Disclaimer: I own nothing of the HP universe; Rowling does. The song that inspired it belongs to Eisbrecher.
Ich muss
Ich muss mir wieder weh tun
Ich tu mir leid so leid
Ich muss mir wieder weh tun
Weil nur der Schmerz mich heilt
--Eisbrecher (Leider)
He is suicidal by nature. By default. He can't help it. It is not something he can peel back and strip away, as he sometimes does with other parts of himself, whether out of necessity in his role as a double agent or to reject the identity he grows weary of. Because even he cannot turn a blind eye to how revolting he is.
o-O-o
They all despise him, but mostly for the wrong reasons. If they really knew him, they would loathe him as he loathes himself. Who can blame him for wanting to forget himself? He is fairly certain that they wish they could forget him, too. They will not, though, because this time he's really done it. He's left his mark on their world, the corpse of an old man, reminder of their own vulnerability.
It is only when the mighty fall that they realize just how defenseless, how breakable they all are. One blow in the right place, and they begin to unravel. Miserable wrecks, they become, because this is what war does. It lines their skin, withers their flesh. Slows their gait and deadens their eyes. It makes them hard and sharp, fills their hearts with despair, adds the steely, ruthless glint to their gazes. Slowly, it drains the very life from them – as they've come to find.
o-O-o
Though he should have left it all behind, it followed him, clinging to his skin like a film of sweat and blood. The tears have yet to come, and they will not, but it must be raining somewhere else.
It was foolish, so pitifully stupid – fate must be shaking her head, only he doesn't believe in her - to think that it would not haunt him as he stared into the Dark Lord's eyes, or else brooded at his place of residence on Spinner's End. He refuses to call it home.
o-O-o
He has taken to not being when he is alone. He forgets that he has a body and envisions the colour of nothing. He counts seconds, tries to freeze them. Like muggle photographs. Years ago, they mystified him. It was the eyes of the frozen people, sometimes sparkling with short-lived joy, sometimes accusing. Sometimes empty. All the ones he's seen are dead now. Sweetly dead.
o-O-o
He is a danger to himself. He will never admit this to anyone, but there is a foolish, reckless Gryffindor in him. He doesn't let him out, though. He keeps him tied up behind closed doors. The little bastard finds his way out, sometimes.
It was the reason he would provoke Potter and Black, always standing up for another defeat. It was the reason he had plunged headfirst into the whole mess with some silly notion of revenge – or was it power? Status? Recognition? Was it the pathetic need to belong? He has forgotten the reasons. It was the reason he would continue to come back into the fray, and then come crawling back to the sickly-sweet warmth of the Good side. It's never enough. Make no mistake, he is no martyr. He just keeps coming back to be used again. But not anymore, he isn't.
o-O-o
He feels strongly. Sometimes. Either that, or nothing at all. He does not know which he prefers. Numbness is painless. Its monotony can be soothing, but also dreadfully dull. And the sun is cold. It brings back the vile little thought that reminds him of a back door, that tells him to do it. He keeps it safely hidden away, like a dirty secret, just waiting to be freed.
o-O-o
He doesn't like to think of himself as physically existing. He would like to be made of vapour, fleeting and insubstantial. He is hopelessly present, disgustingly real.
When he looks into mirrors, he sees a face he would love to break. He tries, sometimes, but it only ends with blood on his hands.
He wishes for a blade to the throat. Better yet, through the heart. He pictures it, almost feels it.
He hates his flesh, but loves his blood, his filthy blood. It is beautiful. He wants to see less of it inside him.
o-O-o
He has many blades for various purposes, but this one is special. It is old. Over two decades old, but not worn.
He would use it in his teenage years, because it hurt too much. He almost drowned in his self-pity. Or perhaps he did drown.
He stopped after he joined them. He decided that he preferred drawing other people's blood.
He doesn't recall when he decided that it was wrong, or when he found the will to care, just that he decided to switch sides. Afterward, the knife would lie derelict, most of the time. But as with the knife's edge he walks on, he would sometimes slip.
o-O-o
He breaks the skin again, opening a thin, flawless red line.
And another. And another; they're crossing over each other in glossy strands, forming a scarlet web. Sparkling with life.
o-O-o
No one will know how weak he is.
He would like others to believe that he is not a coward.
He doesn't fear the Dark Lord.
He doesn't need one to do away with himself.
o-O-o
There's a tremor in his hand. His finger slips.
…
…
…
…
…
…
The clatter of the knife, as it hits the floor, is deafening.