A/N This is in no way related to any of the one shots or multi-chapter fics I've written about Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass, and this is something a little different that what I've done before. I read It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini (may he rest in peace) about four months ago, and the beginnings of this are deeply rooted in the reaction I had to the novel (it's a great book, I highly recommend it). Reviews are love, suggestions are welcome, and please enjoy.
Disclaimer: Props to JKR, Ned Vizzini, and Chris Martin for the inspiration. Thanks to ENG 220 for feedback, comments, and general greatness. You guys will never know how much you helped me.
"Mr. Malfoy?"
He didn't move an inch when he heard his name. It was the same Healers, the same Mediwizards, the same people every single day.
"I've brought a potion. It should help you sleep better."
He remained laying on his side in the bed. The Healer placed the vial of potion on the bedside table.
"I'll just leave it here for you Draco. I highly suggest you take it."
He ignored her entirely. They could prescribe him as many potions as they wanted to, but he was never going to drink them.
The lunch tray brought into his room earlier remained relatively untouched. He had taken a few bites from an apple and sipped from a cup of water. His single bed was pushed against the glowing, eerie white walls of his room.
When he had been admitted, they placed him in his own private room instead of with a roommate, like most of the patients. The room was very small and contained only his bed, the small table with a lamp, and a wardrobe in the corner. Even these few things were cramped close together. The wardrobe held a few changes of clothes for him, but for the most part was bare and empty.
The Healer tried to check on him every hour or so. He would have told her it was a waste of time. She usually found him lying in the same position on his bed, his eyes burdened with the lack of sleep. His Healer had tried to coax him to eat more in his first few days. Now, she counted herself lucky if she could get Draco to just acknowledge she was there. He couldn't remember her name, and he didn't want to. She was too nice to him, and he hated her for it.
The smell of his lunch made him feel ill. He had days when the food made him angry, and he would throw the trays against the walls. Other days, like today, he wouldn't get out of bed, and the thought of food or water didn't mean anything to him. He would eat little, use the bathroom little, and move as little as possible. The Healer hated his apathetic days more than his angry days.
"Draco you should try to eat a little more," she suggested again when she came with the dinner tray a few hours later.
"Today it's roast beef. Lots of protein and energy in roast beef."
She stood beside his bed with the tray levitating off the ground. "I know it's not the most finely cooked food in the world, but it is very good for you. Please try to eat more."
His eyes were focused straight ahead, and her words seemed to pass over him. He did not want to eat.
"Draco, you'll starve yourself to death. And I would be awfully sorry to see you go. Please eat."
They didn't allow him to use utensils without supervision. If he wouldn't eat in front of a Healer or supervisor, then the rest of his food was cut and chopped so he could eat without the forks and knives. His Healer pushed the tray towards him.
"Just a bite Draco. Just one bite for right now. Then you can eat more later."
"I don't want it."
"Why not?"
"I don't. Leave me alone please."
"Draco, if you can just take one bite..."
"I said leave me alone."
The Healer pursed her lips. She set the tray down on his table.
"I know what you're doing Draco. And you can't keep doing it forever."
She stood and watched him for a few more minutes, waiting to see if he would change his mind and eat a little dinner. His endurance proved to be greater than hers.
"Draco you have my call button and I am available at any time," she said as she left his room. "Any time."
She always dropped hints to him like that, just in case he made some progress and wanted to talk to her. He never did. More importantly, he didn't plan to. The nurse would be back within an hour, another potion in hand and would try to coax him to drink it, to eat his food, to try to rest, to talk to the Head Healers in charge of the ward. Her pep talks had little variation.
He sat up in bed and looked at the food. There was pre-cut roast beef, a small bowl of roasted potatoes, a serving of beans, and a cup of water. His meals were simple. They knew he hardly ever ate them or ate much of them. He picked up a strip of the roast beef and rolled it between his fingers. The smell wasn't strong, but it was there. He placed the strip on his tongue and forced his teeth to take a small bite from it. He chewed and chewed before swallowing, and the meat felt rough inside his mouth. He managed to take two more bites before he dropped the roast beef. The potatoes looked alright, and he ate two before he grew disgusted with them. The beans were unappealing, but he took deep drinks from his water glass. The water cups in his ward were bewitched to refill themselves once they had been drunken from. He drank half his glass, more than he had being drinking in a few days. The half-filled glass was placed back on his tray, and he moved towards his wardrobe.
