The Choice
Disclaimer: You know the procedure.
Author's Note: Just a dark little fic I typed up in about five minutes. It could be about Snape, but it doesn't have to be. I'm not sure what I think about this yet. You tell me.
* * *
I do not choose who I am.
Am I not a man, just like the rest? Are we not all human, heroes and villains alike? I breathe like the rest, I have everything they have. Eyes, ears, mouth, nose, hands, feet, heart, lungs... everything.
And yet, I am different.
For I have been Branded by the Dark Lord, set apart for evil purposes, made impure by my own wicked deeds. I'm no human. I'm a Death Eater, a subspecies of darkness, cloaked by robes and heralded by the Unforgivables waiting pungently at our lips.
But I did not choose who I became.
The rest of the world fears us, and the fear is what keeps us powerful. It is not the spells or the knives or even Voldemort that keeps us in control. It is the fear. It is the fear that is so tangible you can taste it in the air, sharp and acrid, deliciously burning your tongue.
We kill in shadows, with a curse or a flashing knife coated with fresh blood. We are the Purebloods, the Chosen of the magical race. Voldemort only allows the best to serve him, the strongest, the most powerful, the most pure.
I did not choose to be pure.
Just like I did not choose to be who I am. But I cannot deny it. Even if I tried, the Mark on my arm would betray my own tongue. My body betrays itself. The Mark is as much a part of me as my skin is. I could as soon remove it as I could remove my liver. Though sometimes, I would like to do both.
But my body is not my own. It belongs to Him. I surrendered my body and mind to him so many years ago. It seems like ages now that I have been doing his will, murdering and maiming in his name, like some twisted crusader.
But I swear, it was not my decision.
If my fate leads me to the cells of Azkaban, to be driven insane by Dementors, my one good thought would be that I did not choose who I became.
How can you choose who you are? You can't decide to be hero or antagonist. You can't destine yourself to be rich or poor. Fate, with her cruel since of humor, deals you your destiny. And mine is this.
But I hate it. I hate the Mark, I hate my body, I hate what is left of my blackened soul. I cannot stand to look in a mirror any longer, for I despise myself. If it would do any good, I would beg Voldemort to kill me, to shove his wand down my throat and whisper those two sweet words.
Avada Kedavra.
I know it would be quick. I have seen it many times- the green burst of energy that sucks the life from its victim. I crave that now, every day. Please, Merlin...
My hand reaches for my belt, for the sheath that contains my knife. I pull out the weapon and stare at it dumbly. My reflection is distorted grotesquely in the metal, revealing the monster inside, the monster that I did not choose to become.
As I hold up the knife before my eyes, my sleeve slides down my arm, revealing alabaster skin, paled from hours of lurking inside rather than out. Veins throb near the surface, the action heightened by pure desire to die. The blood pounds in my head, threatening to drown out the sound of my thoughts.
But since when did my thoughts matter? I never got to make a decision, after all.
Suddenly, the knife is pressed to my wrist, millimeters from slicing through the skin there. It would be so easy. Before I can stop myself, the blade cuts deep. Blood blossoms around the knife like a deadly rose. The thick liquid falls in a constant river from my wrist to the ground, my life seeping out through the severed vein to puddle on the floor.
I did not choose who I was, to be pure, to be a servant of Voldemort, to be a monster. I did not choose any of it.
But I chose this.
END
Disclaimer: You know the procedure.
Author's Note: Just a dark little fic I typed up in about five minutes. It could be about Snape, but it doesn't have to be. I'm not sure what I think about this yet. You tell me.
* * *
I do not choose who I am.
Am I not a man, just like the rest? Are we not all human, heroes and villains alike? I breathe like the rest, I have everything they have. Eyes, ears, mouth, nose, hands, feet, heart, lungs... everything.
And yet, I am different.
For I have been Branded by the Dark Lord, set apart for evil purposes, made impure by my own wicked deeds. I'm no human. I'm a Death Eater, a subspecies of darkness, cloaked by robes and heralded by the Unforgivables waiting pungently at our lips.
But I did not choose who I became.
The rest of the world fears us, and the fear is what keeps us powerful. It is not the spells or the knives or even Voldemort that keeps us in control. It is the fear. It is the fear that is so tangible you can taste it in the air, sharp and acrid, deliciously burning your tongue.
We kill in shadows, with a curse or a flashing knife coated with fresh blood. We are the Purebloods, the Chosen of the magical race. Voldemort only allows the best to serve him, the strongest, the most powerful, the most pure.
I did not choose to be pure.
Just like I did not choose to be who I am. But I cannot deny it. Even if I tried, the Mark on my arm would betray my own tongue. My body betrays itself. The Mark is as much a part of me as my skin is. I could as soon remove it as I could remove my liver. Though sometimes, I would like to do both.
But my body is not my own. It belongs to Him. I surrendered my body and mind to him so many years ago. It seems like ages now that I have been doing his will, murdering and maiming in his name, like some twisted crusader.
But I swear, it was not my decision.
If my fate leads me to the cells of Azkaban, to be driven insane by Dementors, my one good thought would be that I did not choose who I became.
How can you choose who you are? You can't decide to be hero or antagonist. You can't destine yourself to be rich or poor. Fate, with her cruel since of humor, deals you your destiny. And mine is this.
But I hate it. I hate the Mark, I hate my body, I hate what is left of my blackened soul. I cannot stand to look in a mirror any longer, for I despise myself. If it would do any good, I would beg Voldemort to kill me, to shove his wand down my throat and whisper those two sweet words.
Avada Kedavra.
I know it would be quick. I have seen it many times- the green burst of energy that sucks the life from its victim. I crave that now, every day. Please, Merlin...
My hand reaches for my belt, for the sheath that contains my knife. I pull out the weapon and stare at it dumbly. My reflection is distorted grotesquely in the metal, revealing the monster inside, the monster that I did not choose to become.
As I hold up the knife before my eyes, my sleeve slides down my arm, revealing alabaster skin, paled from hours of lurking inside rather than out. Veins throb near the surface, the action heightened by pure desire to die. The blood pounds in my head, threatening to drown out the sound of my thoughts.
But since when did my thoughts matter? I never got to make a decision, after all.
Suddenly, the knife is pressed to my wrist, millimeters from slicing through the skin there. It would be so easy. Before I can stop myself, the blade cuts deep. Blood blossoms around the knife like a deadly rose. The thick liquid falls in a constant river from my wrist to the ground, my life seeping out through the severed vein to puddle on the floor.
I did not choose who I was, to be pure, to be a servant of Voldemort, to be a monster. I did not choose any of it.
But I chose this.
END