Harry Potter and why is life so difficult?

The Dursleys' house was stifling, the air thick with tension and despair. Each day felt like a trial, and each night I lay in my cupboard, grappling with thoughts that had grown darker, heavier. Running away wasn't an option anymore. I couldn't risk another failure. The wizards—whoever they were—had shown they could find me anywhere. They could reach into my mind and twist my thoughts, erase my memories, and drag me back to this hell.

It wasn't just my freedom at stake. It was my sanity.

What were the limits of their power? That question had gnawed at me for days. They could find me. They could mess with my head. But could they do anything? Could they undo everything?

One thought lingered, sharp and persistent: They can't bring back the dead. That seemed certain. Even in a world where magic was real, death had to be final.

If I couldn't escape the Dursleys, then maybe the only way forward was to remove the problem entirely.

I thought about them—really thought about them, in a way I never had before. Dudley was just a stupid, fat child. Petunia? She was cruel, yes, but her cruelty mostly lived in her shrill screams and disdainful looks. Vernon, though—Vermin, as I'd started calling him in my head—was different. He was the one who hit me. He was the one who chased me down when I tried to run. He was the one who made me feel small, worthless, and utterly powerless.

It always came back to him. The violence. The rage. The bruises on my body that never seemed to fade.

If Vernon was gone, the house would still be awful. Petunia would still screech, and Dudley would still shove me, but it wouldn't be this.

Could I really do it? The thought of killing him—murdering him—made my stomach churn. But I'd tried everything else. I'd been kind, even obedient, hoping it might earn me a reprieve. It hadn't. I'd tried running away, only to be dragged back and broken all over again. Every avenue I'd taken had led me here, back to this miserable cupboard under the stairs.

It was regrettable—tragic, even—but the truth was undeniable. I didn't see another way.

Vernon had to die.

I sat in my cupboard, clutching my knees to my chest as the house settled into its nightly silence. My heart pounded as I thought about what had to happen next. This wasn't a decision I could make lightly. It wasn't one I wanted to make. But it was the only choice that seemed left to me.

For a better life, for any life at all, Vernon Dursley couldn't be part of it.

My mind made up about Vernon's death, I forced myself to think about how I could make it happen. I didn't have the luxury of mistakes. I was small, weak, and had only one chance to get it right. If I failed, there would be no second attempt—Vernon would kill me, I was certain of that.

Guns were out of the question. Not only did I not know where to find one, but the noise would bring the whole neighborhood down on me. Poisons? Chemicals? That was a world I didn't understand. I couldn't risk fumbling with something I didn't know how to use.

But the kitchen was mine to clean. Mine to cook in. Mine to access without question. And the kitchen had knives.

It wasn't hard to picture. The gleaming edge of the largest knife in the drawer, one I'd used countless times to prepare meals for the Dursleys. I'd never thought about it as a weapon before, but now, it felt like the only answer.

A knife was silent. A knife didn't rely on anything but my grip and my aim. But it wasn't enough just to have a weapon—I needed to know where to strike. I couldn't overpower Vernon, couldn't match his brute strength. If he woke up and fought back, I wouldn't stand a chance.

I thought about the wolves in that nature documentary Dudley had watched months ago. They always went for the throat, aiming for the arteries, cutting off air and blood in a single, devastating move. It wasn't pretty, but it was quick.

The thought of doing something so violent, so messy, made my stomach churn. But I couldn't afford to let fear stop me. I couldn't think about the blood or the sound or what would come after. I had to think about survival. About freedom. About the better life waiting on the other side of this terrible act.

The best time would be when he was drunk. It happened often enough—him stumbling back from the couch, his face flushed, slurring insults as he barked orders at Petunia. Once he was asleep, he wouldn't notice me coming into the room. One clean strike to the throat would be all it took.

Even if it wasn't perfect, even if it was messier than I wanted, the throat was his weak point. His size, his strength, none of it would matter if I could make the cut deep enough and fast enough.

I could do this.

I didn't want to. God, I didn't want to. But I could.

The first step was simple enough: I needed to ensure I could leave the cupboard at night. The lock was old, rusted, and used more to keep me in than to provide any real security. Over the course of several days, I quietly worked to damage it. While cleaning the house, I'd subtly jiggle it, bending the mechanism just enough that it wouldn't fully latch anymore. By the end of the week, I could slip out without anyone hearing the telltale click of the door opening.

That was one hurdle down.

Next, I needed the weapon. The kitchen knives were always in the same drawer, and though I handled them daily to chop vegetables or slice meat, no one ever paid attention to what I was doing. It was just my job.

When I found a suitable blade—long, sharp, and sturdy—I slipped it into the cupboard during my next chore. Wrapping it in an old rag, I stashed it beneath my mattress. My heart pounded the entire time, terrified someone would notice. But no one did. The Dursleys never paid attention to me unless they were angry.

