Do not own Harry Potter.
All metaphorical. No real plot. In fact, I don't know WHAT this is.
Blood swims and flesh dances, and Regulus doesn't know what to do. He knows he should stand up, should raise his fist, but he doesn't. Letting things spiral out of control was always a fear of his, but he's slowly discovering that fear is exciting.
He's letting it eat his stomach, drink his lungs. And it feels good, to let the rawness slip over and under and all around, so he doesn't know where or who he is, or what he's doing. He'd rather not know.
He does know that if it goes on much longer, then there won't be anything left for him to know. He'll just be a rotten pile of half-eaten flesh, dripping onto the floor from the dusty pedastal he set himself on, unfaithfully trying to give glory to a thing universally disgusting. But he just ignores that part.
He fools himself into believing he can stop it, he can laugh, and the spiral will slow to a stop and he could move his legs again. He could run and jump and go where he wants. But he fails to realize his legs have hooks through the knees and nails through the feet, sticking him to what people consider his justified space.
His hands are on either side, each stretching to god-knows-where, held by ropes, and long fingers are torn apart. Wrists are bent, and his chest is mangled, his heart hanging out dangerously by a small string of flesh.
You body is your temple, so he know he must be blaspheming. He looks ahead, not really looking, but imagining. He doesn't look down, and god frobid he looks back. Regulus is too scared to look over and see who's next to him, but he has a lingering suspicion that if he did, he wouldn't see anyone but himself, taunting.
His eyes are covered in needles, but he thinks he can still see. His body jerks in it's confines, and he finally wonders- When did I get so trapped?
He looks around, the needles falling away, and he shakes his head. Where am I? He questions. Thousands of people stand in front of him, greedy hands groping for him, and he arches away, terrified. They lap at the blood trickling from his form, rubbing it on their rotting, white figures. They scream his name, calling, crying, yearning to touch him, taste him.
He rips his arms from the ropes and grabs his heart, small and pulsing and bloodless. He holds it out to them and they snatch it, slender fingers wrapping around his wrist and pulling him into the crowd. Dead eyes look at him, hungry and waiting and angry.
They rip his legs away, fully taking him into the crowd. He lets them sink black teeth into him, and gray, dry tongues run over his neck. He silently lets them and everyone else eat him alive.