In my pocket
Draco/Harry, one shot
A/N: This weird little thing was inspired by Radiohead's Bulletproof... I wish I was, a lovely song indeed. I don't know why but it seems that I have developed a serious obsession of making Draco mental, but I just love him like that; random thoughts running through his twisted little mind.
R&R please.
Limb by limb and tooth by tooth
Tearing up inside of me Wax me, mould me Heat the pins and stab them in
I think it was the 5th of November when people started looking at me oddly, yes, such a cold and grey morning it was. It was one of those days that I felt something twisting in the pit of my stomach, creeping itself up my insides. Up, up, up 'til it reached my head, and I went numb. Numb. It wasn't a scary feeling, not a nice feeling, either. It was just something that had been a part of me forever. My father called it fear and weakness, and that was the last time I ever told him anything.
And I went numb like frostbitten fingers and noses and ears. I threw up that morning, over and over again until there was nothing in my stomach. I tried to throw up the numbness, but it was there to stay, and I let it. It was so nice to be numb.
And I hated everything. It had always been like that. Hate, hate, hate until the end of the world. My father was very proud of me, I was his pretty little porcelain doll. I hated porcelain. I think father hated me.
But was that the day I walked out from the castle? Into the burning and smoking world?
I've never been one of those to remember things easily, no, not me. I loved forgetting things. Things like my vacations at the manor, things like finding mother staring at the mirror for hours, things like hearing muffled screams from the cellar. Yes, I loved forgetting things like that very much.
Oh, oh. There you are. I was talking to myself again, wasn't I?
I knew it. But I only do it cause I think you're there. Are you?
Denial is an old friend of mine.
I still have your umbrella, the black one.
It was raining that day. Which day was it again? Tell me which day it was, you have such a good memory.
Oh, yes. Now I remember. You were wearing those silly little shoes that day, and it was raining. Not such a good time to be wearing those shoes, now was it?
Yes, shush me. I talk too much, and nobody listens. But it was raining this thick black rain, hard and piercing like the earth I walked on, quite like the earth I walked on at the manor, and they tried to plant roses on it. How very silly of them.
But I knew. I knew that nothing could grow in that hard soil, but father slapped me on the face and told me to shut up. And that was the last time I ever said anything to him. He could play with my numb limbs all he wanted but I wouldn't open my mouth for him.And it was that very day when my seams cracked just a little bit, just a little bit more now.
I heard the rustling. I think the sound was sweet.
But who cares when I can blend into the surroundings? Into these rough sheets under me.
How can anything be whiter than white, you asked me once. I hated you for asking it.
I used to hate a lot of things, really, a lot of silly little things.
Oh, oh. But it was raining that day, and your shoes were all wet. You were soaked like a ragged little cloth. I think you looked tired.
I loved it. Loved seeing you like that. I loved it so much I almost laughed.
I know I looked like shit myself.
But who cares? At least I had a good reason.
It's Monday today. I know this cause the white lady brings me three biscuits with tea. Why three? Why not four? But she just smiles at me, oh yes, it's Monday todayand it is a very special day. Biscuits and tea, and I don't even look at them.
I think there's no such thing as love. I've never been loved and I've never loved anyone, how simple.
But then again, how can I know if love exists? Days like these I feel this stinging right behind my eyes, like something was trying to claw it's way out. Where was I?
Oh, yes. Love.
Love is like believing in God. You get so frightened of being alone you decide to believe in a lie, and then it's gone and you never get to know if it is true. Lies, lies, lies. Silly little things they are. I can point out a lie anytime, anywhere. My father would have been so very proud of me.
My footsteps used to haunt me at the manor, and it drove me crazy. Soft little child's steps against the plush carpets, and it drove me crazy. Just echoing all around me like soft whispers. I still remember the feeling of choking as the sound surrounded me, the world caving in on me. I would freeze, my breath hitched to my throat, and stay unmoving until someone – usually a crowd of house elves – would carry me away. They used to call me the stonechild when they thought I wasn't listening.
How I hated those rough, sticky little hands against me.
As always through the entire history of modern mankind, drugs -heroin- proved to be the blessed release I craved for.
Such a wonderful bliss it would spread across me, such a dulling lovely silence it would plant in my mind. No footsteps were known in the land of drugs. And I dwelled in that heaven for hours at end, and I forgot. It made me forget.
