Author's Note: Umm . . . this
is a bit of experimental nervous breakdown type of fic. I was in
a depressed mood when I wrote it, but I'd been putting on a happy face
and hiding it that day, and I wondered if that was possibly something that
the character might go through - total depression, but masking his feelings.
It could work! Yes? Okay, maybe no . . . ah, just read it,
it's short.
~
He was falling through the darkness of his mind, quickly descending into
that cold, black crevice in which he had, to some extent, always been moored
in. This obscure gloominess was somehow worse than the dimness of
the office in which he sat. A single candle had been burning, but
suddenly, without warning, it had sputtered and died. And he didn't
care, because that was how he felt inside. Dead.
So many more obstacles had recently been thrown at him, overwhelming him,
suffocating him. Cutting off all the flow of oxygen into his body,
it seemed. He clawed at the collar of his robes, sucking in a deep
breath and attempting to regain some control, but to no avail. The
terrible pressure resting on his shoulders weighed him down, and with a
strangled cry, the man slumped against his desk, sobbing his frustration.
Frustration - with himself, with those around him, with the world in general.
He'd thought about going to another with his troubles. Surely someone
- anyone - would listen to him, comfort his fears, soothe his worries.
But no - he'd finally decided against it. They would laugh, criticize,
ridicule . . . and that was possibly the last thing he needed.
What he did need, truly, was compassion.
He stood at the edge of a cliff, wanting to jump, ready to make that final
step. Would he do it? Could he? It would be unexpected,
because it would be an act not thought capable of him, because of the facade
he put on, the mask he wore. Full of self doubt, uncertainty, and
bitterness, he'd begun to drown in a pool of hatred. He reached out,
grasping, and was rewarded with nothing but a handful of air, when he had
longed to find a hand reaching out to him in turn, patiently waiting to
rescue him from that deadly pool, to force him back from that fatal leap.
It was not there.
"Please, pull me back. Help me," pleaded the broken voice of Severus
Snape to the dank silence of his office. "Pull me back . . ."
~
Author's Note 2: Well?
Whatchya think? I know - sobbing and pleading and words such as those
are thought of more to be feminine (or so my uncle said when he read this)
and wouldn't come to mind when thinking of Snape, but still . . . I've
know men who cried! And I was trying to relate what I was
feeling to him. No? Still confusing? Okay, I'm
going to shut up now.
Disclaimer: Not my character - poor
Sevvie belongs to J.K.R. Only the depression was mine.
~
