A/N: Now, just to warn you - this is an angst-fest (sort of). It also deals with some pretty mature themes (like I write anything that doesn't). It's not exactly gory, but I suppose it could make you feel a bit ill. Well. You have been warned. But if you still want to see what it is all about, then read on . . . Oh, and don't forget to review!

~ Too Much To Ask ~

I remember when I had my first kill.

I wish I could say my father was proud. But he wasn't. He never is.

I remember I looked at the man on the ground before me. "Have mercy!" he pleaded. I sneered at him. I raised my wand, making sure that it was slightly tilted, so that it was pointed exactly at his heart. "Avada Kedavra," I said. And he died.

So that was my first kill - some muggle that I can't even care to name. There have been many more after that. They all look different, ARE different - muggles, mudbloods, purebloods, werewolves . . . but they are all the same to me.

Countless bodies all carrying the same blonde hair and grey eyes. I think of him every time I kill. That's what gives me the strength.

If I didn't imagine that it was him . . . well. I wouldn't be able to do it.

In fact, I did this all for him. //All// of it. Just so that he could say he was proud of me. I guess it was just too much to ask.

One extra hug, one extra fatherly kiss on the forehead, one extra, 'I'm proud of you, son,' and I wouldn't be here. In Father's study. Holding the dagger he gave me for my eleventh birthday in my hands.

If he had just . . . acknowledged my presence, even, I wouldn't be . . . no. No, I would. It would just happen a bit later. Not today.

But sadly, he never acknowledges my presence. Only when he wants something from me.

~ ****************** ~

'Draco, come over here,' he'd say. Like the obedient son I am, I would come up to him.

'Yes, Father,' I'd say, keeping my face blank, like always. I would smell Fire Whiskey on him. Strongly. He'd have been drinking a lot. I would sigh to myself. He'd be in another one of those moods.

'How do you feel about me?' he would ask in a slightly slurred voice.

Now this question I always have to answer truthfully. I don't know why. But I always do.

'I hate you.' I would answer. Simple.

His eyebrows would knit together in anger, and his breathing would speed up slightly.

'What did you say, boy?' he'd demand. It was always 'boy'. It was never Draco, never son.

'I hate you.' I would repeat stonily, staring into his cold grey eyes.

He'd let out a growl, grab me by the collar and slam me against the wall.

'You lie.' he'd say, backhanding me across the face.

I wouldn't flinch, wouldn't say anything.

He's stare at me with a look in his eyes that I knew all too well - hunger.

He'd crash his lips against mine, roughly thrusting his tongue into my mouth. I'd just stand there stiffly.

He'd pull back, and backhand me again, angry at me for not responding. Then he'd resume kissing me.

I still wouldn't respond, so he'd knee me in the stomach, making me fall to the ground.

He'd pull me up by the hair, and slam me against the wall again. Then his fingers will quickly start to work on the buttons of my muggle shirt.

Once he'd get it off, he'd start licking my skin like a child hungry for his candy. I wouldn't do anything. Wouldn't respond (who would, if their own father was doing that to them) and wouldn't protest (I knew better not to).

He'd then pull my jeans off and his greedy hands would run all over my thighs. Then he'd pull my boxers off, throw me onto the floor, face down, and make me get on all fours. I would hear the ruffling of him trying to take his boxers off in his semi-drunken state.

Then I would feel him ram into me with such force that I'd collapse onto the floor. Then he'd continue brutally violating my body while his hands would run all over my skin.

Because that's all I am to him.

Skin.

Heir to the Malfoy family throne. Voldemort's pawn.

Then he wouldn't notice a tear slide down my cheek as I feel him ripping my insides apart. Then I would pass out from the pain.

And in the morning, when he'd be sober, but not have a hangover, for he never has hangovers, he'd remember what he did last night.

'Never tell anyone about that night, boy,' he'd command.

There's never a 'I'm sorry', or an, 'I was drunk and I didn't know what I was doing', or an 'I belong in Azkaban for doing that to you, please forgive me.'

