Actually this story is and particularly this chapter is dedicated to the
person who doesn't want to be named, unlike many others she gives me time
to update and doesn't feel the need to shout or swear at me when I go into
bouts of depression and cut the world off. Thank you very much for being
here, inside my head and to talk to (you know what I mean.)
I really admire the way you talk to me like a HUMAN and not a 'thing' that just churns out writing/info and other such matter. I put feelings into my writing and in underlays my feelings-I do not want a shrink reading this because they will have a *field* day to say the least. Plus I really abhor people that keep silent and do not say 'Thank you,' as another of my favourite actors once said, 'discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me' and I think that sums my feelings up pretty much. I express my feelings for others and I am frank in my words and speech, although the truth hides sometimes and I do so to appease people.
Thank you all for reading although I'm sure most skip this-I take time to read things and details...'I am more than just a mere detail.'
*
Rating-More than a NC-17 if that is possible...for sexual scenes and very mature nature, deals with death and other things.
**
Summary-Rather a dark fic here children, I feel like writing them in fits of depression and/or anger. This is going to be exceptionally descriptive and I thank my BETA-Gal' Sheena/Amber_Dragon-forgive me for giving you your first 'job' with this ficcy...it is somewhat scary and angst-ridden.
***
Pairings: HG/SS of course...but not nicely...Some first person, but I loathe that really as I like to engage in others perspectives.
***********************************************************************
Chapter 1-The feelings I keep inside...
I have somehow craved a way to express my feelings, along with the hatred of myself and what I have become I have also manifested another side of myself. Another side that will take on the pain whilst my 'true' self hides in fear and disgust. Disgust for the way I am still here, and fear for the reasons I am still here.
I turn away as the first is brought out, the wailing is increasing, as well as the palpitations of my now-non-existent-heart. It is surprising I can still feel it there, thrumming inside my breast. The movement matches the one's of the struggling 'victim,' a muggle who is trying frantically to walk backwards and away from the piercing knife.
They never cease on the torture, most relishing in it, a power over another. They do not realise that the dark master also relishes on the hold he has above their own heads. Like a forever swaying pendulum the axe is brought down upon my exposed neck, I can feel that Voldemort-I spit the name verbally-is aware of my dealings with Dumbledore. But now I do not care, I am never cocky with the 'Lord,' resentful as I may be I am also thankful-thankful that it has built my internal walls up. All the beatings and lashings have been well worth my steely control I now harbour.
Even now I seem to detach myself, the half-dead muggle's blank stare is gone, I do not physically close my eyes-to do that would be virtually suicide as the 'Lord' requires all to view this, in case of traitors. The vision goes and I am now once again surrounded-marble statues replace the masks of the other Death Eaters, within a whitewashed room. I like the thought of purity in my mind, although my body is defiled. I have built this place myself, mentally adding a new statue when I feel the need.
Most have distorted faces by now, I can only create them as I capture a memory of someone that stirs me. Two stand close together. One is of my mother, poised waiting for my father at an invisible window. Whilst the other is of my father himself, another 'traitor' as it were to the Death Eaters clan. Although common fact would tell-my father did not beat me, abuse me, nor was he in fact a 'kind' man. I modelled myself on him throughout the years. He was a hard tasks-master, as I myself am in turn-I do know what the children and indeed other adults think of me. But that is learning, and not something I take lightly, as my father didn't.
The faces are flashing past me now, I search through the halls of my mind. My eyes are actually fixated on the spot that the muggle was at, he is now I am sure, cast out for the scavengers to find-and the proper authorities. Oh how Voldemort does like to leave little 'presents' of his latest handiwork *lying* around, as it were.
I look upon the face of one in particular. Not unlike myself, she is poised in a way that is retreating, fearfully away. It was a day that I had found that bastard Potter creeping along the corridors in his little 'gift' cloak. He had not been alone, some quality time had been spent in detention for both of them.
I remembered the details of her exactly, I had mentally chipped them into the cold marble in my mind. Her face screamed fear and sadness, only I could bring that into a childs life, as my father had done to me when I had realised what he was.
I approach the figure, hand thrown back behind her, the other pushed forwards in a protective gesture, she had been trying to protect Potter. Although Merlin knows what she had thought I might do to herself or him. I breathe upon the face, curling hair, eyes open wide, as a deers would in the headlights of a muggle-car.
There is no colour in the marble, but I imagine that she is warm and welcoming, protecting me as she had done to her friend. I embrace her as I feel the sadness well upwards from my gut. I choke, a single tear tumbles down, down onto the forehead of Hermione Granger...
