The Paths We Choose
He had been awake for nearly 15 minutes, yet he made no movement suggesting such a thing. If it had not been for his labored breathing, which caused his sweaty chest to rise and fall, then most others would've presumed him dead.
But to Draco, he was already dead.
His eyes, open and blank, surveyed the room he was in. There was no doubt that he was in an Infirmary. The strong smell of alcohol was proof enough, but all around him were wounded patients — most looking a lot better than he felt.
He recognized some, while most were blank faces to him. But he knew them to be part of the Order. It only made sense that they did.
So why was he there?
He looked down at his immobile body. He was not at all surprised to see the state he was in, for he felt nearly 10 times as worse than he looked. The sheets around him were covered in blood and sweat, and a sharp pain in his gut told him that most of the blood was coming from there. Not all, but most of it.
He tried to wiggle his fingers, but all he could muster was a slight twitch from his left pinkie. Looking down at his left arm burned. They had so conveniently placed his arm so that his palm lay face down, with that wretched black mark glaring so maliciously at him.
He tore his eyes away. It hurt too much to remember what he had done — what side he had chosen.
He was going to die — he was sure of it. If not from his wounds, then from his enemies, or worse — his allies. Whichever way he looked at it, he was going to die.
If he was able to, he would've smile.
He was going to die.
The news, to any other person, would've been devastating. No one in their right mind would want to die at such a young age of 17. But to Draco, the news was bliss — a relief.
He was going to die, and he wanted to.
Some would call it cowardly, but he called it a release. Death was his only escape. He had been wanting to escape for the longest of times.
But does he any regrets?
Perhaps the way he acted towards others. Granted, it gave him sheer pleasure then, but looking back on it, he wished he had not been so cruel. He built a wall around himself, and refused to let people see the child — blind and vulnerable — that he was. And as much as he hated to admit it, he did not want to die knowing that no one would miss him.
Because no one would. He was not the friendliest, most lovable person there was. The few lives he had touched were probably as good as dead as he was.
He knew what a rotten person he was — how cruel and unmerciful he had been. But he didn't mind that then. He never really did. If there was one good thing his father had told him, it was to be proud of who you are. Truth be told, his father meant that for a much higher dignity towards the Malfoy name, but he had said it nonetheless.
And Draco was proud. Even as he regrets who he had been, he would not have been any other way. His name meant something. Even if that 'something' may not be all that good, it was still something.
No. He would never regret the person he was.
If anything, he regretted saying "yes". Never in his life had he realized what power a simple word like that could possess. It was that very word that got him that mark on his arm; the word that brought on the deaths of so many others, along with his own.
So in retrospect, he regretted having to die. There would be no greater relief for Draco than to die, but knowing the kind of life he could've had — the kind of feelings he could've felt and earned; it plagued him.
He wanted to die, but not like this. Not in an Infirmary room with people he did not know or care about. He wanted to be surrounded by familiar faces — even if they had been an old enemy, he didn't care. He wanted to be comforted and consoled. He wanted to be mourned over and missed.
No.
He can't die now. Not like this.
His eyes, once empty and lifeless, burned with tears of passion — tears of regret. He didn't want to die not knowing what it felt like to love and be loved.
No.
He would not die — not yet. He simply refused to. And if there's one thing Draco was admired for, it was his determination.
He felt an unusual drowsiness come upon him, and willed to eyes to stay open.
I am not going to die, he told himself, though he had already began to drift into an oddly relaxing sleep.
I am not going to die.
* * *
I'm pretty vague on the setting. I didn't really feel that it was that important to the story. But to compensate, I'll explain it here. Ahem.
Draco is 17 years old, and supposedly still attending Hogwarts. The Infirmary or Hospital he is in can either be that of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, or someplace else the 'War' might've taken place at. You can tell from the mark on his left arm that he apparently chose the dark side, and became a Death Eater. But he was in an Infirmary full of good wizards. That's kind of suggesting that the person in charge (most likely Dumbledore) didn't really think of Draco to be truly evil. Call it pity, call it crazy, or call it hope — either way, he's there.
Oh, and don't ask me if Draco ever died in the end. He could've died, or merely fainted from the lack of blood. The choice is yours.
