My Magical Demise
Everything comes to an end.
The day my life ended, the sun was shining. The window was cracked open, and I sat in a plush office chair, with my feet propped up on the bed. I ignored the breeze and just sat there – worried, frowning. Every so often I’d catch myself rocking back and forth, and would nervously laugh, thinking, ‘Crazyyyy.’ See, I knew the end was coming, like that doomed little Susie Salmon in Alice Sebold’s book. The Lovely Bones totally confused me; I hated how light the writing was while completely weighing me down. Her nouns and verbs invaded my brain with the sticky smog of knowing what was to come and trying to avoid it; shaking that smog was impossible. That book was like a beautiful viewfinder of absolute horror, permanently strapped to my face. And just like the darkest corners of Susie’s demise, my season finale was illuminated by stadium lights, too; each spidery hairline fracture of my fate could be seen from miles around. Our lives – one fiction, and one very real – lay parallel to each other, entwined by a sort of clairvoyance and a need to narrate the end.
I sat there for hours, confined to that room; back cramping, legs falling asleep. If I ate anything or used the bathroom, I don’t remember; the details of that day are vague, like a permanently-suppressed memory. My boyfriend, sympathetic to my oncoming ruin, kept squeezing my shoulder and patting me on the head, but I barely noticed his presence. I sobbed through my fears, giant crocodile tears falling into my lap unnoticed. Much like an orgasm, I was focused on delaying the end while running towards it as fast as my legs could take me. It was a mental exercise over anything else: the waiting, the worrying, the what-ifs and why-nows. I tried to stay in the moment, savoring every last feeling, smell, sound – but it was too hard, knowing that in – four hours? six? two? – everything would come to a bitter end. I wept angry, grateful tears, so confused by my tenuous future.
Finally, it was over. I felt like I’d returned from a long and arduous journey, but I never came to grips with the reality of my death. I internalized the loss of my life like anyone, and struggled with how to move forward; the black hole in my heart continued to be as deep as it was wide. I tried to focus on the life I’d led, the mischief and heart-pounding memories. During my tenure, here on Earth, I had many great adventures. I gained and lost good friends along the way – true, loyal companions – and though I doubted myself in many situations, those friends kept me afloat with the confidence they had in me. At times I was selfish and near-sighted; in others, honest and brave. I grew up, found myself, fell in love, battled my demons. I tried keeping my eyes, heart and mind open, a challenge that proved to be almost fatal. I struggled against great odds, lived in fear, broke through walls, and turned the world upside down. I went to Hell and back, knowing that in the end, it was worth it. Sometimes, I was downright heroic. My life – my entire universe – was magical.
And just like that, I finished the Harry Potter series.
TEN YEARS. That’s how long I lived in the gay-friendly, United Colors of Benneton fantasy world of J.K. Rowling. I began the journey in 1997 and never wanted it to end. But end it did, and Harry took a part of me with him. Goddamn you, Harry Potter. Goddamn you and your amazing, magical world that doesn’t fucking exist. All I ever wanted was for you to be real, and for us to be friends, and for you to teach me how to make cheese appear out of thin air. Okay, maybe I also wanted to be invited to the Weasley’s house for summer break, or cheer you on in a Quidditch game, or play chess in the Gryffindor common room. Thinking about you is especially hard during the holidays, when I’d rather be buying a round of Butterbeer for everyone at Hogsmeade, or receiving an Invisibility Cloak on Christmas morning. I could have helped you guys bring down Voldemort, even though I’m just a limey Muggle. But now we’ll never know, for the tale of Harry Potter has come to an end, and my life with it.
Ours was the longest, most successful relationship I’ve ever been in, and it’s over. I’ll never forget all that we did together. Nor will I forget that it was your absence in the literary world that gave Stephanie ‘Mormon’ Meyers and abstinence-pushing Twilight a place to undeservedly shine – so fuck you, Harry Potter, for ten years of magical adventures, and four years of co-dependent vampire bullshit.
About sn0tteh
I must admit…given my dozens of geeky vices, I've never seen five minutes of a Harry Potter movie, let alone read a sentence in those mammoth, intimidating books. But I have seen both Twilight movies – in fact, the first movie, twice. Sorry, Snotty, but vampires and werewolves – Mormon or not – will always be more intriguing than British children with sticks.
I have read on Harry Potter book and seen two of the movies and that was the limit of what I could stomach. Way too formulaic and definitely written for children. As for Twilight, if my tween and teen nieces like it I know it must be utter crap and the movie trailers are so insipid I can't fathom watching one of those movies.
Actually, Mr. Poopoopachu, Mormons who write Mormon books and cover them up with abstinence-loving, co-dependent vampires are less interesting to me than almost anything else on earth. The writing in both the books and the movies were James Cameron-terrible, and the books get worse the more Stephanie Meyers writes. I read the first Twilight book and felt sorry for future female generations. I read the Harry Potter books and had a good, old-fashioned adventure; I never saw the movies. To each his own, though.
@Pasquarelli The books grow up as the characters do. The first one was for kids. The last four were for adults. But it's just a matter of what you like – I just hated Twilight (and all of its insipid, screamy fans) with a fiery passion.