He would eat no more today.
The Healer would say it wasn't enough. The Head Healers would see it wasn't enough. He found it to be more than enough.
The wardrobe in his room was an old wooden one from a sale down in Diagon Alley. When the ward was being furnished, funds were running low, and they had to make do with the money at their disposal. There were scratches and marks all over the wardrobe. It had to be at least fifty years old when bought, and in his old life, Draco Malfoy would have never given any thought to this particular piece of furniture.
He opened the door and scrunched himself against the floor. It was small, but he knew how to make himself small. His weight loss had reduced his size substantially. He closed the door behind him, immersing himself in quiet darkness.
His few shirts hung above him. There were two white button-ups and three plain black shirts. Laundry was done every week, but Draco hadn't taken his clothes out to the hall hamper even once.
He placed a hand on the floor and felt the scratch marks there. Most were scattered randomly on the floor, but he knew where each one was. He counted them twice, just to make sure. He was right about their number, as always. He used his fingernail again. He had been through all of them twice, and now his right pointer finger would get another turn. He dug it into the floor and began his scratch. It always hurt like hell. The nail began to break and age-old splinters shoved themselves up into his skin. He didn't stop until the single line was of a good size.
When he finally took his finger away, his other hand brushed over the mark. He added it to the count. Twenty-two. His finger was bleeding some. They usually did once the nail was broken. Some nights he would use his shirt to stop the blood flow. Other nights, he just let it be. Today was a day when he would let it be.
He curled up into a ball more tightly. There was no thought or feeling he could use to justify why he took to this behavior. He didn't even understand it sometimes. All he knew was how the pain he experienced in the closet helped him remember. It performed that one basic task for him. His finger was throbbing, but he tried his best to ignore it. He had too much practice at ignoring pain. His eyes felt heavy, and the demand for rest was overtaking him. He hated going to sleep. There was nothing he hated more than the dream world that awaited him. His Healer said the potions would help him sleep better, but she had no idea. No idea whatsoever. The faces his dreams followed him everywhere. They only became more vivid when his eyes were closed. He could see every detail and hear every scream. Each night was a fight against going to this world of terror. Some nights he could stay awake. Others, like this evening, his body was stronger than his mind. His eyes fluttered shut, and as he fell asleep, fear coursed through his heart.
They were waiting for him, like he knew they would be. He would still see the ghosts, even when he woke up.
Draco.
He was sitting at the dining room table again. Blood dripped from the cuts on her forehead and arms. She gasped as her body twitched against her will. She struggled against her invisible bonds and plead to those around her in a cracked, terrified voice.
"Do you recognize our guest Draco?"
He starred in horror as the woman revolved in the center of the table. The snake-like eyes bore into his mind as he saw Him smirk and speak the dreaded words. Avada Kedavra! She fell right in front of him, dead, with blood issuing forth from her mouth. He looked to his right and left, praying for a chance to escape her stare. She never stopped looking at him.
The great snake that taunted him daily slithered onto the polished wood and seemed to smirk at him before commencing. He started screaming when he saw the snake take its first bite.
It turned to him, fangs barred as it slithered closer. He hated that snake, but he couldn't move. All around him was laughter. He saw the red eyes peering in, and he saw the snake grin at him before striking. As the fang marks on his neck dripped red, his screams were drowned out by the hissing.
"Draco!"
"He's unresponsive. Get him onto the bed."
"We can't move him like this!"
"I need Replenishing potion, now!"
"How could he have possibly?"
"The marks are there, he's been at this since he's been here."
"We've been monitoring him..."
"Which hasn't been doing any good has it!"
"He's in critical condition, he needs to be moved. Now!"
On January 12, 1999, Draco Lucius Malfoy committed his last suicide attempt. It failed. Though the thought to end his life crossed his mind a few times again afterwards, he would never attempt the act ever again.