So today is one of those, not so nice days, and I had an idea for this a few weeks back, but I was never in the right mindset to write it. This morning I was in that mindset, so hopefully it turned out alright.
Following in the footsteps of my rare pair queen, disillusionist9, I wrote this. Inspired by my loves Moonnott and laisvega.
My tumblr: indiebluecrown. tumblr. com
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line is mine.
Cursed. He was a cursed child.
He grew up in a home filled with love until he was seven, he detested the number itself since that was when everything changed.
A slip, a tumble, a loud thumping down the wooden staircase. Twisted and broken there she lay, crimson staining the light hardwood, eyes unseeing. An image that haunted him in all of his dreams.
Hatred. He was filled to the brim with the acidic feeling that burned from the pit of his stomach to the back of his throat. There was so much sorrow, so much grief, but no outlet, no destination or place for it to go.
Pain. A head splitting pain, a pain that burned and snapped and flew through his veins, his left forearm burned. A white hot tongue of flame was licking at his skin, making it bubble, blister and burst. He stared dully at the black ink staining his skin as he lay in a pool of his own piss and with a bloody lip since his teeth had pierced the gentle flesh and crimson stained his chin, and it was dripping, slowly dripping. He was being branded, like an animal, he was just another number, another pawn in the chess game that was being played out. He didn't expect to survive past the age of seventeen. Somehow he was okay with that, it would only be fitting. He despised the number seven to the very core of his being, it would almost be poetic in a sense.
Orphan. It seemed he had something in common with the Chosen One after all. He felt nothing as they buried his Father in the ground beside his Mother. They had never been close, especially after his Mother's death. Part of him was glad they were burying the wretched man into the cold, hard ground, he had only brought misery into his life. He was the reason he had an itchy reminder of his worthlessness on his forearm, hidden underneath layers of black robes.
Alone. His friends were all either outcasts or branded like he was. They were pariahs, hated, spat on, curses-verbal and physical-were thrown at them whenever they went outside. No one cared that they had been children as well, following in the footsteps of their parents or peers. Most of them with no choice, or no options to do anything other than what they had. Whilst the others lived in the light, shining and being rewarded for being on the right side, they lived in fear and darkness. He greeted the darkness like an old friend, he hadn't really ever been that fond of the light anyway.
Burn. His throat burned as the Firewhisky poured down his throat, it helped him forget, but it never helped him forget enough. Days blurred together, dates were meaningless. The smoke from the countless fags that he lit, filled his lungs then curled and drifted out of his lips when he exhaled; he rubbed out the butt on his forearm, right on top of the ink that haunted him, the pain was nothing compared to what he had endured for the brand to be there in the first place, but it was a reminder. He barely even felt it most days.
He was a cursed man.
Cursed. He was a cursed man, he had been cursed since he was little. Blood, teeth, frigid night air. Fear, palpable in the air, it was scorching his lungs and veins. Sharp screams echoing through the night, the cold round mistress in the air permanently seared into the back of his eyelids.
Monster. That was what he saw every morning when he looked in the mirror, the tired, dark and puffy bags that were under his eyes a stark contrast to the rest of his pale, scarred skin. The pale sphere in the sky mocked him as it filled and emptied, he lived his life in an endless cycle, forced to bend to her whims and fancies. Headaches, pain, sorrow.
Monster. It was what he turned into, as his bones snapped, as his teeth elongated, as he forgot who he was, as his vision became sharper, as his limbs reformed and changed, as fur sprouted from his pores. As he was filled with excruciating pain that felt like it split him in half, laying his insides bare.
Friends. They helped. He was happy, ridiculously so. The fear was back, always nagging him in the back of his mind, that they would one day see him as the monster that he saw in himself. The fear that they would be ripped away from him, one of the only things that helped make his life better. They gave him hope, they stitched all the invisible wounds splayed across his heart closed. He felt alive.
Death. Alone. He was alone again, his family and friends all gone or dead. A deep betrayal. He curled inside himself. He let the darkness consume him, the small voices in his mind reminding him that he wasn't alone, their voices was buried. Telling him that there was a small innocent that was still alive, scarred, but alive. He found that he couldn't find the strength to listen anymore, their faces blurring from his memories and their voices the only thing that accompanied him in the shadows.
Thirteen. That's how old the boy was, still scarred, but no longer innocent. The first time he had seen him since he was a babe. He smelled like his Father, an earthy, woodsy smell. It was strong, slamming his senses straight on when the boy entered the compartment with his two friends. He almost broke down in sobs then, but instead he feigned that he was lost to the world, asleep.
Twelve. It had been twelve years since he had seen him, he was skinnier, unhealthily so, his ribs protruding, his raven hair not as shiny, ink staining and covered almost every inch of his abdomen and arms. Faded, ripped stripes were hanging off his body, there was pain, sorrow and grief in his eyes too. He was just as cursed and as alone as he was now. Somehow he still smelled like cinnamon and leather. He let out a maniacal laugh, and the truth was revealed in the shack that he had spent too many a Full Moon in.
Death. Again. This time he had been foolish to have hope when he should have known better. He knew better. Everyone he loved left him in the end. His cinnamon and leather smell still lingered in the air in front of the dark shroud that had taken him from them. He held fast to their boy, he was the only one left to take care of him. It was a hollow, empty thought, but it filled him with trepidation. The boy couldn't die too. He almost felt bad when the only thought that came to mind then was, anyone else can die...just not the boy, anyone else but the boy.
War. It tears families apart, and it leaves them all irrevocably damaged, in ways he didn't even know that it could. The betrayer died, strangling himself with his own silver hand, and then the thought strikes him that he is the last one. The last one. Somehow he always thought they would all outlive him, how wrong had he been. The boy survived. That was all that mattered now. The boy with the faint lightning scar on his forehead survived. It helped alleviate the rest of the pain.
He was a cursed man.
An encounter. One drowning in amber liquid, the other drowning in his own fears and demons, it was a frantic, quick meeting of flesh. Of sweaty bodies, bruised lips, and tortured souls. It was never meant to be more than that. It was never meant to matter. They had both lost everything. They were both alone. Loneliness smothering their senses and souls even when they were surrounded by the only people that meant anything anymore. Somehow, somehow, against all odds, they made each other feel again, even though they both knew feeling never went well for them. Even though they knew better.
Scarred. They both were covered in raised scar tissue, some fainter, more faded than others. "This," the dark haired boy twisted, unable to see it, but knew exactly where the jagged line ran in between his shoulder blades, "was for not agreeing to take the Mark the first time." The sandy haired man pressed soft kisses along the scar, and they traded stories in the dim light, comforting each other and holding each other into the dead of night.
They had found each other somehow, within their own dark worlds they had emerged long enough to step into the light and they collided painfully. They were both cursed, or at least that's what they thought. Although they didn't feel as cursed when they were together. The harsh words that tumbled from others mouths about them ceased to matter, their broken pieces fit together, and that was all that mattered.
Broken. They are both broken in ways that no one quite understood, they sympathise, but they don't get that all the glue in the world won't fix the broken shards of their souls that they had managed to patch up together.
"I'm the last! I'm all alone!" he said as he cried into the night, cursing the almost full, bright sphere in the night sky, the stars sparkling around it. It was almost as if it was mocking him, as if his misery gave it pleasure. Those nights were the worst, when he remembered their faces, and how they were all gone. Then a soft, "you're not alone," always came, and the dark haired man would wrap his gangly arms around the much fuller, stronger, older man.
They are cursed but they are cursed together.