I remember when, long ago, I had a purpose.
I remember when, long ago, I had a heart.
Now all I am is an empty shell, one that masquerades as a person. I can never forget when my humanity was ripped away from me. Who are these people, these power-hungry bodies, that think they have a right to decide whose life works out and whose doesn't? Who are these people with souls and thoughts and memories?
They are not I, for I am not a person.
I once spent my time with smiles and secret kisses, and now I spend it with dull eyes and shivers of pain. I see only the bad things, never the good. I see my love dying; I see myself, my mind, drifting away. But I can never truly drift away. No, I must spend my time trapped behind these bars of judgment until I waste away completely.
Everyone used to say I was promising. They used to think that I might grow up to be an Auror, or perhaps maybe an influential something-or-other. Now they scoff and cringe and laugh at my name, and do not remember that I was once one of them.
This place, this cold, dark, evil place, is torture. They care that I still breathe only because they revel with sick pleasure in my agony. When I am fortunate enough to pass on to eternal bliss they will feel sadness, if only for a short time.
I imagine that my memory will not live on. It will be hidden in criminal records, hushed by mothers if their children mention it. For why should I have the grace of being remembered when all I did was cause suffering? I imagine they will scoff and say, "Oh, I remember that boy. A rotten apple, a blemish to his family name. A good thing he's dead, I say. Better off without him taking up precious oxygen."
Yes, I imagine it will go something like that. But they do not know my story—they do not remember that once, long ago, I had a purpose.
They do not remember that once, long ago, I had a heart.
A/N:
I might leave this as a one-shot, but I'm also considering about expanding it intoa true story. Opinions?
Reviews would be grand!