Do you ever just sit down and think. Think, could it have been better? Could it have been worse? Does everything happen for some divine unknown reason? Does everything happen because you chose it to? How are we all different yet the same? Could going back one moment, one hour, change everything? Is anyone looking down on you, guiding you on this path? Whether it is good, or bad.

I think these every single second of every single day.

My name is Sirius Black, and I am currently a prisoner at Azkaban Prison. I sleep, I eat stale bread, I get my soul sucked and I wait. I wait for the moment when I can escape, leave, be free. If that involves death, I'm okay with that. I didn't do. That's my story. Except, unlike many others before me, it's true. No trial. I got no bloody fucking trial. The evidence against me was 'to strong and there is no chance of you being freed'. That's what I had been told. Bull shit. Bull fucking shit.

This prison isn't the problem. I'm more imprisoned in my mind, my body. The dementors come and I transform. As a dog I escape. Yet not fully. I can feel it. Feel the pain, the sorrow, the angst, the anger. Choose your bad emotions, I'm feeling them. My best friend is dead. My other best friend is the reason I'm here, and my other best friend? I have no idea. I've got nothing left. Nothing to live for.

Except him. Harry James Potter. My best friend's son. For some unknown reason, he survived Volde-fucking-mort. I am his godfather. I should be out there taking care of him, tucking him in at night, teaching him. Not those god forsaken muggles. He's in Hogwarts now, he's 12. I hope every day, every day I feel like dieing, that he feel's like living. I hope every day, every day I cry, that he's smiling. I hope every day, that he's happy.

I'm going to escape soon, I know how to. They can't detect dogs. Not those dementors. Creepy and cunning, but non to smart. I can survive for a month or a year, on garbage. I just need to be free. I worry that my mind is to far gone for repair. I just, I need to know that the man, who is responsible for James and Lily's deaths, is caught; and killed.

I need my closure. How many men are going to deny me that?