Notes: I just revised it a little and added a couple of new bits. Twists. Still ambiguously slashy, though.

Feedback is really nice, by the way. Validate my existence, please? ^_^;;

Werewolves of London

My life is a non-sequitur.

I hate my life. And I don't tend to hate very many things. Squirrels are one. Squirrels are just rats with big, bushy tails. I don't understand how people can like squirrels but hate rats. They're the same damn animal.

And peanuts. I hate peanuts. But I really think that may have something to do with the fact that I break out in hives anytime I come within five feet of them.

Oh… and I hate the Impressionist era. But that's about it.

I adore the Surrealist movement. I once got to an exhibit on Salvador Dali at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in America. Gorgeous. His work is so self-centered, selfish, and meaningful to him. But everyone else laps it up like honey.

Sometimes I find myself wanting that kind of attention. But I guess I simply don't garner it. I'm not a very interesting person… not beyond my lycanthropy. I suppose I was lucky to be bitten; at least I'll always have something to keep me vaguely mysterious. Enticing.

At least Harry is satisfied with my being what I am.

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fook's
Going to get himself a big dish of beef chow mein

I feel like Grendel's mommy, I really do. Grendel's aged and ugly mother, babying him like some mother hen, running after him and just itching to fight his battles.

No… what I'm really afraid of is having to be the avenger of his death. God, Harry… why can't you just stay safe? Stay safe for me, for Sirius, for your dead parents who loved you enough to give up their own lives to preserve yours. Oh, I'm so afraid that effort will be all for naught someday.

I want to do things right. I want James and Lily to be proud of you the way I am. I want to be able to watch you grow. I want you to bury me in my old age.

I'm not sure I could live to bury you.

Not today, Harry darling. Please… not today.

Grendel's had a little accident. And so may you all.

Ahhwwwooooooo...

Werewolves of London
Ahhwwwooooooo...

It's hard to sit by the bedside of someone who needs to live through the night. Nerve-wracking, but boring at the very same time. I have to hold onto Harry's arm, squeezing and rubbing it gently, just to reassure myself. His palm is so warm; he is still so alive. And when he wakens, I'll still be here. I will be the very first thing he sees when he finally opens his eyes again.

Karl Shapiro said that an accident "splatters all we knew of dénouement across the wicked and expedient stones." And god was he ever right. I don't think I ever understood that until the first time I watched someone die. And die for real. Not on a screen at the cinema or on the telly.

"Already old, the question, Who shall die?" It was an accident that time too. I must have been somewhere around the tender age of seventeen when that Muggle man slipped in front of the oncoming autos at a crosswalk.

His blood splashed on me.

If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
Better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again

Just an accident. No one ever saw it coming.

No dramatic words for the dead man, nothing superficial. I knelt beside him and held his head steady; I tried, really tried, to give his body the energy needed to restart his heart. But it wouldn't come. It just wouldn't come. The damage was too great.

I cried. I cried for the stranger who stepped into traffic.

Not that it matters anymore.

I think Dali's most beautiful painting was "Christ of Saint John of the Cross". There's something so very tragic about the way his limbs are stretched up and his head thrown forward… He hangs high in the air, above it all.

I have yet to decide whether I believe in God. I think I did believe in Him when I'd knelt beside that dead man and tried hard to revive him. But I gave up on religion when I heard that James and Lily were dead.

All we knew of dénouement…

I like churches, though. Cathedrals, synagogues, mosques, temples. I think they are the most beautiful buildings mankind has ever constructed.

I just don't believe in what they stand for.

Ahhwwwooooooo...

Werewolves of London
Ahhwwwooooooo...

Seeing Harry sprawled on the pure white sheets of the hospital bed is as close to religion as I come. He even has a bandage wrapped around his temples and it makes me think blithely of the crown of thorns.

I need a personal Jesus, and if anyone satisfies that need it is Harry. But what a burden, eh? I believe that would be the worst thing I could ever tell Harry… what I really think of him.

Oh, but what do I really think of him? I'm not even sure myself. But I want to be sure. I love him dearly, but not exactly in such a way that befits a father figure. I love him… because he is Harry. He is perfect, even though he is not. There could be no other such person to fill the voids in my life.

And I think that is what I love: that he is so irreplaceable and unique. My redeemer liveth. I hope.

Much of the wizarding world already thinks of him as a personal savior, as a second chance. Why shouldn't I? Because I credit him with more than crippling Lord Voldemort?

Perhaps.

He's the hairy-handed gent who ran amuck in Kent
Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair
Better stay away from him
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim
I'd like to meet his tailor

So many biblical comparisons! Why not? The Bible is a story of The People… why shouldn't The People parallel its meanings.

 I am humble. And, as much as I'd like to, I will never compare myself to Lucifer. No, I think that title belongs to Voldemort… and rightfully so. The brightest star fallen from grace, and I believe it too. He was a brilliant wizard, but a stupid man.

"Vol de morte" means "theft of a body" in French. I always wondered why he chose that name for himself. Whose body did you steal, Tom?

But, then… my first name- Remus- comes from the legend of Romulus and Remus, the founders of the city of Rome. Suckled in infancy by a she-wolf… haha.

And Romulus killed his brother Remus and claimed Rome for himself. He named it after himself. And what does it mean? Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Although… truly, Sirius is the brightest star in our night sky. And, yes, he did fall from grace. But, unlike Satan, I believe he'll rise again and take his place among the innocent.

He was never a rebel angel.

Ahhwwwooooooo...

Werewolves of London
Ahhwwwooooooo...

I am a disciple with scars to prove it.

Caravaggio painted some of the most elegant biblical scenes. His "Sacrifice of Issac" is another personal favorite of mine. The detail in the flesh of Abraham's hand that holds Isaac prostrate by the back of his neck is simply stunning.

Paradise lost. Welcome to our war, and the casualties that result. Even the casualties that are accidents. I can barely stand to see it. Please, Lucifer… win your battle and leave the rest of us the fuck alone. I don't think I can sacrifice any more lambs.

Lamb to the slaughter. It's amazing what people will do in the name of God.

Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen
And they were doing the Werewolves of London
I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the Queen
And they were doing the Werewolves of London
I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's
His hair was perfect

I miss having a shoulder to cry on. I'm isolated in the world, in my mind. My friends… dead, fugitives, corrupt. I have nothing.

If I don't need a personal Jesus, then can I at least have a saint? Saint Thomas Becket the martyr, perhaps? I can identify with him; make me the martyr for my love. Let me leave my emptiness behind.

Or give me Harry. Just Harry. Let him live to see tomorrow, let him live so that I can hug him again and tell him how worried I was.

Queen of the angels… queen of the may… let us live… to see another day.

I love you so much.

 Ahhwwwooooooo...

Werewolves of London
Ahhwwwooooooo...

Hush, little baby… don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don't sing… I don't know what I'll do. I don't know what I'll do when I never hear you sing again.

It was an accident, and I'll never forget it. But if you can wake up tomorrow morning with your green eyes shining at me, I'll never ask for anything else. I swear, I swear, I swear.

I was born to love you and I will never be free… you'll always be a part of me.

Draw blood

I hate my life, but I love yours.