~ Jonah (jlee@got-me.net)
He had been awake for nearly 15 minutes, yet he made no movement suggesting such a thing. If it had not been for his labored breathing, which caused his sweaty chest to rise and fall, then most others would've presumed him dead.
But to Draco, he was already dead.
His eyes, open and blank, surveyed the room he was in. There was no doubt that he was in an Infirmary. The strong smell of alcohol was proof enough, but all around him were wounded patients — most looking a lot better than he felt.
He recognized some, while most were blank faces to him. But he knew them to be part of the Order. It only made sense that they did.
So why was he there?
He looked down at his immobile body. He was not at all surprised to see the state he was in, for he felt nearly 10 times as worse than he looked. The sheets around him were covered in blood and sweat, and a sharp pain in his gut told him that most of the blood was coming from there. Not all, but most of it.
He tried to wiggle his fingers, but all he could muster was a slight twitch from his left pinkie. Looking down at his left arm burned. They had so conveniently placed his arm so that his palm lay face down, with that wretched black mark glaring so maliciously at him.
He tore his eyes away. It hurt too much to remember what he had done — what side he had chosen.
He was going to die — he was sure of it. If not from his wounds, then from his enemies, or worse — his allies. Whichever way he looked at it, he was going to die.
If he was able to, he would've smile.
He was going to die.
The news, to any other person, would've been devastating. No one in their right mind would want to die at such a young age of 17. But to Draco, the news was bliss — a relief.
He was going to die, and he wanted to.
Some would call it cowardly, but he called it a release. Death was his only escape. He had been wanting to escape for the longest of times.
But does he any regrets?
Perhaps the way he acted towards others. Granted, it gave him sheer pleasure then, but looking back on it, he wished he had not been so cruel. He built a wall around himself, and refused to let people see the child — blind and vulnerable — that he was. And as much as he hated to admit it, he did not want to die knowing that no one would miss him.
Because no one would. He was not the friendliest, most lovable person there was. The few lives he had touched were probably as good as dead as he was.
He knew what a rotten person he was — how cruel and unmerciful he had been. But he didn't mind that then. He never really did. If there was one good thing his father had told him, it was to be proud of who you are. Truth be told, his father meant that for a much higher dignity towards the Malfoy name, but he had said it nonetheless.
And Draco was proud. Even as he regrets who he had been, he would not have been any other way. His name meant something. Even if that 'something' may not be all that good, it was still something.
No. He would never regret the person he was.
If anything, he regretted saying "yes". Never in his life had he realized what power a simple word like that could possess. It was that very word that got him that mark on his arm; the word that brought on the deaths of so many others, along with his own.
So in retrospect, he regretted having to die. There would be no greater relief for Draco than to die, but knowing the kind of life he could've had — the kind of feelings he could've felt and earned; it plagued him.
He wanted to die, but not like this. Not in an Infirmary room with people he did not know or care about. He wanted to be surrounded by familiar faces — even if they had been an old enemy, he didn't care. He wanted to be comforted and consoled. He wanted to be mourned over and missed.
No.
He can't die now. Not like this.
His eyes, once empty and lifeless, burned with tears of passion — tears of regret. He didn't want to die not knowing what it felt like to love and be loved.
No.
He would not die — not yet. He simply refused to. And if there's one thing Draco was admired for, it was his determination.
He felt an unusual drowsiness come upon him, and willed to eyes to stay open.
I am not going to die, he told himself, though he had already began to drift into an oddly relaxing sleep.
I am not going to die.
* * *
I'm pretty vague on the setting. I didn't really feel that it was that important to the story. But to compensate, I'll explain it here. Ahem.
Draco is 17 years old, and supposedly still attending Hogwarts. The Infirmary or Hospital he is in can either be that of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, or someplace else the 'War' might've taken place at. You can tell from the mark on his left arm that he apparently chose the dark side, and became a Death Eater. But he was in an Infirmary full of good wizards. That's kind of suggesting that the person in charge (most likely Dumbledore) didn't really think of Draco to be truly evil. Call it pity, call it crazy, or call it hope — either way, he's there.
Oh, and don't ask me if Draco ever died in the end. He could've died, or merely fainted from the lack of blood. The choice is yours.
~ Jonah (jlee@got-me.net)