Vernon's routines were painfully predictable. He worked during the week, bellowed orders in the evenings, and spent most of Saturday sprawled in front of the TV, yelling at football matches and drinking himself into a stupor. It was his sacred ritual.

That was my chance.

Once he was asleep, sprawled in his chair or the bed, I could sneak in. The knife was ready. I knew where to strike. One clean cut to the throat—fast and deep, like the wolves on TV—and it would be over.

The idea of doing it sent chills through me. It wasn't just the act itself—it was the weight of it, the finality. I wasn't a killer. I wasn't even strong. But I was desperate, and desperation made people do things they'd never thought themselves capable of.

This wasn't about hate. It wasn't even about revenge. It was survival, plain and simple. I'd tried everything else. Nothing worked. This was the only way left to escape, the only way to guarantee he couldn't hurt me anymore.

It would be hard. It would be terrifying. But it was necessary.

For my survival. For my freedom.

Saturday night arrived, and with it came the moment I'd been dreading and preparing for. Petunia had drunk too much wine, her usual sharp demeanor dulled as she retired to bed early. Vernon, predictably, got plastered in front of the television, his face red and his speech slurred as he shouted at the screen. Hours later, he barely made it to bed, collapsing in a drunken heap next to his wife.

I waited in my cupboard, heart pounding, clutching the knife. This was it. There was no turning back.

When the house was silent, I pushed open the cupboard door and stepped out, knife gleaming faintly in the moonlight. The air felt thick, every sound amplified as I carefully ascended the stairs. One creak beneath my foot made me freeze, my breath catching in my throat. But no one stirred.

I reached the bedroom door and pushed it open, the hinges mercifully silent. The room smelled of alcohol and stale sweat. Vernon lay sprawled on his back, his face slack and his mouth slightly open as he snored. Petunia was turned away, motionless on her side.

I stepped closer, the knife trembling in my hands.

Standing over Vernon, I whispered, "This isn't personal. But it's you or me, and I choose me."

I gripped the knife with both hands, my entire body trembling. My nerves were on fire, adrenaline surging through me like a tidal wave. My mind screamed at me to act, to end this, to finally escape.

With all my strength, I raised the knife and plunged it downward, aiming for his throat.

But just before the blade touched his skin, a red flash erupted from nowhere, blinding and shocking me. The knife stopped mid-air, hitting something invisible but solid. It was as though an unyielding barrier had materialized between the blade and Vernon's flesh. The force of the stop jolted me, and the knife slipped from my hands, clattering to the ground.

I couldn't breathe. My chest felt tight, as if something unseen was crushing the air out of me. Vernon stirred, grumbling in his sleep, but didn't wake. Petunia remained motionless. My heart hammered in my chest as I crouched, frozen with fear and disbelief.

The room was silent again, save for the sound of Vernon's snoring and my own ragged breaths. Slowly, the crushing pressure eased, and I was able to move. I reached for the knife, my fingers trembling as I picked it up.

The room remained still, save for the echo of Vernon's snoring and the erratic sound of my own panicked breaths. My lungs burned, each gulp of air a desperate attempt to steady myself. But I wasn't calming down.

What was that? My mind raced. An invisible barrier, a crushing force—was it… magic? No. No, it couldn't be. That was impossible. It had to be something else. A fluke. Something explainable.

I shook my head, my breathing ragged. "I can do it," I whispered to myself, gripping the knife tighter. My hands trembled, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from my chest. "It was just… just a mistake. I'll do it again. It'll work this time. It has to work."

Swallowing down my fear, I re-positioned myself over Vernon. He was still there, sprawled and oblivious, his snores loud and rhythmic. I steeled my nerves, whispering a silent mantra to myself: It's you or me. You or me.

I raised the knife again, my whole body screaming against the tension. My heart thudded painfully in my ears, and adrenaline surged anew as I plunged the blade down.

Red light exploded once more. The same invisible force stopped the knife cold, as though I'd slammed it into a wall. But this time, I clung to the handle, refusing to let it slip from my grasp.

I stared in disbelief, my mouth open, the blade trembling in my hands. What?

Breathing was becoming harder by the second, each inhale shallow and strained. My vision swam, and sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes.

Why? My mind screamed. Why is this happening? Why can't I do it? My knees buckled slightly, and I stumbled back, struggling to keep my balance.

"No," I rasped, gasping for air. "Something… something's wrong. I… I need to retreat. Not tonight. I'll… I'll try again later."

But walking felt impossible. My legs were heavy, my strength draining with every shaky step I took toward the door. Each movement was agonizingly slow, as though I was dragging a hundred-pound weight with me.

By the time I reached the cupboard, I could barely hold myself upright. I fumbled with the door, practically falling inside before pulling it shut behind me. My head spun, and the knife slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the wooden floor.

Darkness overtook me as I collapsed onto the thin mattress. My breathing was shallow, my body weak and trembling.

The last thought that flickered through my mind before unconsciousness claimed me was a mixture of fear and despair: Is the world itself against me?

Then, nothing.