A/N: My first one-shot! Ahem. Basically, this is about Murtagh and being angsty.
The Back of my Head
Murtagh sat at the desk in his room. A quill was poised in his hand, but it shook ever so slightly, as if there was an unearthly breeze passing through the air, causing the feather to sway. He carefully lowered his hand to the blank page of a long-forgotten journal, and began to write.
Words from my Black Heart was the title, and his writing was a neat, flowing cursive. Murtagh sighed as his emotions poured onto paper. Perhaps one day someone will read this, he thought, knowing that his feelings about anyone really finding out what was in his heart were false, and would never come to pass.
Words from my Black Heart
I can still remember,
When life was fine,
When the pain was not mine.
But now,
All of that's changed.
Everything's black,
And I'm way past the heart attack,
That came when the first blow found its mark.
Misery looked for me,
And long ago it found me,
As I crouched crying
As my fate came to light.
I've fenced myself in,
And I refuse to come out,
Of the thin cage of safety,
This guards my heart barely,
And prevents the pain inside from leaking out.
I know betrayal,
I thought I knew pain and depression,
Until I faced them full-on.
I put on a brave face that they still believe,
To hide the disgrace,
That festers in the black corners of my heart.
No-one can ever know,
The screams of protest and defiance,
That echo in my mind.
My anger is restrained from spreading,
Like wildfire in the bush,
Or poison in a forest.
No-one can ever be allowed to hear my pain.
They think I'm so happy,
That suicide never clouded my thoughts.
They're so thick that they believe they actually care for me,
They believe they're so innocent,
When they are one of my many sources of pain,
This echoes in my mind,
Loud and fucking clear.
But they can never know,
Because then they would become like me.
For now they must ignore my pain.
At they age of nineteen, I can already predict the manner,
In which my life will play out.
I can already predict the pain that is coming;
Life, depression, death is how my story will go.
There is no other way to express my sadness,
Besides words, as I am utterly alone.
I finally know what it is like, not to be understood,
To live on their assumption that my heart is yet to die,
Unknowing to them, died it already has.
I have heard of pain,
I've known it too.
I've tried to fight and failed, I hereby give up.
There is now no more point;
Why fight, when you will only fail?
Everything is not about happiness.
It's about escaping pain-
And pain won't let you defeat it.
You can't stop it;
Only as you contemplate suicide,
But realise you have come too far,
To fall into death's arms,
Do you realise the truth.
The truth is that you don't want to die, obviously.
All you want is any escape from the pain and only now,
You see how off-track your life has gone.
For now I have learnt,
To add the burden of relentless agony to my shoulders,
Or die,
Drowning in a black river no-one can be bothered saving you from.
Because they don't care, you see,
You're just an inconvenience to them,
Though they do not yet know it themselves.
You can't seem to find the end to pain.
That is because pain, refuses to have an end.
However, it has no exact plans for your misery.
Pain is like a cat chasing mice,
It wouldn't know what to do if actually caught all of them.
Pain does have plans; it just is unaware of them.
Misery is merely a prelude to pain,
But pain is the prelude to the drowning.
Pain feasts upon your misery,
And when the runs out, it will turn to your soul.
Nothing can ever save you now,
If pain has followed you this far.
Have you ever given up?
Given up, just like me?
When you finally, finally realise,
The meanings behind;
No escape, no returns, no resurrections,
There is only death for the heart that has already died.
They will never forgive you,
For the unrelenting truths,
The truths you accidentally blurt out,
In anger,
As the mask starts to crack,
And the dam of the black river starts to leak,
You show them what is behind the façade,
And turn their hearts black; just like yours.
***
Murtagh sighed and gently placed the quill back on the desk, and closed the journal that was otherwise blank, except for the words from his black heart.
A/N: REVIEW. Constructive criticism welcome, but no flames, please.