Can I really do it?

Can I sacrifice myself for my own selfish relief?

That was the question running around in my head, poking my consciousness with its clawed fingers as I felt the rough surface of the rope with my long fingers.

Life was hard. Even a pureblood like me could suffer. Maybe not from hunger or poverty but from forced loyalty and regretted promises that were made for you, long before you were even an idea in your parent's heads.

I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, for example, was a victim of my father's stupidity.

He vowed to the Dark Lord that all Malfoys would be loyal servants at his command.

Thanks, father. That's some future plans for sure.

All I wanted was to live my life as normally as I could, you know?

Born to a rich family and a great mansion, be close with your family, learn all pureblood shit that is necessary, get your Hogwarts letter, get into Slytherin, be a respected guy, date a few girls, become the Quidditch captain, graduate and marry some other pureblood girl and have some kids and be rich for the rest of your life.

I am not asking for much here, am I mate? It is just what is expected of me.

I never quite understood the importance of blood pureness though. When I was a child, my father would spank me after asking so many questions on why we are superior to muggles. That made me a boy that wanted to please his father. An approval-whore if you will.

But now, tying the thick robe to the ceiling, was I still looking for acceptance? Surely not.

I still had one more thing to do. An apology for all the tears and heartbreaks I caused.

I grabbed the can of black paint and a big brush and wrote a few sentences.

Sorry, mum. For not being your perfect dragon.

Sorry Blaise, Theo. For letting you down.

Sorry Pansy. For not being your ideal boyfriend.

Sorry Potter, Weasley and all Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs I tortured. For being a massive prick.

Sorry, Granger. For being jealous of your smarts and making you cry.

Sorry, everyone. For giving up.

They say that being a Slytherin doesn't mean being coward, it means being brave at right times.

And it was a right time indeed, as my lifeless body hanged from the ceiling, a relaxed smile on my face. It was me being brave enough to run away.

So it turns out, I could really do it.