He examined the pale flesh of his forearm carefully, before lowering the blade. He pressed against the skin, cutting deeper until he drew blood. The blood slowly trickled down his arm, red and beautiful. It fascinated him.
There was so much pain inside... but now it was fading as he concentrated on his task, cutting slowly and deeply in some places, slashing at others. Whenever he took the metal edge away, the hurt he had bottled inside made itself felt – so he kept the knife touching his skin, even when he had paused and wasn't cutting.
It was cool to the touch, metal gleaming in the light. His latest wound grinned at him, gaping wide, mocking him. So he cut again... and again. Emotions slowly melted away, leaving only a numb buzzing feeling.
He didn't cut to kill; he cut to bleed out the hurt. Deep inside, he knew it could only end one way, and it scared him. If he could choose his death, he would choose to fly... jump from one of the towers, maybe. After the point of no return, would be the freedom; the flight, the glory, wind rushing through his hair... he would die free, free from the hurt, the pain, the lies...
He would miss them so much... Ron, Hermione, hell, even Malfoy! Well... perhaps that was going too far. But he had to wonder... did they even care? None of them had noticed anything wrong... and no one would notice until it was too late. He was too good at acting – he put up mask after mask that nobody saw through. Sirius would – no, would have. Sirius was gone now, because he had been playing the hero again. Tears ran unchecked down his checks.
He slumped against the wall, wiping away the tears – his brief moment of weakness. He felt empty, exhausted – and ready to face the rest of the school again. He stumbled to a basin, splashing his face with water, waking himself up. He then proceeded to lovingly clean his knife, his ally. His friend.
He dried and pocketed the knife, before cleaning off his cut and bloody arms. He used both water and soap, relishing the bitter sting. Once clean and dry, he pulled his sleeves down to cover the telltale patterns of scars on his arms. They'd stopped bleeding for the moment.
He straightened, turning towards the door, his mask sliding naturally into place after so much use. He strode out the door without looking back, the pain already pooling in his soul once more. He was drowning in it.
There was so much pain inside... but now it was fading as he concentrated on his task, cutting slowly and deeply in some places, slashing at others. Whenever he took the metal edge away, the hurt he had bottled inside made itself felt – so he kept the knife touching his skin, even when he had paused and wasn't cutting.
It was cool to the touch, metal gleaming in the light. His latest wound grinned at him, gaping wide, mocking him. So he cut again... and again. Emotions slowly melted away, leaving only a numb buzzing feeling.
He didn't cut to kill; he cut to bleed out the hurt. Deep inside, he knew it could only end one way, and it scared him. If he could choose his death, he would choose to fly... jump from one of the towers, maybe. After the point of no return, would be the freedom; the flight, the glory, wind rushing through his hair... he would die free, free from the hurt, the pain, the lies...
He would miss them so much... Ron, Hermione, hell, even Malfoy! Well... perhaps that was going too far. But he had to wonder... did they even care? None of them had noticed anything wrong... and no one would notice until it was too late. He was too good at acting – he put up mask after mask that nobody saw through. Sirius would – no, would have. Sirius was gone now, because he had been playing the hero again. Tears ran unchecked down his checks.
He slumped against the wall, wiping away the tears – his brief moment of weakness. He felt empty, exhausted – and ready to face the rest of the school again. He stumbled to a basin, splashing his face with water, waking himself up. He then proceeded to lovingly clean his knife, his ally. His friend.
He dried and pocketed the knife, before cleaning off his cut and bloody arms. He used both water and soap, relishing the bitter sting. Once clean and dry, he pulled his sleeves down to cover the telltale patterns of scars on his arms. They'd stopped bleeding for the moment.
He straightened, turning towards the door, his mask sliding naturally into place after so much use. He strode out the door without looking back, the pain already pooling in his soul once more. He was drowning in it.