Bloody Dementors

The cold is the very first thing you feel;
a chill so harsh it seeps into your bones,
steals the breath from your lungs,
and makes you want to scream, even
though you know help will never arrive.

It is a reminder that hell does not have
to be all fire, brimstone, and harsh pain.
It can be memories; an onslaught of the
worst things you have ever done or seen.

My mind conjures up memories of when
I yelled vile things at the people I loved
the most. Some are crying, others are
shouting back. I believe I deserve it.

But then the pain leaves. I lay there,
my body curled into the ground, seeking
a comfort no one can give me. A bright light
made them leave but it cannot banish their mark.

The hellish creatures responsible, dementors,
they belong to the witching world. There is no
reason for them to be here in the muggles homeland.
I wonder why they are haunting here, stealing the joy.

Ah, I see them now. The two boys who must
have suffered the most of the creatures' displeasure.
There is a pudgy child sitting on the ground like I lay.
He is Harry Potter’s cousin. He is young.

I wonder what he just have done to earn such
a blank and shaken look. They do not feed from nothing.
The dammed, restless, hurting; they seek them out like
they are but sweet morsels of delicious candy.

What could he have done?



Word count: 250