I was going to leave it at those three chapters, but demand was high for continuation. And so, I decided, "oh what the heck," and wrote up… CHAPTER IV!!!! All hail.
With any luck, ch. IV will give birth to ch. V, wich will give me new ideas further. Here's hoping!
Part IV A
Diary of Skin
That was two months ago. Now, the April sun is just starting to open the flowers that adorned the school, their bright colors cheering even the loneliest hearts. Except one.
I stare out the window in my room, watching emotionlessly as the first rain of the month begins to spatter against the glass, then pound it. The noise of water on the pane is soothing, calming from the violent rage that has been coursing through my blood not long ago.
I will myself not to look at my father's letter, sitting there on the desk before me. I know that laying eyes on it would just reopen my fury, and I have only just smothered it. I have always loved the crazy high that came from being angry, but hated the hollow feeling it left in its wake. I feel that way now.
Ginny would tell me I'm being silly, I know. She would just take the yellowed parchment gently from my hands and set it aflame. That's that, she'd say calmly. We don't need to worry about him again until the next letter shows up. Of course, she only sees his letters once a month or so. She doesn't know how they arrive to me nearly every week, that I can hear Father's voice as I read them, silky and dangerous, becoming more and more frustrated with his errant son as he sends each one. She doesn't hear the guilt he pours into me, trying to convince me that his way was the one for me. She doesn't read the threats.
Ginny. Four moths ago, I had finally decided it was time for action, and opened the door to her and Potter's cell, giving them a chance to escape their fate and mine. I know what Father's friends and minions meant to do to her. It made me sick then, and it makes me sick now. I knew I had to do something. I knew that I couldn't let that happen. Not to Ginny.
Potter I didn't care about as much. But if was going to free Ginny, I had to free Potter as well. Ginny would never go willingly on her own, that I knew. Potter had to come. I often find myself wishing now that I had left him there, especially when I look at Ginny during meal times, and see Potter staring at her with as much conviction as I am. She's told me she doesn't like him, doesn't have feelings for him, and I believe her. But I still don't trust him. I know what his juvenile mind is doing behind those too-long bangs and ridiculous glasses. I can see him staging a meeting, a rendezvous; see his clumsy handling of the situation, and of her. I know what he wants. Oh, I know.
Two months. That's how long it's been since I admitted to Ginny that it was me who set her free. Since I fixed her sight and she opened her eyes to see me standing before her. I read the shock and anger on her face when she realized it was me to whom she owed her life, and it hurt. But I can look past that. She forgave me when she registered on what I had done for her, what I had risked for her, when she heard me promise that I meant her no harm.
I remember the gasp she let out when I showed her my scars. I don't know if it was pity for the pain that had caused them, or shock that I had just disrobed from the waist up without a moment's notice. Whatever it was, she was careful with me after that, almost mincing her words, until I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake a straight answer out of her.
I spilled myself to her, and the knowledge that someone finally knew my pain was both satisfying and unnerving. That it was Ginny who now knew my secret only intensified that. She kept asking me why I was telling her, and her ignorance made me want to slap her, but I held back. I tried to tell her that it was coincidence that she be around when I decided to say something, but she didn't buy it. She knew there was more to it than that.
I remember her shock when I finally lost control and pulled her to me, when I finally gave in to the sweet obsession that was quickly making itself known inside me. When I kissed her. She had stiffened in my arms, either angry or frightened, but at that point, I no longer cared. I had kissed her with all the strength that I had left in me, trying to make her understand, trying to lose myself in her mouth. I know that she stopped fighting almost immediately, and just let me take her, and the emotions that that knowledge brought up—well, I decided it was time for me to get a hold of myself before things got carried away.
She had been a little dazed when I let her go, but she had a better grip on reality than had I. You love me, don't you? She had said finally.
I had flatly agreed, not knowing if I ought to be happy or sad at that knowledge. But you don't love me.
She had said no, she didn't. I'll learn to, she promised, and I half believed her. I know she will probably never love me the way I love her, and I don't begrudge her that. She has a lot of bad memories of me to get rid of before she can even begin to see me for what I am. But she said she'd try, and I love her for it.
Two months. Since that day I have spoken to her in passing, and met up with her once by the lake. Always when I see her, I feel my need for her growing, and I can feel that she doesn't love me. It kills me. We don't talk about it, of course. We talk about school, and my father sometimes, and Potter. It's kind of funny the way she can complain about him these days, and sometimes when she's done, it's all I can do to not go and deck the sod for what an idiot he is to her. I don't of course. That wouldn't help anything.
Once again, I stare at the letter in front of me, and for once I take Ginny's advice and throw it in the fire. I haven't even read it yet, but I don't want to. What am I doing? I think. I'm renouncing my family and the way I was raised. I'm going to get myself killed, just for a girl who I know doesn't love me? I feel like I am seceding. In a way, I am. And I know that one day, Father will kill me. Ginny, too, if he finds out about this. Unless I kill him first.
So this is what I have been reduced to. Kill or be killed. Unless, of course, the one I kill is myself, denying Father the pleasure and keeping Ginny safe. I've thought about it before, but—
That feeling of being half dead stirs within me again, and I climb to my feet in disgust, walk the hallways to the closest door that will take me outside. The rain is coming down harder than ever, pounding on my hair and shoulders like hailstones. I watch it make smooth patterns on the lake's surface, the sound of water against water pulling me into a half-trance. It would be so easy, I think, watching sticks and litter floating and sinking with the will of the lake. I could jump in right now and free everyone around me of the danger. Just sink like one of those sticks. I sigh and finger the knife at my side, taking it out and staring at the blade.
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm obsessive-compulsive or something, if I have a defect of some sort that makes me think like this. The blade is wet and cool against my arm, and the pain as it bites into my flesh is almost unnoticeable after having done this so much. The rain washes away the blood before I even get to see it, and I shelter my wrist with my other hand, just to see it flow. It dribbles down my arm and pools in my elbow, mixing with the rainwater before it disappears completely.
Why do I do this? I don't know. I wish I did, but I wish a lot of things. I wish that I had a family that I could actually call a family. I wish that I had someone I could call a friend, not just someone who wanted to be popular for knowing me.
And I wish that Ginny could love me.
I carve her name in the sand now with my finger, and watch the rain wash it away. It seems that she is like that. I can't hold onto her, she'd just melt in my arms and flow back to where she belongs. I hold the knife to my other arm this time, and cut a G into the flesh. Maybe someday I'll get a tattoo of her name somewhere on my body, somewhere where no one will see it but me, no one else will see my pain. A diary of skin. God knows I have one of those.
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Review, you unfaithful reader you! I didn't write this for me (OK, I did) I wrote it for you! So make my efforts worthwhile!