Hollowed
He gets the best of me, times like this; my fingers bloody and raw as they scrape the cold, unforgiving stone beneath me. My eyes empty, yet spilling crystalline tears, my mouth open, pleading, begging.
My clothes hanging from me in a tattered, bloody mess, my body curled on the floor, half on my side, half leaning forward. My insides twisting, my voice screaming without a sound, blood seeping from my many injuries as the grime from the floor rubs into the cuts and burns like fire.
He gets the best of me at times like this, and he knows it well. These times come rarely, but I can see he relishes them when they do present themselves. He does so love to watch me like this, as I do so love to see him, standing above me, immobile and stoic as always, a look of indifference on his face.
When I do this to myself, he does this to me. It is the only time, the only way I can get close to him in any sense of the word, without him throwing me out, casting me away.
When I knock upon his door, and he sees me in this state, he allows m to fall into his sitting room, fall to the floor at his feet and beg him. I know not what I beg him for at times like this, but these times are the only ones he allows, so I must be doing something right.
The times I go to him in a normal state, and plead for him to let me stay, he casts me out. The times I go to him, kiss him, move against him; he pushes me away.
So I hurt myself, throw myself against any unfriendly person or object, subject myself to their punishment, and throw myself at his feet.
That is the only time he allows me so near, the only time he lets me close.
I don't understand; but I'm not sure if I want to. It's out of some twisted, sadistic pleasure, I'm sure. Or he just can't stand to be near me when I'm not helpless. Whatever it is, I'll cater to it, because it allows me one step closer to him, two steps back. Better that no steps in either direction, I'd say.
The one time he ever did anything besides stand there, he kissed me. And the kiss burned, left my lips feeling as though I had kissed a phantom flame, and after that, I swore to do whatever it took to receive such a reaction again.
So here I am again, on my knees, on my stomach, on my side, begging. Begging for just a taste of kerosene, just a kiss of the match to set me on fire as the first kiss did; like charcoal-covered paper doused in gasoline when a match is lit.
And I will be here, in ageless eternity, until I receive my flame-shrouded taste of death, taste of pleasure beyond comprehension, taste of him.
A/N: Okay so that was kind of…inspired? By A-Spirit; I printed out ALL of her fics from her LJ, and in one, he says 'throw me out to no comfort but the stone floor' or something to that nature, and I sorta imagined Harry as he is in this; for some reason. Then the vocabulary and imagery was just residue; my mind was thinking in beautiful-language, so I wrote it that way. Review, ne?