In the dark she could almost pretend it wasn't real. She could pretend nothing else existed. Nothing but the darkness, like a friendly arm around her shoulders.
She closed her eye; she didn't know what time it was, if it was day or night, late or early. She didn't want to go to sleep anyways.
She felt like she was caught in the middle. He had given her a choice; he had come to her, asked her to join him, to help him. She could see he had been crying, she knew he was in pain. The mark so dark against his pale skin.
She opened her eyes again, surrounded by her darkness. There is no right and wrong, she was sure of that. There was no right and wrong, no light or dark, no good or evil. She had lived her life in darkness. She knew all it's treacherous paths. Walking the road in shades of grey.
She sighted, of course she would help him, of course she would join him, of course she would. But she couldn't do it. His pain went so deep, it was obvious to everyone what was going on. She knew this pain. She was intimate with his pain.
A pain eating away at you, a pain growing the more you distance yourself from it, a pain not easing with time. A pain made of darkness as black as the deepest night. She couldn't help him heal his scars, when her own were still wide open and aching.
She closed her eyes again, willing herself to stay awake just a little bit longer. She knew what she would see when she fell asleep, and she dreaded it. She knew who's face would haunt her.
She remembered his words… Hello sweetie… you look cold… don't be afraid… I can help you…
She forced her eyes open again. She weren't ready to face those dreams just yet tonight. She thought about him again. What he was doing, it was wrong. He knew it, and he knew she knew it too. But it was to late. He was past the point of no return, all he could do was to take backward glances. This weren't children's games anymore.
She turned around and looked at him. Soundly asleep, he looked almost content. Like he didn't have an enormous burden resting on his shoulders, weighing him down, crushing him.
She watched his arm, the mark stood out on his pale skin, even in this darkness she could see it clearly, she wondered if it would ever fade. If it would fade when he died. If it would only look like a tattoo, not like a living animal had taken place on his arm. She hoped 'it' would die when he died too.
For he would die, that was his task, to fail and die.
And she would watch. Not as he died, but as he killed himself trying to save everything he knew, everything he had.
And then she would be alone. Pansy Parkinson would be left alone in her darkness, her demons haunting her, with no one who would know what it's like.