disclaimer/ I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters. please don't sue.
BLEEDING ROSES
The roes cover his bed, they are white or at lest they used to be. Now under years of neglect and hard washing they have faded to mere ghosts of flowers that spin away from him in dizzying patterns, their soft purity so unmatched to the bleak blacks that cover all else in his room.
It perhaps wrong to call it his bed when it is not. The room is not his either. He owns little in his life and that which he does never lasts long. Even the jobs he works are fleeting. But the room is steady. He has lived between it's tired walls for almost 6 years, and if that does not make it his than he fears that nothing is.
The roses to are his. They are always his and he has not slept a night without them. If they need to be washed or repaired then he simply does not sleep. There is no sleep without the Roses to guard his dreams.
He does not know why they are so important to him, for they carry no real memories and they certainly do not represent him or who was or is. In that respect they are polar opposites for his innocences faded long before the roses ever did, was been berried under a fall of blood and tears and bitterness, until there is nothing and no one left on his soul.
Yet sometimes, when he lies awake at nigh, and the moon pales his face to the Roses' white, he thinks that it is because they are what he should heave been had not the years treated him as they did, with scars etched on his body and mind.
And it is in those times he remembers them. People he had log since hoped to have forgotten or else
drunken away. He remembers quite laughter and happiness and warmth, and it is taunting and mocking that they should visit him only at dreams edge, as he remembers again and again. And sometimes the memories get to much and he feels he is drowning in them, that they are going to burst him or break him, until the red spills over his pale flesh, dripping down onto the innocent petals until they are drenched in his release.
And somehow he knows that they would hate him for this, he knows and he doesn't care because the pain is just so intoxicatingly good, and for a few moments he feels alive.
And then the moment leaves and he feels guilty for he does love them even in their fragile half-forgotten memories. And the people fade with the dawn, and each night their voices grow quieter and their features fainter.
And he always thinks that this is the last night he will do this, that soon he'll get back on his feet again. He thinks it and knows it for a lie, for he is no more likely to find a new purpose than it is for the roses to ever completely rinse themselves of his blood.
The roses will always be both pure and bleeding just as the boy will always live as others die