Warning: Character death, suicide and a lot of angst. If this isn't your favourite thing to read, please press the back button. Don't worry, I won't be (that) upset.
Disclaimer: I do not own Tom Riddle. I wish I did. He. Is. Too. Hot. I. Am. Unworthy. :( I also don't own any other parts of the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. D:
"Mr Riddle, you have a visitor. Please, at least attempt to communicate normally."
Tom showed almost no sign of hearing - only a barely detectable flicker in the expression in his stormy grey eyes. If you saw him on the street, he would appear to be the most ordinary person. But on the inside, deep beneath his flawless mask and expressionless face, he was like the weather: unpredictable, destructable and reckless.
His friends and family said he 'had his moments' and 'had a good heart', but everyone knew that as tolerable as they were, they would eventually give up on him. He was a whirlwind of destruction, emitting calm before a storm, taking all by surprise when he turned on them and unleashed his fury.
It was his mother that cracked first. She couldn't handle her poor baby boy lashing out at her unexpectedly, breaking her heart and making her scream and plead for him to stop talking, and begged his father to send him somewhere, anywhere, to be 'fixed'. His father, being a spineless human being, agreed.
Like being institutionalized had 'fixed' him. If anything, it just assured him of the power and fear he could hold over other people's heads. How he hated people. All they reminded him of was how he was one of them - weak, and how his parents had forced him into such a miserable life. The power he held over them reminded him of fear, of how he used to live in fear, and how once he stopped feeling fear, all other people became fearful of him.
"Mr Riddle? Are you still with us?"
Tom said nothing, but made eye contact with the guard and his 'therapist', and walked to a room to meet his visitor. He didn't expect anyone. He certainly didn't expect his mother. What an... unpleasant surprise.
His mother started to plead with him, her futile attempts and quivering voice nearly made him laugh. It's almost tangible, her fear, radiating off of her in waves. Tom could very nearly taste it. He barely listened to her words, and made no attempt to pretend, never nodding or showing any signs of hearing, but only staring at her with a cool indifference, almost staring into her soul.
He doesn't know how long they stayed in this room, her sobbing unashamedly in her chair, him sitting unmoved in his, a plain wooden desk separating them, but when she finally gave up, it was late afternoon. It was a feat that she didn't run out of tears before her departure, she had been at the institute for hours.
Tom turned and left the room, with his guards trailing after him. He returned to his room (cell), waiting for nightfall - the time he can move around unmonitored.
His guards are asleep and the institute is as close to silent as ever. He slips the keys out of his pocket (he stole them from the guards) and leaves the confines of his room. He strolls up to the roof of his building. He steps to the edge in a precise, measured movement.
In that moment Tom realises that because he never fear fear, he also never feels joy. And that makes him less human. A weight lifts off his shoulders, and another replaces it. Tom is not human, so he's not weak, he's strong, not in the conventional way, but strong nevertheless, but he doesn't have any emotions to live for.
Tom takes a breath and falls.