes.
Ophelia let the freezing water run down her back. The water relaxed her muscles and her mind. Too soon, she got out of the shower and started getting ready. Dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a sea blue tank top, Ophelia began to start packing her trunk. She lined the bottom of the trunk with packs of cigarettes that she had been hording over the few months. After placing a false bottom, she began pilling in her clothes. She pulled out two white blouses and put them into the trunk.
After the matching the gray knitted jumpers Ophelia grabbed a frail black robe that she had owned since turning eleven. It had holes in various places and had so many different patched spots. Ophelia ran her finger along the red and gold patch that stood out against the black fabric.
A vicious looking lion was in the center of the crest and the word “Gryffindor” was written in script. “House of the brave,” Ophelia muttered sending a disgusting look at the badge. Her dark brown eyes held angry tears. “Like that’s where I belong.” Her sarcastic comment went without a reply.
In Ophelia’s mind, she didn’t belong in the Gryffindor house, she was far from brave. She didn’t want to be a hero like most of the Gryffindors. She didn’t belong in Slytherin; she had no care for blood purity nor was she cunning. Hufflepuff was no place for the fifteen year old, Ophelia was far from loyal. Ravenclaw wouldn’t take the brunette, who had difficulty focusing on her school work.
And yet, Ophelia gave no care that she had no place at Hogwarts. She just wanted her mother to look her in the eye.
Shaking her head, Ophelia finished packing the small trunk full of her belongings. She filled up her brown backpack with her favorite book, and some other things she would need to make it through the school year.
She pulled out two envelops and a small silver carton. Ophelia made her way back into Mathew’s room. The seven year old frame was exactly how she left it. She placed one of the two envelops on his side table along with the box of chocolate chip cookies she made him. Ophelia hated having to leave without saying goodbye but London was four hours ahead of the small American town.
Sighing, she kissed his forehead and exited the room. Ophelia made her way to the only bedroom left. She slowly opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and was automatically hit with the strong scent of alcohol and weed. Empty beer cans and bottles were thrown carelessly on the floor. She saw her mother’s petit body lying in bed.
It killed Ophelia to know that she was the reason her mother became this emotionless rag doll. Tears formed her dark eyes as she knelt down next to the once blonde beauty. The frail, young woman was passed out, snoring lightly. Ophelia put the letter on the table before turning back to her mom. Her hand made it’s was over to Emily Jane Andrew’s hair. Ophelia started to brush the golden locks out of her mother’s face softly. A small tear slowly slid down Ophelia’s cheek as stood after kissing her mother’s forehead.
Ophelia’s favorite pair of auburn boots made a loud thump as she walked across the wooden floor towards the large fire place. Holding her trunk and her backpack, she took some silver powder out of a small pouch in her backpack. “Diagon Alley!” Ophelia said in a loud, clear voice while throwing the powder into the fire. Quickly, the flames became a deep emerald green. Smiling slightly, Ophelia step into the flames and quickly closed her eyes.