I wipe her brow with my hand, I must not soil something that is untouched and pure. I only wish that I, myself were the same once again. I only then realise that the 'ceremony' has finished as someone brushes against me, knocking me out of my reveries and that 'special' place, a holy ground of sorts.
I am reserved in my speech as another comes towards me, whispering in delight how pleased they are that I am here and I had been watching, I reply in a monotone voice that I 'had' to be here and it is not my choosing. He just chuckles darkly and smacks me forcefully on the back, he is accustomed to my mood.
One day I will stick Malfoy with that nasty little knife of his and ask him whether it hurts. I am very sure of my feelings in this. I depart from the group of 'cheering' Death Eaters. I do not call them 'kin' as I am not one of them-I was at one stage, but I feel I am beyond their stage. My world is resigning itself to a darkness far deeper, depression and self-inflicted pain is all I am attuned to now.
I apparate to the gates of Hogwarts, the place I call home-in a detached way. I feel nothing as I trudge my way towards a side-door, a secret path for me, built into the castle. Oh 'goody,' I think-it's just like when I was a child and I used to find passages into my own home. The passages were just for me I had decided and no-one else used them, except for that day when I found my father lying at the entrance of the one to the west, bleeding and broken.
Only then had I realised what they were used for, I had always been kept busy around this time by my mother, but she was ill and distraught about something or other. Being a child she kept-face and carried on as if things were usual, keeping me occupied until a few hours hence. I had been in my room sorting my books when I had heard an owl outside.
I had run to the window and the feathered creature had been sitting on a log outside, I ran hastily downstairs, my mother was too busy to realise. I went outside, but the owl had since departed. Oh how I only wish now that I had also departed as the owl had done. Instead I took to playing outside, in and out the passageways that were 'mine.' I had heard a strange noise coming from the one that I realise now lead to the stables. I had approached with fervour.
I remember the dark robes, across the floor-like spilt ink, ruffling slightly in the breeze that drifted through the passage. My father had been using these passages long since I had, a Death Eater. He was one of 'them,' I correct myself hastily, one of 'me,' as I am now. His body still twitched as his life fluid drained from within him. A silver thing embedded into his side, a knife alone would not have killed my father, although combined with several 'Cructius' spells, would have done. And they did.
The funeral had not been soon. My father had been tested in various different ways to determine death, and also what he had been doing. The case was brought forth but there was never any greatness that occurred from this. the main witness was dead and myself too young. They questioned my mother though-distraught as she was my mother held it together. 'He was a good man, husband and a father,' the only words she had spoken. And ever would again.
All the while I had been thinking my body was on 'auto-pilot,' a muggle term that seemed entirely appropriate. I had reached my dwellings, and there is but a single candle lighting my way to the desk I have become accustomed to, especially in the darkness or little light. I do have the resources to light my entire dwellings, but I wish to not be reminded of what I come back to each day, until the morrow that is.
The quill is automatically at my hand, I grasp it firmly, sweat is making it hard to keep it within my palm though. I place a fresh piece of parchment before me, taking it from the neat stack I will undoubtedly knock over by the end of the night in a fit of emotional conduct.
I leave the quill resting at the end of the sentence and read through the feelings I have poured out upon the paper. Other than gouging out my heart I feel 'pouring' it is better, and I have done so in the semblance of a poem:
~Crying only shows weakness,
Weakness leads to fear,
Often as people berate us,
Especially those we hold dear.
As we seek to please them,
Their scathing words tear a piece inside,
Forever looking up to them,
All that is left now is pride.
Searching for that special something,
To ease away the pain,
I am forever searching,
Watching the ever-falling rain.
The eternal confining chains,
Flaying my soul apart,
All that remains now,
Are the dry tatters of my heart...~
The quill is left and the candle goes out...
TBC...
***********************************************************************
Poem was originally written by myself, I own copyright to it and all the other cumbersome matter that comes with it. You also may notice a change in how I write things-usually they are jovial and/or badly spelt-purposefully most of the time just to get a reaction.
This is how I feel Snape feels in retrospect to his situation currently. The situation of him being a 'Still-Called-Upon' Death Eater, I feel quite sick that Dumbledore sends him back to the endless torture. He feels betrayed but does it for the good of things. I write what I feel, I feel what I say, My frankness has it own appeal to different people.
People often say I write better when I am pissed/no not inebriated but when I am Upset/Hurt/Mad. So in time I shall claim this to be my best as of yet. The next chapter shall be back to normal-no first person, although I may 'jump' between the two once again.
