tw / drug use, graphic self-harm, suicide
Graham Montague glares at the shadowy, black serpent and skull etched into his left forearm. The mammoth design is impossible to ignore; even though it has faded slightly, it still stings like a bitch, and it feels like his whole limb is submerged in scalding hot water. No amounts of drugs or alcohol can numb the overwhelming pain bursting from his arm to the rest of his body. It coils around his veins, infiltrates his muscles, and melts his bones with ease.
And he can't fucking take it anymore.
The mark has been tormenting him for days and keeping him wide-awake at night; when he does find time to sleep, his dreams are corrupted by the evil remnants of the mark still floating around in his body, mixed with the plasma and oxygen that filters through his system. No matter how morally good he tries to be, he cannot escape his past. Voldemort lives with him—upon him—forever.
He is a prisoner to the mark.
And even though Voldemort was killed three years ago, Graham can still feel the consequences of the mark in every little thing he does—when he talks to people, when he eats, when he listens to his vinyl, when he practices petty magic, when he sleeps, when he makes love. It plagues every facet of his life.
Demons. They claw around his intestines, hang like monkeys upon his veins, and fold his spirit into itself, suctioned like dust in front of a vacuum down into the dark abyss centered in the pit of his stomach. They swallow his eyes from the inside, seize and confiscate his ability to smell and taste, and utterly destroy every possible inch of his being. The demons stem from the mark, constantly titillating upon his pale arm. He sees it through his blurry vision. He can feel it dance with pleasure. It is relentless.
He grips the sides of the porcelain sink in his bathroom, lowering his head into the basin and screaming into the rusted drain. Tired. That's what he is. Fucking exhausted by this tattoo. Haunted by his past actions—actions that do not characterize who he is now, or rather who he is trying to be. His piercing cry echoes throughout the small room, bouncing off of the evergreen tiled walls and continuously ringing in his ears.
He is alone, except for a small, external presence which looms in the atmosphere around him. A fire surrounds him, smothers his vision, and steams the contents of his body. A burning, blazing force which, like the mark, is inescapable. So long as the mark remains stitched into his body, the fire will persist.
And there is also a voice that will not stop pestering his brain. It speaks to him, unremorsefully.
Do it.
Graham pants heavily, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. Sweat pours from his temples, fusing with the tears flowing from his inflamed, swollen irises. He blinks and shifts his groggy eyesight to the translucent white powder lined atop the left side of the bathroom counter.
Go on. It'll feel fucking fantastic.
Obeying the voice as if he has no other option, Graham wastes no time bending over and forcing his left nostril shut with his quivering index finger. He lines the snow below his right nostril, takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and inhales the substance, shifting his head several inches forward to subsume as many grains as possible, mind the poor and rushed form of the snort.
It shoots up his nose and sends its tantalizing message straight to Graham's system.
He rises abruptly, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut as he attempts to tolerate the harsh upshoot of the substance. It rushes to his brain, into his blood stream—every inch of his fragile, traumatized body feels the powder crawl among it, like frantic ants rushing to a delectable food source. He emits a sullen groan, allowing his body to surrender itself to the drug. It holds him captive. He loosens the tension in his shoulders and feels his body soar into euphoria.
The sweet sensation of cocaine colonizes him.
He huffs in and out, already feeling the jaded effects of the drug. It's fast-working, as if it was already in his system. As if it belongs to no other person but him.
Situated in the left corner of the sink is an almost empty bottle of fire whiskey; its spout glistens, tempting Graham to demolish the contents of the bottle with his throbbing tongue and eager throat. He grabs it and chugs the remnants, the cool snow and the cinnamon liquor infusing within his system. The elements work together, breeding an unsteady heart rate and a pulsating head rush.
In mere seconds, the bottle is empty. Graham grips the 12 oz. jug in his shaking hand, staring at it with red eyes, wishing there could be more. He could use his magic to conjure up an additional bottle, but what good would it do? It would be a waste of perfectly good fire whiskey. And he would no doubt feel just as fucking terrible after consuming another bottle as he did now. So, there was simply no point.
No point to anything.