No.

Just a threat. So Father can try to 'forget' what happened. Not that I ever will.

~ ****************** ~

It's a joke, really. My life.

If he even tried to say that it was because he was drunk, that'd be one of the funniest things I have ever heard.

Because my father can control himself when he drinks better then anyone else I know.

I hate him. I really do.

He's tried to run my life for me since the day I'd been born. And he has.

I bet it gives him this great feeling of power - the control he has over me.

The bastard.

Well. I'm getting my revenge now.

I mean, what will people think when it's all over the news tomorrow morning that Draco Malfoy committed suicide? Potter and his lot would probably cheer, but I don't care. The important thing is, it will affect my father. He won't show it, of course. But it will.

Imagine. The only heir to the Malfoy family throne - dead. Committed suicide, even. And if they check my body to find out if it really was a suicide, then . . . well. They'd find marks on my body. All over my body. The marks that he'd left on me. And a big 'Property of Lucius Malfoy' stamped across my chest. He branded it into me when I was twelve years old. Twelve fucking years old.

And they'd find out that I'd been raped. Yes, raped. More times than they could count.

I smile softly to myself as I graze the dagger over my left arm. I let a few drops of blood fall onto the antique carpet that father had especially imported from Greece.

I have it all planned out, my suicide. I chose Father's study especially so that the blood would cover his antique carpet, his antique table, and his fucking antique everything! Because that's all he cares about - money.

When he finds my body in the morning, I bet that the first thought that strikes him will be, {Dammit, he got blood all over my precious furniture!}

He'll be the one to find my body in the morning because he's gone away on a 'business trip' tonight.

I carefully go over the Death Eater mark on my left arm - I hardly even acknowledge the slight pain as my arm starts to bleed.

I start to get angry as I think of him. The bastard. He made me get this stupid Dark fucking Mark. Unconsciously, the dagger starts to dig deeper into my skin as I go over the outline of the skull.

I then stop, making sure that I hold my arm over the wooden antique table that Father had imported from Italy, making sure that the blood stains the mahogany.

I switch hands, so that the dagger is now in my left hand.

I was never good at writing with my left hand - drawing even less so. So I start to carve another mark into my right arm.

But it's not the Dark Mark, oh no. A mark that I had made up long ago, when I was ten years old - when all of this started.

A dragon, with a snake wrapped around its body, making as if to crush it.

The dragon represents me, and the snake . . . well, the snake obviously represents my father. Wrapped around me. All around me. Inside me, too. Crushing . . . crushing . . . crushing until I'm almost dead, but no. Not quite.

For he pulls me back again, never letting me end my pain.

I force the sharp blade even deeper into my skin, blood staining the usual whiteness of it, staining the carpet.

I switch hands again, carefully running the blade over my vein on my left arm. I've always had one vein sticking out, drawing the attention away from my pale skin on my left arm. And now I'm slicing into it.

I'm starting to feel faint now.

Dizzy . . . dizzy . . . the room is starting to spin around.

I make sure that I have a smile on face - the last expression I would like him to see on my face, for he always hated it when I smiled.

I suddenly plunge the dagger into my left arm. Hard.

Pain . . . pain . . . it'll all end soon . . .

I can feel the dagger sticking out of the underside of my arm . . . it's gone right through . . . good . . .

All I can feel now is pain . . . I don't really feel it . . .

Dizzy . . . dizzy . . . pain is numbing . . .

Blackness.

~ ****************** ~

It was all planned out, my suicide.

I had been planning it for months, making sure that every little detail I included brought my father pain, or shame, in one way or another.

The carefulness, the poise, the elegance of the way I was meant to kill myself . . .

All for my father.

I did everything I could to make him proud of me - I studied hard for him, I supported Voldemort for him, hell, I even became a fucking Death Eater for him! And how does he repay me?

Like this.

The bastard saved me. He just couldn't let me die, could he? The one thing I want in my life: to die. And could he let me do that? No.

I guess it was too much that I asked him for.