Staining Wood
Summary// A small one-shot, perhaps to become two-shot, on Oliver Wood and his relationship with a blade, and why he is losing the battle. Rated K+ because it isn't bad, just slightly sad.
Author's Notice// Oliver is not mine, and never shall be. Pity, isn't it? I rather like Oliver. He is just so...yummy.
They had just won a game. Students cheered, and clapped him on the back. 'Good job.' They all said. 'You are amazing!' He thanked them, a sickly false smile plastered on his lips. Excusing himself from the crowd on the field he hurried into the locker room. There his team waited, chattering happily about the game. Several nibbled on snacks. He saw a lollipop wrapper on the floor and picked it up, shaking his head. Laughing, the team was so amazing. He was so proud. Oliver smiled, his first true smile of the night, and even this was laced with an unattainable sadness.
"Good work." He said, nodding at his players. ""Good win." Despite his lengthy pre-game pep talks, his end speech was always short and to the point; his team had learned that a while ago. Smiles on their faces, they cheered and woot-ed. "Practice tomorrow, early." He noted but his voice was lost over the din in the locker room. Shaking his head in mock agitation he headed up the rooms.
Thirty minutes and one hot shower later he was in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Arms folded behind his head, he mused to himself. Music drifted through his walls, and he was alone. This silence, the silence of being alone, did not bother him one bit. But he was not tired. No, he was apprehensive. It had been a game night tonight. It was that time. His eyes shifted to a small box next to him. No, not yet, he tried telling himself. But it was too late. The decision had been made long before.
Sliding off the bed, he slipped the wooden box into his pocket and headed out the common room. He nodded, distracted, at his friends, and left into the halls. They were terribly empty, but curfew was not for another 25 minutes. Hands in pockets he strode down the hallway, lost within himself. Soon, all too soon he thought, he was in the locker room.
"Accio broom." He muttered quietly. Smiling as the broom glided towards him he reached for the box. His fingers caressing the lid, he was assured. A new-found bravery awakening within him, he set his face in a half smile/half grimace. Straddling the broom, he flew out the doors and over the stadium. It was empty. He smiled, enjoying this flight.
Diving and zooming, he was soon high off adrenaline. These moments, oh how he lived for these moments. He laughed, suddenly fearless, and dove, spiraling out of control. He did not pull out as he normally would, though, and kept plummeting towards the earth. He laughed a maniac's laughter, as the ground rose closer and closer. Maybe this time he wouldn't turn, he mused slightly. Maybe...
He swerved last minute, breathless. Putting space between him and the ground, he climbed height. For a few minutes, he just moved. Not quickly, not slowly. It was just him and his broom. Minutes passed, and contentedly Oliver relaxed. Now it was time. Time to come down from the high. His smile left, replaced with a steely grimace. Flying upwards, he reached the top of the tower and sat, staring at the sky. He pulled out the box, and turned it within his hands. Inside, there was a blade calling his name.
The tanned and muscular arms were no match to the blade. Oh, the blade. The steel that gave him life; that gave him meaning. The cool metal that stained his arms red with blood spilt by hid own self. The blade was his one true enemy; it was the only thing in the world he knew he would never beat. Never.
Self-mutilation was his drug. It was a drug that would kill him, but he needn't know that now. For now it was just an antidote. A pain-killer, as ridiculous as it sounds. Just like morphine, the blade brought a sense of absolute peace. It calmed his mind after each and every game, win or lose. Oliver thought a lot about the game. It was a holiday to be free of that burden. On the other hand, the blade opened him up for hurt bigger than he can ever imagine, and a hurt he will not be able to deal with. This, he also knew, but he also denied. Sometimes he contemplated these thoughts, late at night, alone. He tried to comprehend why he did it. Why he kept the box always close on hand. But he lost the battle of understanding long ago.
He can't remember when he started, or why he started, or why he bothers continuing. He just knows it is what he does, the one thing he can always excel at failing. The one thing he would never conquer, the blade was his enemy. The one thing that could bring happiness, the blade was his friend. The battle to change that had been lost long ago.
Now, all that matters is the blade, that smooth menacing untamed beast. Oliver opened the box. Steel glinted in the moonlight. They may have won the game, but Oliver had lost this battle long ago.
For now, and forever, all there was for Oliver Wood was the blade. And because of that, he would die stained red.
Okay, so that was my first attempt at fanfiction writing in two or three years. How did I do? It was epicfailure, wasn't it? Oh wells. Any comments about my writing style/format, openings or endings, or overall reviews would be much appreciate. And oh! I MIGHT make this into a two piece, and make it first-person, on the day he cuts too deep and dies. Any comments on what that story would be like?