It's too much to handle. I really don't know how much more I can take. All the pressure, the need to be the best, to outshine everyone else, it's all too much to deal with. I just want it all to end, to be able to go to sleep and never wake up.
He looked at the blade in his hand and smiled the smallest smile as the clock chimed. Once, twice, the third and final time.
It was three in the morning and he sat there, on the cold bathroom floor. The white tiles beneath him where splattered red with fallen blood. His arms and legs were covered with red designs, each created by the razor in his hand. Tears flooded his eyes and trailed down his cheeks, grim smirk still in place.
Another cut. More blood.
He held his arm up in front of him, watching the crimson liquid. His grin grew in satisfaction as the blood traveled from his palm to his elbow.
He didn't know why he did this to himself. Just to be able to feel something different besides all the heart ache he went through each day? No, he realized, he did it because in those few hours he was alone with a knife in his hand, tracing patterns on his pale skin, he was finally in control of something in his life. The blade moved in the direction his shaking hands guided it, blood following freely for a moment before drying up. He could do it as much as he pleased, where he pleased, for as long as he pleased.
His parents, his professors, Death Eaters, other students, none of even tried to make his life a little easier. His father degraded him and would cast any spell upon him to bring him pain, while his mother just ignored him. Death Eaters would taunt him, teasing him about trying to live up to his family name. His professors and his fellow students at Hogwarts thought of him as scum, and it was all his fault.
He tried to tell them he didn't want to be like his father. That everything he did it was because his father had threatened him. He wanted them to know that he wanted to fight against Voldemort, to help the Light side, but no one seemed to listen.
A sob racked through his fragile body. He brought the knife up to his arm once again, carving a lightning bolt shaped cut along his wrist.
There, just like Potter's. Now maybe that will show people that I just want to help.
His grey eyes grew large, fear over taking him. The blood flow wasn't slowing down. It just kept pouring from the slash.
No! No, I didn't mean it, I don't want to die. Please, stop, please.
His head spun as he tried to think of what to do. His body grew weaker by the second and he knew he needed help, but he was so tired, sleeping seemed like such a good idea.
Yes, sleep now. Worry 'bout blood 'morrow.
"Draco?"
He opened his eyes slightly to make out the figure in front of him but his grey orbs wouldn't stay open. The voice was familiar but he couldn't place it. He wanted to ask who it was but he couldn't seem to find the strength to speak or to even care at the moment.
"Oh, god."
And then he let the blackness consume him.