Dedication: My friend 'Estel'--I told you not to lose hope, you moron!
Disclaimer: I do not own Middle-earth or any recognizable characters and/or places
Author's note: No, this is not a 'person-falls-into-Middle-earth' fic, this is about a Middle-earth resident you all know very well. Oh, and if you want to tell me that my writing style is childish, keep in mind that I am a child, just twelve years.
*****Prologue*****
"Damn you, damn you, DAMN YOU!" roared the Voice, so loudly that the young boy flinched. He wished that voice was not in his head, he wished he did not have to feel that kind of pain. For the thousandth time, he wished he had not brought it upon himself. But he had, and it was too late to change that now. "Do you have any idea--" the Voice was started up again, chastising him.
'Just wait,' he begged aloud, hardly aware that he had spoken. 'The water is nearly heated enough.' A wood-burning stove stood before him, a pot of water atop it. As he spoke, a solitary bubble floated to the surface of the water, wriggling like a fish gasping for air. The bubble reached the surface, and with a small noise it popped. Without a thought the boy stuck his hand into the water. It was warm, just above a comfortable temperature. 'Good.'
The boy doused the fire, then leaned his face over the pot and dipped in both his hands, bringing the two-handed cup of water up to his face. The water washed away the layer of dirt that had gathered during the course of the day, along with some of the guilt. The boy took up another scoop of water a drenched his face again, trying to get himself clean. With his hands he scrubbed his skin.
As he scrubbed harder and harder, the tears began to form again. They were not tears of physical pain, but tears of mental abuse. Emotions ran wild inside of him, self-pity, hatred, and anger. He suddenly formed a fist, wishing he could drive those puny fingers into the wall and break them in three places each.
'If I did,' he whispered, 'if I did break all my fingers in three places each, then I would not be able to do anything anymore; feed myself, write letters and essays, or. . .or. . .'
A malicious grin spread over the boy's face, and he drew back his fist, bringing it rushing forward with all the force he could manage. The fist did hit the wall, colliding with a deafening crack. White-hot pain shot up the boy's arm, and he fell to his knees, cradling his hand. What had he done? Why had he done that to himself?
"I am going to be in so much trouble," he thought, writhing on the floor in pain. "So much. . ."
That was his last thought before the pain became too intense, and the spots in front of his eyes grew together into a solid web of steel unconsciousness.
*****
I know it's not much quite yet. And I know a lot of people probably think it's OOC. Too bad. My friend is cutting, and I want her to heal, and I know this is helping her. If you don't like it, don't read it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Middle-earth or any recognizable characters and/or places
Author's note: No, this is not a 'person-falls-into-Middle-earth' fic, this is about a Middle-earth resident you all know very well. Oh, and if you want to tell me that my writing style is childish, keep in mind that I am a child, just twelve years.
*****Prologue*****
"Damn you, damn you, DAMN YOU!" roared the Voice, so loudly that the young boy flinched. He wished that voice was not in his head, he wished he did not have to feel that kind of pain. For the thousandth time, he wished he had not brought it upon himself. But he had, and it was too late to change that now. "Do you have any idea--" the Voice was started up again, chastising him.
'Just wait,' he begged aloud, hardly aware that he had spoken. 'The water is nearly heated enough.' A wood-burning stove stood before him, a pot of water atop it. As he spoke, a solitary bubble floated to the surface of the water, wriggling like a fish gasping for air. The bubble reached the surface, and with a small noise it popped. Without a thought the boy stuck his hand into the water. It was warm, just above a comfortable temperature. 'Good.'
The boy doused the fire, then leaned his face over the pot and dipped in both his hands, bringing the two-handed cup of water up to his face. The water washed away the layer of dirt that had gathered during the course of the day, along with some of the guilt. The boy took up another scoop of water a drenched his face again, trying to get himself clean. With his hands he scrubbed his skin.
As he scrubbed harder and harder, the tears began to form again. They were not tears of physical pain, but tears of mental abuse. Emotions ran wild inside of him, self-pity, hatred, and anger. He suddenly formed a fist, wishing he could drive those puny fingers into the wall and break them in three places each.
'If I did,' he whispered, 'if I did break all my fingers in three places each, then I would not be able to do anything anymore; feed myself, write letters and essays, or. . .or. . .'
A malicious grin spread over the boy's face, and he drew back his fist, bringing it rushing forward with all the force he could manage. The fist did hit the wall, colliding with a deafening crack. White-hot pain shot up the boy's arm, and he fell to his knees, cradling his hand. What had he done? Why had he done that to himself?
"I am going to be in so much trouble," he thought, writhing on the floor in pain. "So much. . ."
That was his last thought before the pain became too intense, and the spots in front of his eyes grew together into a solid web of steel unconsciousness.
*****
I know it's not much quite yet. And I know a lot of people probably think it's OOC. Too bad. My friend is cutting, and I want her to heal, and I know this is helping her. If you don't like it, don't read it.