Just something that popped into my head today, I was thinking about fight club...which explains a lot...haha
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Sirius brushed his dark hair out of his eyes and smiled. His thin lips spreading across his face, stretching even thinner. No teeth, no humor, no feeling.
Blood dripped from his temple, a dark glistening trail down the side of his face. Running down his jaw. Dripping onto the cement floor of the parking garage.
Beside the smattering of blood from Sirius' face there's a man. A man with sunken cheekbones and split lips, and bruised eyes. A man lying in a pool of his own blood. Seeping out from under him, straining to find the lowest level. Slowly but surely creeping towards Sirius' bare feet.
He steps forward and kneels down, the knee of his black jeans soaking up the blood.
A small drip falls from his face onto the man's nose and Sirius stares at it with interest.
Then he lights a cigarette.
Camel Light.
He stole the crumpled pack off a businessman at the tube station earlier.
Black zippo lighter.
It had been his uncle's. But his uncle was dead now. He figured he wouldn't mind to much if he borrowed it.
He takes a drag on the cigarette, the little red glow at the end burning quickly. The smoke twists and twirls from his nostrils. Disappearing into the dark night air.
Thin pale fingers with blood crusted under the nails take the cigarette from the thin lips and hold it gently.
"This is it."
His voice echoes around the empty level and he waits for it to fade before he opens his mouth again.
"Did you like it?"
The man of the ground doesn't make a sound. Doesn't even move.
Sirius just nods.
"I liked it. Shame it was over so quickly."
Still nothing.
Tilting his head slightly, a curtain of dark hair obscuring his eyes, Sirius watched the burning cigarette for a moment before taking the man's hand.
He runs his fingers over every red, bleeding wound, every wrinkle and line, every fingerprint and smiles that odd thin smile again.
"A memento."
The cigarette comes down quickly and it's only then that the man moves. A horse scream, twitching violently but Sirius grasp his hand harder.
"There."
A small red mark, a little angry circle stands on the man's hand. Sirius runs a curious finger over it before straightening up.
"Don't forget me."
...
He sits on the curb, a cigarette dangling from his lips and feels someone watching him. But that's normal. He's used to that.
"What do you do on the weekends?"
James asks finally and Sirius turns slightly and sees James drawn face.
"What I do on the weekends is my business. Not yours."
"Right."
James sits down next to him, a careful distance away, but still unusually close.
He pulls a cigarette out of his coat and waits patiently as Sirius lights it for him.
He watches as Sirius' bruised knuckles strain under the scabs, little droplets of blood forming where he's picked at them. At the rusty red cigarette burns on his hand, at the scars and bruises.
He watches the flame snap shut with a click.
...
Sirius forces his swollen eyes open and the fist slams into his face, he feels his teeth shatter in his mouth and spits them out when the man pulls back for the second attack.
It's all a game.
It's not real.
Nothing is real.
He tastes blood, seeping into his mouth and tries not to choke.
He's sinking. Downward.
Aiming for rock bottom.
Then he'll keep digging.
Because rock bottom is the only place that's safe anymore.
When he's at rock bottom, nothing can touch him.
Nothing.
Because he'll have nothing. Be nothing. A nobody.
And everyone else will have something. No matter how little that something is.
It's still something to lose.
He has nothing to lose.
He tried to get up, but another punch hits him and he feels like his face has gone concave.
He hears his collarbone snap and feels the pain coursing through him.
He has nothing.
Nothing.
And yet somehow, nothing is everything.
He's in control now.