The forces within him collide into one another, battling over which one holds the most control over him. He has lost any sense of autonomy over his body. The cocaine, the alcohol, and the Dark Mark dance in a tango upon his organs, stamping their powers on every inch of his insides. A pressure unlike any other builds up within him; the substances are the constructors, and the effects of the substances are the buildings. And the constructors are erecting edifices at triple the speed, vying for power and control within his body.
He's lost authority.
He doesn't care.
In an instant, Graham hurls the vacant bottle against the wall to his right. It shatters on impact, the glass combusting and dispersing into the empty white tub that is lodged into the bottom of the wall. Panting heavily, he stares at the shards of glass disseminated in the tub, wondering what it would be like to soak in those fragmented pieces and liberate his blood.
No more wondering. He wants to feel it.
His heart racing and his veins pumping with adrenaline, Graham turns back and punches the mirror above the sink with all the force he has. He pounds his fist into the glass once, twice, three times, until the skin on his hand is covered in his crimson blood; any remnant of his pale skin is masked now by the trickling plasma. Shards of the mirror are lodged into his knuckles, and others have fallen into the sink. One large, sharp piece has wedged itself in the drain.
Graham stares at it, intrigue dancing upon his brown irises.
It would be so easy to do it with that piece.
The voice in his head is strong. Stronger than he is.
Go on. You know you want to.
Graham wants to. He wants it to be over.
He yanks the fragment out of its spot in the drain and hovers it above the mark on his arm, the mark that is dancing with keenness and enthrallment. It's like the mark wants this to happen. It wants Graham to drive himself over the edge, do whatever necessary in order to unshackle himself from it. The mark is cunning and dangerous; he determines it to be the most potent force working within his body. The alcohol and the drugs are secondary. The mark is leading him to do this.
Slowly, in order to savor the pain, he presses the corner of the glass into his arm, sweeping the glass horizontally right over the mouth of the skull. He cries out at the sharp pain, inspecting his scarlet blood as it seeps out of his skin and drips down his arm towards his wrist, tinged with his throbbing blue and purple veins. The discomfort only lasts for a moment. When the stinging decreases, Graham has the urge to feel more.
"Fucking hell," he murmurs, lifting the discolored glass and shaving it again into his forearm, this time right in the center of the snake's body. He relishes in the split second of pain, but as quickly as it comes, it vanishes.
He craves more.
His eyes wander to the bathtub.
Go on, Graham. It's so simple.
Graham is resolute. He marches to the tub, his arms dripping with blood, leaving small droplets of himself on the tiled floor, forever staining the bathroom as the place he once lived. This was his bathroom now, forever. No amount of scrubbing, bleach, or even magic would remove him from this spot. His ghost would live here and haunt anyone who stepped foot in this place, reminding them to always make the right choice.
To not end up like him—hopeless and lost, without any purpose to live.
His slender fingers trail the metal knob of the tub; again, he leaves his trace on another part of the bathroom. With a twist of the handle, he turns the water on, letting it dispense into the basin. The water collects the shards of the bottle and lifts them onto its surface; they float like feathers, and Graham suddenly feels like he too is floating. Like the world he will be lifted into is one of peace and quiet. Free of the mark.
Still fully clothed, save any socks or shoes, Graham steps into the bath and submerges himself in the water. He grips the same piece of glass in his hand, sinking it into his palm to draw even more blood. But there is no pain anymore. There is simply numbness, nothingness.
He lowers himself into the ice-cold water, his heartbeat reaching a dangerously high pace. The glacial water and the circulating cocaine draw his eyes to shoot open with alertness; he moans ecstatically.
Graham does what he feels he needs to do. He sees no other way to flee the constant pain, the constant reminder of his choices.
Drip, drip, drip. Slowly but surely, his blood seeps into the water and colors it a rusty orange at first. In time, as more blood trickles out of him, the water becomes darker and redder. And as he sits in the tub, resting his shaking back on the edge, he cries out.
But no one hears him. No one ever hears him.
No one ever hears the others, either.
But they cry out too, the same agony as Graham harbored in their own lungs and minds.
And with his last agonizingly painful breath, Graham curses Voldemort's name.