The sun, telling me the night is done
Well, I refuse to let it stop our fun
Close your eyes
We'll make it dark again
"Don't You" by Darren Criss
SnakeMan
Loud laughter rings out, piercing the surrounding black shadows. The world is made of shadows.
BANG! Another wave of pain washes over you. But what of it? The world is made of pain.
There is so much agony you don't know what doesn't hurt anymore. And everything is dark.
Truly. You cannot see.
"Well, well," he jeered. Her blind eyes opened in reaction, but the colors were all wrong. The once-pale green had gone—there were milky splotches where her pupils should have been, and every crimson blood vessel had burst.
"Is that what they're planning? They are foolish," the snake-face spit. "Reveling in frivolities while I subsist here, alone; all of you, foolish. But—tell me more, if you will."
The subtle threat was ignored. She hunched over in denial:
"No," she rasped, the quality of her voice shocking even herself. "Wh-why—"
A hand shakily emerged out of its damp, dirty robes, hesitantly. Hesitant! The motions were hesitant! Please—let the uncertainty be enough—
"Do it," came the command, and she slumped in despair.
You still cannot quite understand how that weak git overpowered you. Got you, he did! But how, you aren't sure, because you called the Ministry. Yes, you did. Maybe the help signal didn't get all the way through. But they can't blame you for that!
How long have you been missing?
You don't know.
Don't they notice you're gone?
Suddenly, a wave of loneliness sweeps you up onto the shore of reality again.
You hope that you can swim in your thoughts once more—preferably soon… It's mighty less painful.
"Crouch…" she moaned, "Crouch…"
"Yes?" the snake-man hissed, impatiently. "Crouch? Who are you telling to crouch?"
A trembling voice came from the man in the unwashed robes. He was the wand-carrier, the curse-caster, the servant—and shall she hate him? He seemed just as frightened and oppressed as she was.
Bullshit! you think.
"M-my Lord," he stuttered. "Perhaps…perhaps she means a—a person…"
The most frightening thing about that man is that he's not a man. He's…you don't know. He's a—presence, a breath, a pair of eyes. How to describe him? Just how?
It doesn't matter. He doesn't have a body, so he can't turn around.
The snake-man turned. Quite sharply.
"Wormtail," he considered coldly. "You may have a point."
The grungy man looked immensely relieved. "Yes—yes, my Lord! Thank you for your—for your recognition—"
The glowing pupils set themselves on her once again. "Crouch," he drawls slowly. "Barty Crouch."
Oh, you don't know anything about Barty Crouch!
This is your mind! You'll only think about yourself, just watch you!
You love your mind—never did before, others' gossip was SO much more interesting. You have nothing creative, but it's safe in here.
There is no pain.
You are safe.
"My…servant!"
The snake-man showed no emotion—he can't, he's a pair of EYES—but she could tell he was staggered. His friend in the bedraggled clothes could see it too.
"My faithful servant, suppressed… Do not fear, loyal one." As the dialogue turned inward, the snake-man paced—he doesn't have a body!—back and forth slowly. "Lord Voldemort rewards his followers."
His pale lips curved, malicious. They chilled you to the core.
What? No.
No.
No!
My thoughts are supposed to be safe.
Yes, they are. And—ARGH!
Agony, pure, distilled agony, burned through you, like heat sizzling, like ice clamping, like a razing forest fire that has left nothing nothing nothing in its path, like nothing nothing nothing she'd ever felt in your life before because it was the joining of soul and universe the scorching of a bond that only happens once in life—indeed, in death
I can feel it in my mind.
My mind is being cauterized from the inside out.
I can't distinguish the trees from me.
You are the trees.
You are the shadows.
You are the pain.
You are the snake-manNO!
You are the dark.
You…you…you are the dark.
Truly. You cannot see.
The snake-man snickered.
"Bertha, my dear, does that hurt? Oh, how your injuries must sting—"
"Ahh, my Lord," fumbled Wormtail. "The sun…it seems to be rising. D-dawn, my L-Lord."
The snake-man's featureless face—nothing makes sense anymore—was raised slowly, to face the glimmering light.
There was a long pause before he spoke again.
"The sun," he says in an undertone. "It can blind, but not tonight."
He stands over me, blocking out what little brightness embraced my prostate body.
Corpse.
"That's right," he whispers, strange smile glittering. "Tonight. For you, dear Bertha, I'm afraid it will always be the night…always dark…always cold…"
He straightens—his mistiness organizes itself—and shows his teeth triumphantly.
The rays of daybreak glance off the snake-man's pale eyelids as he murmurs, "Tonight, the sun loses. Oh, what fun we have, Bertha. I refute even the sun."
Wormtail's arm raises hypnotically.
Lord Voldemort smiles at me.
"Close your eyes, Bertha Jorkins…"
And this must be insanity.
But it ends.