Oh, how I miss those days with just me and the heroin. I can remember so many colourful and warm things, the world was open for me back then. I was a painter, painting the world away with little things, with silly little things like finding myself walking hand in hand with someone, things like seeing the sunlight through the curtains. Yes, I can remember painting so many nice things.
Everyone called me with nice names.
Beautiful. Cold. Distant. Glowing. Hard. Glass. Ice. Water. Insane.
Insane. Insane. Insane.
But my seams started cracking more often. One at a time. But I was doing, -painting-, so many things it was hard to try and catch the runaway loops. And honestly, I loved the painting much more than my seams.
And then, then one day, I suddenly found myself scattered all across the floor. Like shattered and smudged glass, all my little peaces for everyone to see and poke and inspect.
And they loved it. And they called me insane.
The heroin was gone, just like that. But the painting had turned into forgetting. I think it was good. I didn't need to remember, not those times without the heroin. No. I didn't want to. So I forgot my birthday, I forgot what my face looked like. And then the white lady came along and she made me useless. Just something barely alive lying in a room filled with metal and machines.
Maybe I am nothing.
Just a little bundle of hate, followed by father and glued together with heroin.
And then one day, this very day, I didn't want to think about that rainy day. I didn't want to think about your silly little shoes.
It had came to a point where my apathy and runaway threads were binding themselves together, twisting my thoughts into oblivion so I could no longer find myself in the middle. I couldn't see the metal and machines, the white lady was gone. My mind was pouring out like a stream of rotting water, the one that you can see dead ducklings floating in. I couldn't catch it. I think it was good. Such a nice feeling of not being here.
After a while I knew you were there. I felt your presence.
Or maybe I was just insane. But you were shocking through my mind, your image perhaps.
Oh, so that's what you look like. Never would have guessed you look so sweet. Tired, maybe, but sweet.
Insane and Sweet. Sounds good to me.
Suddenly, I wanted to reach out to grab your hand, to stumble across you and fall into your heart. To scream your name into nothingness, just tell you over and over again I knew you were there. But I did nothing, like a decent Malfoy. My father would have been so very proud of me right now. I just laid there as if in a coma, staring blankly into the ceiling, feeling my mind expanding around me and slowly drifting away. Because there was nothing to do anymore. What was I? More than mondays-with-three-biscuits or rainy-days-with-your-shoes? And I didn't even know what love was.
If I hadn't lost the ability to cry, I would have done it now.
Suddenly, I felt your body against mine. And it was so small and fragile. Even more smaller and fragile than mine, and they always used to say I was a skeleton. But you were so, so small.
And I was horrified.
'Don't go, not yet.'
I heard you whisper. And I'd never heard a sound like that, so strange and so familiar. Then, then I almost wished I could remember. Then I almost felt sorry for using heroin. Almost.
'Be here. Let me steal this moment for longer, just a little bit longer now.'
I closed my eyes. There never were silly little things like love.
The white lady was standing by my side, detaching me from all those hoses and pumps I was connected to. Connected to for how long? Tell me again.
For six months. That is not a very long time. But then again, I have never believed in things like time or space or numbers. There were too many holes to dig into, and find lies behind them. Truth could be overruled with another truth.
But then you grabbed me back, just as I was fading away into the soothing blackness of my dying mind.
'Stop it, stop it! Stop it you fucking git!'
And suddenly. Then, then I suddenly found myself being swept back into the place what they call reality. Into the living and pulsing and rushing world. And everything was so bright and so cold.
I want to paint this. With colours.
My mind was vibrating and crushing and throwing itself up. Everything was so full with colour and movement it made me sick. And I knew that this had to be the feeling of being alive. I almost wanted to curl back into the blind spot behind my eyes, be safe and hidden away. Almost. Almost. Just an inch away.
But then there was you.
You. You?
Sweet. And Insane. And everything.
And I knew you. Knew you like the burning sensation circling up my arm as I injected the drug, knew you like the tingling feel of excitement as I ran to the Quidditch pitch. Because you were always there, creeping into my hallucinations, lurking in the background.
You were my numbness.
'Harry.'
The word echoed in the dim room, erasing away the footsteps. The white lady screamed in amazement and rushed away, but I didn't notice.
This, I knew, I would get to keep.
This, I knew, I could hide away in my pocket.
Insane? Maybe I was just in love.