Disclaimer: Yeah, this is about Narcissa. I know you can't tell but its going to be an off side part in my Narcissa/Lily fic. I don't own her. But she isn't really mentioned so, yeah. I don't own Harry Potter though, nor anything to do with the books. If only I did. (Sigh).
Red
by JadeWerewolf
She always liked red. Yes, it was her favourite colour. She used to prick herself just to see the red.
But it's worse now.
She always wondered just why the caged bird sang. Sometimes she felt like a caged bird. Restless and frustrated. But outside, she smiled.
It was exquisite, the pain.
She remembered the first day. She had been a clumsy eleven year old, taking a bath. she stepped out of the tub and the room was filled with steam.
Then, her glass cup slipped.
It broke into a thousand pieces. Carefully she picked up a shard and set it against her skin. She scratched.
The wound bled.
She stared fascinated. And smiled because it felt so right. It was everything she had been longing for. A release, a catharsis. Anything to dull the anger.
And red was her favourite colour too.
Pain blossomed from her skin, red on white. She relished it. Nothing was so sweet. So satisfying. So right. It was so right, that it was wrong.
And after the blood, came the burn.
Liters. Empty. Strewn across sat in the middle of hr room, one light left. It burned bright and she seemed to be staring at the flame.
But she was only waiting.
Finally she the flame flickered out. the liter was empty. She pressed it against her skin and shivered in pleasure and pain.
Another smiling face on her body.
But no matter how wonderful burning was, cutting was her first love. Her only love. and while the burn was wonderful, the blood was better.
Because, after all, red was her favourite colour.
-end-
Red
by JadeWerewolf
She always liked red. Yes, it was her favourite colour. She used to prick herself just to see the red.
But it's worse now.
She always wondered just why the caged bird sang. Sometimes she felt like a caged bird. Restless and frustrated. But outside, she smiled.
It was exquisite, the pain.
She remembered the first day. She had been a clumsy eleven year old, taking a bath. she stepped out of the tub and the room was filled with steam.
Then, her glass cup slipped.
It broke into a thousand pieces. Carefully she picked up a shard and set it against her skin. She scratched.
The wound bled.
She stared fascinated. And smiled because it felt so right. It was everything she had been longing for. A release, a catharsis. Anything to dull the anger.
And red was her favourite colour too.
Pain blossomed from her skin, red on white. She relished it. Nothing was so sweet. So satisfying. So right. It was so right, that it was wrong.
And after the blood, came the burn.
Liters. Empty. Strewn across sat in the middle of hr room, one light left. It burned bright and she seemed to be staring at the flame.
But she was only waiting.
Finally she the flame flickered out. the liter was empty. She pressed it against her skin and shivered in pleasure and pain.
Another smiling face on her body.
But no matter how wonderful burning was, cutting was her first love. Her only love. and while the burn was wonderful, the blood was better.
Because, after all, red was her favourite colour.
-end-