K.E.M.1 a.k.a Shin
BETA'D By the one and only: Sheena/Amber_Dragon.
I really admire the way you talk to me like a HUMAN and not a 'thing' that just churns out writing/info and other such matter. I put feelings into my writing and in underlays my feelings-I do not want a shrink reading this because they will have a *field* day to say the least. Plus I really abhor people that keep silent and do not say 'Thank you,' as another of my favourite actors once said, 'discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me' and I think that sums my feelings up pretty much. I express my feelings for others and I am frank in my words and speech, although the truth hides sometimes and I do so to appease people.
Thank you all for reading although I'm sure most skip this-I take time to read things and details...'I am more than just a mere detail.'
*
Rating-More than a NC-17 if that is possible...for sexual scenes and very mature nature, deals with death and other things.
**
Summary-Rather a dark fic here children, I feel like writing them in fits of depression and/or anger. This is going to be exceptionally descriptive and I thank my BETA-Gal' Sheena/Amber_Dragon-forgive me for giving you your first 'job' with this ficcy...it is somewhat scary and angst-ridden.
***
Pairings: HG/SS of course...but not nicely...Some first person, but I loathe that really as I like to engage in others perspectives.
***********************************************************************
Chapter 1-The feelings I keep inside...
I have somehow craved a way to express my feelings, along with the hatred of myself and what I have become I have also manifested another side of myself. Another side that will take on the pain whilst my 'true' self hides in fear and disgust. Disgust for the way I am still here, and fear for the reasons I am still here.
I turn away as the first is brought out, the wailing is increasing, as well as the palpitations of my now-non-existent-heart. It is surprising I can still feel it there, thrumming inside my breast. The movement matches the one's of the struggling 'victim,' a muggle who is trying frantically to walk backwards and away from the piercing knife.
They never cease on the torture, most relishing in it, a power over another. They do not realise that the dark master also relishes on the hold he has above their own heads. Like a forever swaying pendulum the axe is brought down upon my exposed neck, I can feel that Voldemort-I spit the name verbally-is aware of my dealings with Dumbledore. But now I do not care, I am never cocky with the 'Lord,' resentful as I may be I am also thankful-thankful that it has built my internal walls up. All the beatings and lashings have been well worth my steely control I now harbour.
Even now I seem to detach myself, the half-dead muggle's blank stare is gone, I do not physically close my eyes-to do that would be virtually suicide as the 'Lord' requires all to view this, in case of traitors. The vision goes and I am now once again surrounded-marble statues replace the masks of the other Death Eaters, within a whitewashed room. I like the thought of purity in my mind, although my body is defiled. I have built this place myself, mentally adding a new statue when I feel the need.
Most have distorted faces by now, I can only create them as I capture a memory of someone that stirs me. Two stand close together. One is of my mother, poised waiting for my father at an invisible window. Whilst the other is of my father himself, another 'traitor' as it were to the Death Eaters clan. Although common fact would tell-my father did not beat me, abuse me, nor was he in fact a 'kind' man. I modelled myself on him throughout the years. He was a hard tasks-master, as I myself am in turn-I do know what the children and indeed other adults think of me. But that is learning, and not something I take lightly, as my father didn't.
The faces are flashing past me now, I search through the halls of my mind. My eyes are actually fixated on the spot that the muggle was at, he is now I am sure, cast out for the scavengers to find-and the proper authorities. Oh how Voldemort does like to leave little 'presents' of his latest handiwork *lying* around, as it were.
I look upon the face of one in particular. Not unlike myself, she is poised in a way that is retreating, fearfully away. It was a day that I had found that bastard Potter creeping along the corridors in his little 'gift' cloak. He had not been alone, some quality time had been spent in detention for both of them.
I remembered the details of her exactly, I had mentally chipped them into the cold marble in my mind. Her face screamed fear and sadness, only I could bring that into a childs life, as my father had done to me when I had realised what he was.
I approach the figure, hand thrown back behind her, the other pushed forwards in a protective gesture, she had been trying to protect Potter. Although Merlin knows what she had thought I might do to herself or him. I breathe upon the face, curling hair, eyes open wide, as a deers would in the headlights of a muggle-car.
There is no colour in the marble, but I imagine that she is warm and welcoming, protecting me as she had done to her friend. I embrace her as I feel the sadness well upwards from my gut. I choke, a single tear tumbles down, down onto the forehead of Hermione Granger...
