Great way to introduce myself, huh? Angst angst and more angst. But, oh well. I don't own Harry Potter, but I might own unnamed Death Eater. Who he is is up to your imagination. I really have no say in the matter.

You don't wake slowly, or even peacefully. You scream out horribly as you bolt upright in bed, from dreams that reflect what you do daily. What you have no choice in doing. Blood and tears run freely, and a high, cackling laughter echoes. This isn't the first time you mentally curse yourself for being an idiotic teenager, and succumbing to the goading of an equally stupid friend, one who assured you that this would be fun. That you would be above normal wizards in every way. That friend didn't last a year, dying at the end of your Master's wand for refusing to rape and torture a child. Sometimes you think you should have joined him. Death must be better than the miserable existence you have now.

Still trembling, you swing your long, pale legs out of bed, and stare at the scarlet carpet under your toes. You regret this choice in decor daily.

Getting gracefully to your feet once the shaking has died down enough, you stumble over to the large oak armoire, and throw the heavy doors open. Of course, it has been magically amplified to be bigger on the inside than it looked, and is packed with robes of all colors and cuts, but the first thing that you see now, the first thing that you notice every time you look in the armoire, are the ominous black cloaks, and the frightening white mask that hangs from the top. Mocking you. Reminding you. You turn away in shame, and blindly grab for anything. The robes you pull out are a light green with dark green embellishments around the hems.

You look to your bed, and to the empty space where a spouse would sleep. You haven't taken one, even though there have been offers. No matter how much they would love you, they wouldn't be able to deal with the shadows, the shame and guilt that plagues you. You have resigned yourself to life, however long it will be, alone.

Walking more smoothly, you make your way into the bathroom, to clean yourself and dress. Stripping, your eyes are inexplicably drawn to your left forearm, as they always have been. The ugly, gaudy tattoo is another glaring reminder, and you almost break down as the empty eye sockets seem to judge you, even though you know that's impossible. Dressing quickly so you can escape from the sight. You don't even look in the mirror. You haven't been able to for a long time.

You leave without breakfast as you often do. Giving a passing thought to trying to commit suicide by starvation. It would be almost poetic, knowing how many people you have captured for your Lord and condemned to a similar fate. The Dark Lord took a sadistic sort of glee in locking up prisoners in the dungeons, and then just forgetting about them completely, until they commit suicide, or die of starvation or dehydration.

The day passes in a blur for you. You don't have many friends anymore. You tend to distance yourself from people who even dare to try. People who would call themselves such are delusional, to your way of thinking. Why would the want to associate with someone so broken, so scarred?

Before you realize it, it's approaching midnight, and the tattoo blazes with pain. You look at it again, and the whimsical thought strikes you that the skull almost seems to be smiling sinisterly. The thought is gone before you even open you armoire and reach for those robes that you detest. You pull them on, fix the mask to your face, and Apparate away, knowing that if the Dark Lord is kept waiting too long, there would be painful, lasting repercussions. Especially since his main pet, Belatrix, has taken an interest in muggle torture techniques, and has his permission to test them on some of the Death Eaters he is irritated with. You do not wish to join that number.

You are among the first to arrive, just after those of the inner circle. This is a matter of pride for those who can still take pride in serving your Lord. You will be able to kiss the hem of his robe before most.

You do so, and watch dispassionately as others follow you, some going so far as to crawl to the place where the Dark Lord sits. You sneer, thinking that your ancestors and theirs would never do such a thing. You're glad for the mask, which hides your emotions from being read on your face.

Once the Dark Lord is satisfied you all stand in a circle, with him in the middle, handing out praise and punishment for raids that have been implemented recently. You haven't taken part in any raids or killings since the last such meeting, so you escape scrutiny. You don't even flinch as the man beside you isn't as lucky, and suffers Cruciatus.

But then something happens you don't expect. The Dark Lord points specifically to you, and says you have been very loyal, and that it is time to treat you. You shudder slightly, remembering that these are the exact words that led to your friend's last day on Earth, so many years ago.

You watch with growing horror as a boy is brought into the center of the circle. He is young, very young. No older than seven, and he is crying and begging for mercy. His clothes are in tatters, but you can recognize them as the current muggle fashion.

You are told to do with the boy what you wish, though the implication is clear. Rape him, and torture him. Let him die slowly, and in horrible pain. Let him be taught a lesson for being born a muggle. You swallow noisily, and step out into the center, aware of the other sets of eyes on you.

You know that today you can fulfill your wish of dying as your friend had. Of escaping these bonds that held you motionless. You look at the small boy, and see in his eyes the same pleading that you saw in the eyes of every victim that died by your hand, though tempered by that innate innocence that only children had. Until now, you had avoiding killing children. You knew that luck would have to die today, or you would.

And that wouldn't save the child. Even as your body lay cooling, some other member would be singled out and tested, and they would pass, or fail in the same manner you would.

So you do as you are told, even as tears pour down your face, hidden by your mask, and you wish it could have been different. You violate the boy in the worst way imaginable. You make him scream until his voice is hoarse. And then you put him out of his misery, knowing that the day you stop breathing, you won't be going to the same place he is.

You are congratulated, and sent back to your place in the formation. You once again aren't given an assignment, though you wouldn't know it if you were. The child's screams still echo in your ears, even though his body was long ago wheeled away. They drown out every other sound, and the only reason you know the meeting has ended is because you see the other members turning on the spot, and disappearing. So you do the same.

At home, you drink. You want to forget, though you know you never will. You know your dreams will now be plagued by those pleading, innocent eyes.

This isn't living. There is no pride in what you do. This is surviving for a short time, and there is nothing but shame. Because in the end, you will die by the Dark Lord's wand, at some point in the future. There is only a matter time.

I have finished putting these thoughts into words.

Lionna