Prelude: The Thread

He walks through the building, moving swiftly. Careful to dodge the flying papers, he heads for the desks of his fellow employees. Life working at the ministry. He doesn't really like the job. But he needs the money. He has children you see, and a beautiful wife. A wife he adores above all the rest. He knows it seems odd to have only one true love, when so many people go through at least two of them, but he swears she is his only. He would never love again if she were to die, before him. So he does this crappy job for her. He gets paid for her. And he makes sure he's home on time for her. Just to see her shinning eyes smiling up at him as she tells him about her day.

Normally she tells happy stories, but lately they are filled with worry. She is losing someone. He can see that. He knows who it is too, but he doesn't want to believe it. This person can't be slipping away. He won't allow it. On some level he realizes that it is happening. But he believes he can fight it. They can fight it. Her and Him together forever, fighting for what is right, just like it used to be. But now they are fighting for the person they both love so much. And they will win. They will get him back. He hopes so. It pains him greatly to even think about losing this person. So he doesn't. He goes to work, gets paid and comes home to her.

He just so happens to be thinking of her as he makes his way to the office. Ready and prepared for another day of work. Another day for her. But upon passing a close door he hears a noise. A noise like a body dropping to the floor. He knocks on the closed office door but hears no noise. He opens the door.

His first reaction is complete surprise. A grown man, with platinum blonde hair, is on the floor. Shinning red liquid is pouring out from his wrists. His porcelain skin is being stained by the deep rich colour. A beautiful colour, he remembers later, a deep, rich, metallic, stunning colour. It attracts his gaze for a moment and he is swept away by complete sadness. He feels it radiate around the room. He feels it rise up from the man on the floor and soak up to his own body. For a moment in time he feels the pain, the depression, the self-loathing, the overpowering sadness this man feels. It blows him away. He has never felt such strong negative feelings and, therefore can never start to understand them. But for a moment in time, he feels as if he has lived right next to the man on the floor. He feels as if he has been there through his whole life. Like he hadn't missed one single moment of it.

But he awakes from the feeling of understanding as the man's eye's slide shut. He stumbles forward and summons two cloths, one for each wrist. He ties one tightly around the left wrist, for it is not bleeding as badly as the other. He holds the cloth tightly to the scarred wrist. He then sends for help with his patronus, hoping that help will come soon. He can't lose anyone else this way. He won't allow it.

Luckily, helps arrives quickly, and the man on the floor is quickly rushed off to St. Mungo's Hospital. They tell him it will be okay, but he can't seem to find the use of his legs, arms or mouth. Is that what the person he cares so for so much was like? Was the same pain orbiting around the room when that person to tried to end it, too? Did they both think that no one cared? Because he cared, he cared for both. On different levels of course, but he did care.

Eventually, he was able to tell the people around him that he was fine. And if they would just leave him alone for a moment to collect himself, he would be fine. So the people left the office and left the door open a little bit.

He stood up, shaking only a little. He moved towards the desk. It had few papers scattered atop it. Most of them about the project that the man was working on. But underneath all of these was a poem.

A poem that, when he read it, filled him with an overpowering sense of calm sadness. A felling unlike anything he had ever felt before. With the power of this emotion and this poem, he cried. He cried for the first time since hearing the news of what his best friend had tried to do.

The Thread

Wish
you could turn off
the questions, turn
off the voices,
and turn off all sound.

Yearn
to close out
the ugliness, close
out the filthiness,
close out all light.

Long
to cast away
yesterday, cast
away memory,
cast away all jeopardy.

Pray
you could somehow stop
the uncertainty, somehow
stop the loathing,
and somehow stop the pain.

Act

on your impulses,
swallow the bottle,
cut a little deeper,
put the gun to your chest.

This is not in Draco's point of view. The rest of the story will be. Except for two others.
I am also aware that Draco is a wizard and would not have used or even thought of a gun. Put that poem is the reason I wrote this. Thanks to Ellen Hopkins for writing this poem.

I am not an expert on depression or suicide. I don't know everything. What I do know is from my readings, or knowledge I have gained from battling depression for the last three years.

I apologize if this story offends you or hurts you in anyway. Know that I don't want to hurt you and I love you even if I don't know you or say I hate you.

Always know someone out there loves you and if you feel like committing the big S. don't. Talk to someone. Somebody will care.

-Laura
-Attention Deficit.