I wipe her brow with my hand, I must not soil something that is untouched and pure. I only wish that I, myself were the same once again. I only then realise that the 'ceremony' has finished as someone brushes against me, knocking me out of my reveries and that 'special' place, a holy ground of sorts.
I am reserved in my speech as another comes towards me, whispering in delight how pleased they are that I am here and I had been watching, I reply in a monotone voice that I 'had' to be here and it is not my choosing. He just chuckles darkly and smacks me forcefully on the back, he is accustomed to my mood.
One day I will stick Malfoy with that nasty little knife of his and ask him whether it hurts. I am very sure of my feelings in this. I depart from the group of 'cheering' Death Eaters. I do not call them 'kin' as I am not one of them-I was at one stage, but I feel I am beyond their stage. My world is resigning itself to a darkness far deeper, depression and self-inflicted pain is all I am attuned to now.
I apparate to the gates of Hogwarts, the place I call home-in a detached way. I feel nothing as I trudge my way towards a side-door, a secret path for me, built into the castle. Oh 'goody,' I think-it's just like when I was a child and I used to find passages into my own home. The passages were just for me I had decided and no-one else used them, except for that day when I found my father lying at the entrance of the one to the west, bleeding and broken.
Only then had I realised what they were used for, I had always been kept busy around this time by my mother, but she was ill and distraught about something or other. Being a child she kept-face and carried on as if things were usual, keeping me occupied until a few hours hence. I had been in my room sorting my books when I had heard an owl outside.
I had run to the window and the feathered creature had been sitting on a log outside, I ran hastily downstairs, my mother was too busy to realise. I went outside, but the owl had since departed. Oh how I only wish now that I had also departed as the owl had done. Instead I took to playing outside, in and out the passageways that were 'mine.' I had heard a strange noise coming from the one that I realise now lead to the stables. I had approached with fervour.
I remember the dark robes, across the floor-like spilt ink, ruffling slightly in the breeze that drifted through the passage. My father had been using these passages long since I had, a Death Eater. He was one of 'them,' I correct myself hastily, one of 'me,' as I am now. His body still twitched as his life fluid drained from within him. A silver thing embedded into his side, a knife alone would not have killed my father, although combined with several 'Cructius' spells, would have done. And they did.
The funeral had not been soon. My father had been tested in various different ways to determine death, and also what he had been doing. The case was brought forth but there was never any greatness that occurred from this. the main witness was dead and myself too young. They questioned my mother though-distraught as she was my mother held it together. 'He was a good man, husband and a father,' the only words she had spoken. And ever would again.
All the while I had been thinking my body was on 'auto-pilot,' a muggle term that seemed entirely appropriate. I had reached my dwellings, and there is but a single candle lighting my way to the desk I have become accustomed to, especially in the darkness or little light. I do have the resources to light my entire dwellings, but I wish to not be reminded of what I come back to each day, until the morrow that is.
The quill is automatically at my hand, I grasp it firmly, sweat is making it hard to keep it within my palm though. I place a fresh piece of parchment before me, taking it from the neat stack I will undoubtedly knock over by the end of the night in a fit of emotional conduct.
I leave the quill resting at the end of the sentence and read through the feelings I have poured out upon the paper. Other than gouging out my heart I feel 'pouring' it is better, and I have done so in the semblance of a poem:
~Crying only shows weakness,
Weakness leads to fear,
Often as people berate us,
Especially those we hold dear.
As we seek to please them,
Their scathing words tear a piece inside,
Forever looking up to them,
All that is left now is pride.
Searching for that special something,
To ease away the pain,
I am forever searching,
Watching the ever-falling rain.
The eternal confining chains,
Flaying my soul apart,
All that remains now,
Are the dry tatters of my heart...~
The quill is left and the candle goes out...
TBC...
***********************************************************************
Poem was originally written by myself, I own copyright to it and all the other cumbersome matter that comes with it. You also may notice a change in how I write things-usually they are jovial and/or badly spelt-purposefully most of the time just to get a reaction.
This is how I feel Snape feels in retrospect to his situation currently. The situation of him being a 'Still-Called-Upon' Death Eater, I feel quite sick that Dumbledore sends him back to the endless torture. He feels betrayed but does it for the good of things. I write what I feel, I feel what I say, My frankness has it own appeal to different people.
People often say I write better when I am pissed/no not inebriated but when I am Upset/Hurt/Mad. So in time I shall claim this to be my best as of yet. The next chapter shall be back to normal-no first person, although I may 'jump' between the two once again.
K.E.M.1 a.k.a Shin
BETA'D By the one and only: Sheena/Amber_Dragon.