Sirius was beautiful, he had shoulder leanth black hair that glisened in the light. He was built slim, but since he had been out of prison he could no longer count his ribs. He had a distinctive face that had sharp corners intertwine with one another. But in all this beauty he was in fact a dark soul. You can't spend over a decade of your life in a place like Azkaban and be the same.

Life, that which is living, or is it? Sirius knew that there was a time in his life that he wasn't alive. He slept and ate and mourned, but he wasn't alive. He'd just lay on his cold stone floor in the cell, cuddled in a ball, barely breathing. Inhale, exhale,inhale, exhale, a rythmic compulsion of air that entered and exited him.

His friends thought he was a murderer, his two friends were dead, their baby would go to cold relatives, nothing really matter any more. Sirius was fucked, he might as well be dead.

"I am a disease
I wonder when my misery will end
I'm so cold and jaded
my damned life is faded
and I've got nothing left to mend

I wish I could have a gun
and put a bullet in my head
all I am is suffering
and god said he wants me dead

I'll be anything
as long as I'm away from here
I'll be everything
as long as I have nothing to fear

I wish I could have a gun
and put a bullet in my head
all I am is suffering
and god said he wants me dead"