Now it's the last...
Disclaimers: See chapter 1.
...thing left on my mind.
It's cold outside, but I'm running blindly out into the blistering winter wind without a thought, except that I need to get away. I fought back the instinct to go to him, couldn't bear the sight of his body lying broken and bleeding with the marks of claws, my claws, in his flesh. I was out of the room and tearing down the stairs as soon as my fumbling hands could wrench the key around in the lock.
Oh God... Oh God... What have I done? No matter how much I rub my eyes, shake my head, pinch myself, the sight of his torn body refuses to unstitch itself from the inside of my eyelids; there's no escape.
And I keep running, the pavement disappearing in a blur beneath my, often stumbling, feet. The icy air bites deeper, slicing into my skin like a flurry of blades.
I don't know where I'm going. Thinking doesn't seem to be an option when my mind's full of... God, full of him.
I have to stop running, exhaustion and the stitch in my side have caught up with me, dragging me to a standstill, panting and scrubbing furious tears from my eyes. I have nowhere to go now, nowhere to run to, just have to run. I can't run to James or Peter; Merlin knows where Dumbledore's sent them this time, but I haven't heard from either of them in months. There's still Hogwarts... but I know I can never go back there. Dumbledore trusted me. How can I tell him he was wrong?
No, I'm on my own now. Fighting through the gnawing pain over my hip, I force my legs into a slow jog, though they complain every step of the way.
It's mid-day when I find myself in the park, as good a place as any to rest I suppose. I drop myself down on a rotting bench, given a wide berth by the few passers-by that have troubled to brave the weather. It's only now that I look down at my hands, more dangling than resting, in my lap. I swear my heart just stopped. Blood. My hands, every inch of them... soaked in blood. It's a good thing the park is so empty, because the helpless sound, somewhere between a moan and a wail, would doubtless have attracted attention. What could ever make anyone ready for the realisation that they are a cold-blooded killer? Worse, that they had murdered their best friend and their lov- No, God, it's too painful even to think those words.
Warm tears leave thin tracks in the red stains, but I could never cry enough of them to wash these claws clean.
"Rather they the multitudinous seas incarnadine..." That line from Macbeth drifts tauntingly back to me through a poisonous fog of misery and fury. And how I wish now for Cawdor's swift end, life rubbed away life in a single fell stroke, cut down for his crimes. Where is that enemy's drawn sword now I have need? Why such justice for him and not for me? "Oh out, out brief candle...To die, to sleep. That this was all a dream..."
A/N: I do have soime vague idea where this is going now... so uh, still stick around to see. Reviews will be cooed happily over, so do leave on on your way out. Come on, it'll take seconds, you know you want to...
Anyway, TTFN folks. -waves-