Ugnf, being Adrian getting bitchy and frustrated makes me happy. It makes me happy because I was stupid enough to try and tackle this fucking story and now I'm suffering for it, and being bitchy Adrian lets me express some degree of my severe annoyance with the author of the original.

Not that my pain isn't totally my fault. Blaming other people just helps me deal with it.

You there, you in the blue shirt. Yes you, with the bowl and spoon in your hand and that deadpan, "holy shit how can this person see me" look in your eyes.

This is your fault too.

I don't know how, but it is.

So…knock it off. I'm getting a headache.

To the rest of you, enjoy! :D

Chapter 10.

AN: stup it u gay fags if u donot lik ma story den fukk off! ps it turnz out b'loody mary isn't a muggle afert al n she n vampire r evil datz y dey movd houses ok! ((testily taps foot) 'Scuse me, miss. I don't believe you're allowed to say "fag". That's not your word to use.)

I was angry, fearful, very temperamental, and super, SUPER not in the mood to deal with shit. What I needed now was to take a long, hot bath full of bubbles, soothing oils, and linen/lavender scented candles. I also needed to play some Regina Spektor and Imogen Heap, and I needed a big ass box of fucking chocolate whatevers. Anything chocolate. To my chagrin, however, I was dragged to rehearsals with my band, "Bloody Gothic Rose 666" (pardon the name, "Darkness-Drenched Blood-Sucking Whimper-Wads was already taken) in which I was the lead singer and I also played guitar. I really didn't want to, and had never agreed to, and for that matter had never agreed to be in the band. When the other members saw my long hair, though, I think they instantly thought that I was the "death-metal" type and shoved a big, electric six-string into my hands. I couldn't play the thing for shit. I have no coordination when it comes to trying to execute complex patters and I'm absolutely tone-deaf. Apparently, that doesn't matter at all to them. "Them", the other members of this group being Hermione, Harry, Draco, Ron (although he supposedly goes by "Diabolo" now, and (unsurprisingly) has conformed to the hyper-grim fad like everyone else in the school), and Hagrid, despite Hagrid being a teacher and a half-giant, which meant that he could only play the drums and his ludicrous strength broke them half the time. I have no idea how we could have all been in a band together that not only had a name, but also held regular rehearsals, and yet somehow, I had not known that Draco was dating Harry at any time, and really, I hadn't talked to Draco much beyond an occasional morning greeting in passing.

Today, Draco and Harry were depressed as usual, and Draco was nursing a hefty bruise on his upper stomach, so the two of them decided to forgo practice and leave the rest of us to write the music. We were running out of synonyms for "dark", "blood", "death", and "depression", so it was getting to be a pretty dragging afternoon. I was frankly glad that Draco wasn't there, and even considering my earlier thoughts about how cutting was a real, serious problem and that it wasn't much of a laughing matter, I secretly reveled a bit in the idea that the little slimy bastard was probably taking a razor to his skin at that moment. It wasn't like he was going to die or anything. Obviously, he was a vampire like a lot of other random people in the school and was immortal unless impaled through the heart by a wooden stake.

As this thought occurred to me, I mentally slapped myself for perceiving Voldemort's earlier threat as legitimate danger. Fuck, Draco couldn't die easily, so what was I worried about? If Voldy took a stake to him, fine, but I wasn't sure if he even knew the kid was a vampire. Either way, the realization lessened my worry a little and strengthened my ire. Perhaps later today I'd see if it was possible to beat an immortal being to death.

My musings drifted to Harry, the more favorable of the two morons who, for some strange reason, seemed to be vying for my affections. The bespectacled teen was probably watching a Tim Burton movie—as the boy had good taste in quality, artistically Gothic cinema—like "The Corpse Bride".

Oh, I had also been in my bloomers this whole time (perhaps that's why Draco and Harry had avoided coming to practice) so I decided to get dressed. I pulled on a white dress shirt with articulate black embroidery on the collar and the hem where the buttons connected, a dark brown leather vest with a few bronze chains crossing the small pocket on each breast, black jeans, dark brown boots with bronze gears and chains up the heel, and dark brown, leather, fingerless gloves with round bronze studs on the knuckles. I also pulled my hair up into a ponytail and tied a black silk ribbon into it. If this wasn't a day for high-end, Steampunk fashion, I didn't know what was. You might think I'm a slut, but if you do, you're really into this style, so I like you. Fantasize about me as you please; you exist beyond the Fourth Wall and therefore do not directly affect me.

We were singing a cover of "Helena Beat" by Foster the People (because I said so), and at the end of the song, I let out of heavy sigh and sat down on the end of a nearby trunk, rubbing my temples. I think to my band mates, it looked like I was crying.

"Adrian! Are you OK?" B'loody Mary/Hermione chirped with concern.

"Ah, god, I'm fine," I replied gruffly, my face buried into the sweet-smelling leather of my gloves. "I'm just stressed. Really stressed, because the world seems to be falling to total confusion and nothing I've ever known makes sense anymore. Voldemort came to see me, did you know that? Voldemort came to see me in the freaking Forbidden Forest. He told me that if I didn't kill Harry that he'd kill Draco, but to be honest, I can't decide what to do. Everything around me is losing meaning and my life is becoming one huge clusterfuck. It's only been a few hours since I've seen the Dark Lord, and I didn't even think to go to Dumbledore. I've just been flittering around, changing my clothes, playing Indy Rock in a Death Metal band, and thinking longingly about lavender bubble baths and dark chocolate cremes. Would it really be so bad to live in a world ruled by Voldemort, after all of this? Honestly, what have I got to lose?"

Suddenly, Draco appeared in the doorway.

"Why didn't you fucking tell me!" He roared. "How could you- you- you fucking poser muggle bitch!"

It took a moment for the situation to impact me, and I just looked up with total aloof disinterest. "Really, pal? You didn't hear that whole spiel in the Forbidden Forest? Or was the entire point of following me to get me alone so you could put your filthy, spoiled hands on me again?"

He whimpered pitifully, then burst into tears, fleeing from the room. My frustration was softening into bitter, exhausted acceptance, and I just picked up my guitar and resumed shittly strumming it while the rest of the band pounded out sick rhythms behind me. After about an hour, our half-hearted jam session was interrupted by Dumbledore stomping over the threshold of our practice room, lips pursed and eyes ablaze.

"What have you done!" He cried in a strangely wise manner. "Adrian Draco has been found in his room. He committed suicide by slitting his wrists."

It's almost 1:00 am on a school night. I was kept up until 1:00 last night by a hoard of screaming cows outside my window (I'm not even kidding). Do you understand how sickening this is? I desperately needed sleep and I just fucking can't sleep because my brain is too drugged out on shitty writing.

Fuck, it's like…it's like heroine. I don't know. I can't even think anymore. Point is, this story is so painful to write, and yet, for some reason, I just can't stop.

So, yeah, I'm going to bed or something.

Probably not.

(helpless sobbing)

Please support my eternal writer's damnation with reviews and Tylenol. That would be appreciated.

See you later, Space Cowboy(s).