.: Crying :. Hollow. Despite everything that was going on for Mary, despite every little ounce of good in her life at that very moment, despite the tiny, fragile baby encased carefully in her womb, all Mary MacDonald could feel was just---hollow. She wanted to cry. She wanted to just scream and scream until her face turned red just so she could suck in another shallow, shaky breath and start her scream once more. She wanted to hit something, she wanted to punch a hole through the wall of her flat--she wanted to make her knuckles bleed. But she knew, as much as she hated to admit it, that doing those things wouldn't change anything. Her tears, her screams, her rage--they wouldn't change what was happening to the world around her. It wouldn't change that hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

There were so many injustices surrounding her. She didn't know how an entire culture--an entire society would allow something so atrocious to happen, to persecute and turn some of its very citizens into a second class disgrace. She didn't know how they could slap tattoos on anyone who didn't have the right parents or grandparents or fourth-great grandparents for that matter. She didn't understand why or how any of that had happened. She felt ashamed of some of the people around her, for not standing up more. She felt like she was so small at some times over the past few months, that her voice was amounting to nothing--that her one voice which felt so loud to her was a mere whisper in the winds of agreement and approval for such grievous crimes.

The last time she had felt so powerless and vulnerable was when she was nine years old, unable to do anything as a group of bullies decided to pick a fight on her and her sister. It was in that moment that Mary had discovered what she was, that she was capable of something more extreme than she had ever thought. She never had the chance to ask the blokes if the burns on their hands had healed or not. Since that moment they tried to grab her, they had not spoken a word to her. But now, it didn't matter that she could--could throw a spell at her enemy or stand up for herself with a wand. It didn't matter what they did to her, because they were equally able as her.

It wasn't just the stupid act that had been passed that was bothering Mary so much. She'd slowly learned to cope with it just to keep herself from going crazy--or from upsetting Gabriel. The act had been rebuked, so she had no reason to hold on to that grudge. It was the deaths. It felt like it was happening every other bloody day sometimes. The Daily Prophet had turned into some sort of obituary service with a splash of news on the side rather than the other way around. The McKinnons, and now Dorcas? It was just too much for her. Memories from school, spending time with her roommates, kept flickering through her mind. She could feel this--stinging in her heart, compounded by the hollowness and the need to just let everything out.

Her son was going to be born into this--this awful world. Where her friends kept dying and the rights of others were trampled on like a protest leaflet in Diagon Alley and--how could she raise a child in this sort of world? She didn't know that things were going to turn out so great for her, what with her overly vocal manner, so how could she be so sure for the safety of her child. The fear of the next few months to come consumed her at that moment and she fell to her knees. She didn't know if she could do this, bring a baby into the world at that very moment, when everything felt so disoriented and wrong, when people were dying every day and there was so much hate in the world. She didn't want that for her--her Peter or Michael or Maddox or whatever they decided to name him. The sobs of tears came, wretching out of her body in a loud and rather sniffley manner. And now she just wanted them to go away. return to top .: Prompt :. (drabble) return to top .: Prompt :. (drabble) return to top