[A/N: written for 12 Days of Christmas fest on LiveJournal.
I do not own Harry Potter]
The small square of sky that Sirius can see from his cell is grey.
At least, he thinks it is; it is hard to tell these days
whether the lack of colour is real or if this reality has been twisted too.
Because nothing is real anymore. Nothing exists
but the guilt and the pain.
He doesn't need the presence of the dementors
to feel as though his soul is being ripped from him. No,
he's been doing that himself for some time
And he can't remember how long it's been
- days? months? years? -
since the end of the world.
The air outside is bitter, but Sirius would welcome it
if he could. It's fresh and clean
and when the wind blows just right, he's given slight reprieve
from the dank and stale surroundings.
He'd take the wintry cold, too, if it would free him
from the suffocating chill inside.
Inside Azkaban, inside his heart.
As long as it didn't take from him
the burning desire for cold vengeance.
Because that's all that's keeping him sane.
He hardly hears the screams around him,
hardly sees when new prisoners are brought in.
How can he,
when Lily's imagined screams course through his veins
as strongly as his blood? How can he,
when James' lifeless face appears
each time he closes his eyes?
How can he care when they beg for mercy,
cry that they were innocent?
He'd claimed innocence once, too.