Pale
Draco Malfoy looked into the cracked mirror; his shaking white hands gripped the sink so tightly it hurt. He hadn't cried for six years. He had forgotten the feeling, the burning sensation behind your eyes as you try to blink back the tears. But they come. They always do. And now they flowed freely down his pale face, because he let them. He didn't try to hold them back, because holding back hurt. It was what had gotten him here. Draco closed his eyes. He didn't have to look to see what was under the sleeves of his perfectly white shirt. Everything he had was perfect; his teeth, his hair, his clothes, his home. But somehow, that always hurt. Everything hurt, from his forced laughs to breathing, to living. Draco didn't know why, but he hated himself. He hated looking in the mirror, so he kept his eyes closed, so he wouldn't have to look, wouldn't have to see. He could feel himself shaking, feel the tears running down his cheeks, feel the knife's blade as he pictured it in his mind. The knife, glinting silver, as it cut his white skin, the dark red blood, and then the shining white scars, which over time had come to write on Draco's arm the feeling he always felt, the feeling no one knew about, what he must keep a secret. Underneath the sleeves of his white shirt, underneath the skull and the snake on his left forearm, he had written hate. And Draco hated it. He hated the knife, the cuts, and the pain. Yet he still pulled it out o his pocket, and he opened his eyes, and he saw it. He must add a new word. A new feeling. His hand shook as he gripped the knife. He didn't dare look in the mirror, for then he might stop. Crimson shown on his pale wrist, and he could picture the new word. He could feel the new feeling, the despair. As the blood started flowing, the tears stopped. For one moment, Draco's eyes flickered toward his reflection. He had looked himself in the eyes, if only for a second. He hadn't been able to for six years. Why are you doing this? A voice asked him.
"Because I failed." Draco answered the voice. He did not know it, but it was comforting, he wanted to hear it again.
You didn't fail. You don't deserve this. Put the knife down, Draco. Let it go.
The knife hurt. The knife hurt, and the cuts hurt, and the hatred and the despair hurt. But the voice felt good. Let it go. It was good. It was comfort. The knife hurt, and Draco let it go. It fell to the floor with a clatter. "I let it go." Draco told the voice. He stared at the knife. The sharp edge was tinged with crimson. Small, red droplets were forming on the wet tiles, and it took Draco a few moments to realize that it was his blood, dripping from the wound. Looking down, he saw that his sleeve had slid back down his arm, and a scarlet stain was forming on the white, spreading like a rose in bloom. He would have to wash it out. With the water came more tears, but these didn't burn. They washed away. Draco left the bathroom, his footsteps echoing on the tile walls.
The knife stayed on the floor.
