I only wish I had the courage to tell him this. I wish I actually had the sense to think otherwise about this... but I don't have either. All I have is the emptiness. The emptiness that comes with pain. The pain that comes with the tears. The tears that come with sadness; and the sadness that comes from the emptiness. It's all a vicious cycle that continues to go round and round like a never-ending wheel that refuses to stop spinning. The spurs of this wheel dig into my flesh. I feel the pain escaping me through my veins, through my open wounds. I feel short relief, but then worse things come back in. Only temporary. I curse myself for letting such a thing happen to me. Every time it's the same thing. I can never hold that feeling for more than a second before it escapes me... and it leaves me begging for it back. The spurs dig into my flesh. They dig into my heart. They dig into my soul, cutting it into pieces that I cannot pick up. I am bleeding... all over... physically and emotionally. I cannot stop the pain. It refuses to stop cutting me. It takes an evil pleasure from my hurt. I don't know what to do or what to say, or how to tell the spurs to stop. The spikes cut deeper and deeper each day, leaving a more visible mark that all can see. I do not want the pity. I do not want people seeing my pain. I do not want people knowing I am vulnerable. I do not want them to know I cry for my loss. I look at my hands like they are horrible spiders. Venomous spiders waiting to attack me, like I let them do to me each passing miserable day. Their poison provides little relief, but their poison isn't enough to subdue the wheel that tears my soul. I only wish I did not desire such venom. It only makes the sores hurt more after they bite. I have the marks to say it for themselves. Each passing day I want to die. I want my dead soul to be rid of me. Carrying it around is too much of a burden on the humane part that is still living. My soul has passed into the shadows, but I have not... if that makes any sense. I doubt it does. To be of the dead talking to the living is pointless. Trying to decipher death into words that the living would understand is beyond frustration. It is futile and pointless to waste words on such a lack of intelligence. Absurdity. The lot of it. I have died twice over. Once from him and another from my "father", the man who is supposed to support you, but instead threw me down. When he saw me fell, he did not take the time to help me up, or even say some words of an apology. He sneered and ignored my hurt as if it was nothing. I damn the days he still lives. A word about death to you, livings. Once one's soul thinks it is back alive, as if resurrected like Christ, it dies again... and again... and again until finally... nothing more can be done. No more resurrection can be done. After twice died, one is lost forever. Even if they pretend the part of a living, they are truly dead, as I am. My hands will deliver their last sting and I will be dead akin to the rest of me... and no longer able to talk to one about death. It is pointless as I have said. Fruitless to my advantage. If you wish to reach me... well... I fear that is impossible. I will no longer let the arachnids sting me. I will stop the wheel of thorns from rupturing my flesh. I will fall. I will be rid of the pain. Let me fall. Let me die so I can live. Now... I get to see if he says where he really is and if there truly is a God. Sing a hymn for me, living people. Say my name in prayer... and hope that He hears your call. Hope this God speaks of truth like you all say. I can't say I will see you, because if Hell exists... then... well... must I say more? Farewell, living. Farewell.

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Normally I don't do this at the end of my TDA fics, but oh well. POV: Draco, if you didn't get it before. Who's "he"? Whoever you want. I didn't want specifics. I like abstractness. It provides you to use your imagination instead of me having to feed it to you with a spoon. I don't get it. Well... hate to say it but too bad. Like I said I'm not going to feed everything to you. You have to use your imagination too, you know. I know I'm the writer and I'm supposed to excite your imagination, but think of it like this: Imagination is like a muscle. The more you exercise it, the stronger it becomes. So think of this as an exercise for your mind.

Why so abstract? Because I like it that way. And it goes back to the "I don't get it". That was the FAQ I usually get for fics like these. So, just thought I might answer them for the confused readers out there. Thanks for reading.