Harry Potter lay down on his bed allowing the tears to stream down his face. He had been thinking about Cedric. About how he died… because of him. It was his entire fault. Every word he heard about Cedric seemed to say it was his fault… saying "guilty" over and over again, while looking at him.
He looked at the walls of his room, feeling the walls of his room enclosing on him like a prison. A prison… he was trapped inside it. Every move he made was recorded… was watched. By whom, he didn't know. All he knew it was.
In his mind, no one cared. No one cared if he lived or died… he had no reason to live. What was the purpose of life? Of living? There was no point… no purpose to live.
In his mind, the only reason he was living was to kill Voldemort. He would feel the joy run though his veins… the joy of revenge. Then he could end his own life. O' the joy.
To live to kill… how insane his life was… truly insane. The pain of life was something he felt everyday. Something no one else understood.
No one… no one cared for him. Not even himself. If only he could end this life… if only. Not until he killed Voldemort could his permanently end. In it's own way, his life had ended. Fun was no more… the meaning meant nothing to him. If only he could kill Voldemort… the he would no longer be a black hole… then he'd no longer be an empty shell.
His mother had loved him… she had died for him. Just one of the few things that kept him alive. One of the few.
No one knew how many ways there was to commit suicide. The list was endless. So unbelievably long… So long.
So he lay upon his bed wishing the world would go away. Wishing his life would go away.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K Rowling, the great writer.
A/N: Ugh. In the words of a semi-suicidal anxiety depressed girl, I don't like it. O' well. Review?