Bloodrise
by: Sweetheart Bleeding
Rated: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters, names, places and origins do not belong to me, but to J.K. Rowling and associates.
Chapter One
There was a drop of blood on the floor, hard won, and perfectly wrought. It was red, the color of lipstick and hard candy, that spicy tangy red that makes you taste cherry pop on your tongue. Chili pepper red.
Above that drop, on the otherwise pristine tile, Ginevra Weasley stood, contemplating that speck.
It had taken quite a bit of courage to shed that drop.
Earlier that day, Ginevra had woken up, to another day in that life she owned. She was a slightly built girl, hardly reaching above 150 centimeters. Her vibrant red hair, color of lipstick and hard candy had been cropped 'til it barely reached her earlobes. It fell in loose, choppy layers. Beneath arched and plucked eyebrows were two sardonic brown eyes, lined heavily in black. Her nose and mouth were small and delicate, largely overwhelmed by the intensity of her eyes. Her neck was slender and shapely, upon sculpted shoulders. Her breasts were small, her torso slender and flexible. Her waist flared out into narrow hips, which in turn splayed out into similarly thin legs.
And as she did every morning, she stood naked in front of her mirror, dissecting herself. Why she placed herself in the harsh light of her own laboratory gaze to analyze and take apart, she didn't know. It had become her ritual. She would wake up, strip, then stand and stare at the shell she hated so much, and with such passion. Inside her mind, her torn possessed and ravaged mind, she screamed and railed at her image. On the outside, however, she was placid and tranquil, though a careful observer would notice the whiteness around her nostrils, the dilated pupils, and the clenched jaw.
And as she did every morning, she wrapped her bathrobe closely around her, and slipping her wand, and a small pouch in the pocket, she slipped out of her room.
It was still dark out.
She padded lightly to the bathroom, and closed and locked the door. Opening the window, she stared out at the stubbly yard. The air outside smelled crisp and new, like the new day heralded new breath as well as new light. She felt relaxed and distended, a part of the dawn, and yet so far away from it. The sky was purple now, the purple of suffocation. One by one, stars began to fade out.
...just lose and lose
I'm feeling sick now
What the fuck am I supposed to do
She sang to the dawn, and screamed inside.
Closing the window, she turned on the shower to scalding, and let the bathroom fill up with steam. Ginevra, known as Ginny, breathed in the heady air and trembled. She walked over to the mirror and stared at herself. Sitting down on the toilet, she opened the pouch and poured its contents on the counter.
A shard of glass, a pencil sharpener blade, a Muggle shaving razor, picked apart into three separate knives, each gleaming dully, and a pointed box cutter. These all poured out like treasure. And like treasure, they were treated, picked up reverentially one by one. It was perverse child's play, with each object arrayed on the counter.
Catch a tiger by the toe
It was the box cutter today.
And amidst the morning scented steam, Ginevra known as Ginny stripped down to a bra and panties, sat at the edge of the tub, and raised her blade.
And like every other day, she bared her forearm and examined it. Choosing a spot, she drew the box cutter slowly over her skin, pressing down firmly. It was sharp pain, sudden linear pain that exploded in a thin line along her wrist. It was welcome pain, needed pain. The indent of the blade remained there for a few seconds before bright red blood began to form along the cut.
She felt rancid.
Her skin was rotting on her bones, her face was rotting on her skull, and her soul was rotting in her body.
And she couldn't bring herself to do it.
Not once in a history of scars, not once in all her marred forearm did she bleed enough.
Not enough to satisfy the craving under her skin,
Not enough to drip out of the cut and drop onto the floor as her body yearned for.
She was scared.
Too scared.
And everyday she hated herself for it.
And she still did.
So she bled quietly, as quietly as she sobbed.
But that day, like any other day, she let the sobs come up into anger. No longer quiet, she let them rack her body until she shuddered with the force of her anger terror. So she raised her blade.
And slashed.
Born and borne of her anger, that one drop, that perfect drop, chili pepper red...fell.
Through the steam and the smoke, she perceived this one red.
And she rejoiced inside as she screamed.
Her pain was mingling with her triumph and she felt sick.
But she stood and contemplated that drop.
And turning on the shower, she leaned against the tiled wall and let the water drip over her wounds. The drops fell over the cut and stuck there, gathering blood, blood swirling within the drop, turning sticky pink-red.
Water like rain pounded over her head and washed over her.
Still she contemplated that one drop of red.
For she was, chili pepper red, spicy tangy cherry pop red, the red of hard candy and lipstick.
I am that drop and that is me
And then she lit another cigarette, cleaned up the drop, and dressed.
The day was still that sickly violet.
She opened the door and stepped into the cold chill hallway air,
Breath and smoke still clinging to her.
Right...this is the first thing I've ever written for fanfiction. I was just messing around, and writing on my computer, and all of a sudden, this popped out. So...read and review please, I'm very eager for feedback!