Finally got inspiration for another fic. This one's going to have chapters! heart This is only a prologue. It's a tad graphic, just to warn anybody who is ignoring my other warnings and rating.
Disclaimer: The plot and characters of Harry Potter belong to JK Rowling.
I feel like a monster.
He sat in the darkened bathroom, staring at the white expanse of skin in front of him, unmoving and silent, a statue of marble. The sound of a single droplet of water falling to the bottom of the sink echoed eerily to his ears. There was no other sound to be heard, the house was empty. Everything was empty. His head, his heart, his soul… did he even have a soul? If he did, it was filthy and slimy, it would stick to the purity of a clean soul like a festering sore, consuming it until it was black… just like his. He really was a disgusting creature, one who existed solely in the darkness.
The blade, so terrible and cruelly sharp rested on the counter, waiting for his hand to close around it. The longer he stared at it, the edge shining in the muted light, the more he wanted it. The urge to grasp it to him tightly was overwhelming, so he succumbed to his darkest of desires. The knife was his. He didn't need to explain himself to it; it just lay there, accepting the inevitable without protest.
The knife caressed him, drew its cool length along his skin, and he shivered in anticipation. Pressing harder, the blade made a soft indent in his flesh until it gave, and it slid in. The sweet surge of pain suffused him wholly, and he sank deeply into its merciless embrace. It ran through his body, along each and every sensitive nerve ending, so enrapturing it entered his very veins. It flowed along with his blood, running so intensely crimson down his arm, warm fingers drawing themselves upon his skin.
He inhaled the delicious tangy scent, eyelids lidded and pale lips parted, letting the fragrance roll over him like the most decadent and delightful perfume. He was completely intoxicated with the smell; it was invading him. He let out a soft moan, and then softly and slowly dragged his tongue along his forearm, letting it lap up the salty mixture of sweat and blood.
He ended with the gentlest of kisses, placed with gossamer lightness overtop the aching wound.
Finished, he took out the roll of gauze from under the sink, followed by a bandage to wrap up this newest wound. Smiling slightly, a scarlet stain still coating his lips, he ran a delicate, pale finger across his wrist, following the parallel white lines that marred his perfect skin.
He would not inflict himself on anything from the outside world. He would not infect all those lovely, pristine creatures with the blackness of his own irreparable choices. The scorchingly bright light of day was for those beautiful beings alone.
But the night… the night belonged to him.
So how was that? A bit creepy, no? Don't worry, it'll get better… I hope. Please Review, it only takes a couple seconds! Even really short comments are appreciated.