Hey, sup yo, ma homies! This is my first real attempt at really depressing
angst, cutting, rape, attempted suicide, and of course, H/D slash! It's
also my first attempt at first person. So if it's bad then live with it. I
don't know how I can hurt my poor baby Dracypoo like this, but I can.
Rated R for language, mature themes, rape, cutting, and attempted suicide.
Note: this story takes place in the around the seventh year at hogwarts. Everybody is 17.
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Chapter one: The Smell of Hate, The Smell of Death (Christmas Holidays, Malfoy Manor, Draco's POV)
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I sit on a stool before the full-length mirror by my window. I am holding a long, bloodstained kitchen knife that I keep hidden under my bed. The window is open, and the cold winter night air bites my bare chest. I look into the mirror, and see myself. Silver blonde hair, falling in my face without the usual gel I use to keep it back. Silver eyes that even I can't bear to look into. Pale skin, seemingly flawless on my face, but a hideous mass of scars on my chest and arms. Some from innocent accidents, such as falling down the stairs. Some from my father's terrifying 'punishments'. And some that I gave myself. Some have told me that I am attractive, handsome, and even beautiful. But how can anyone even bear to look at me, when I can't even bear to look at myself?
I hate myself. I am worthless. Everyone knows it. My friends would know it, if I had any. Those fools, Crabbe and Goyle, don't give a shit about me. They fear me, so they pretend to be my friends to earn my protection. But I see right through that. My mother would know that I am worthless, if she paid any attention to me. Ever since I turned 13, and I began changing from her little boy into the man I am now, she has been acting like she doesn't even know who I am. Occasionally we exchange hellos when we meet in the hall, or at dinner. But we never speak other then that. Perhaps it's because I'm 17 now, and she thinks that I don't need her. And father. If it weren't for the fact that he needed an heir, then he'd have killed me long ago, for I am worthless. I don't even deserve my self-pity. I don't even deserve the pain I am about to feel.
I hold the knife against by arm. Not my wrist yet. I don't want to die yet. I press the cold blade into my skin, and draw it back, making a cut about eight inches long along the underside of my arm, and about ½ an inch deep. Intense pain shoots up my arm, branches out at my shoulder, moves throughout my body, causing me to shudder. My blood pours out of the wound, thick, crimson blood. It runs down my arm, drips onto my white silk pants, spatters on the spotless white marble floor. I don't care about the mess. The house elves will clean it. They are not unaccustomed to cleaning blood off my floor. The smell of fresh blood reaches my nostrils. I love that smell. It's the smell of hate. I love it, and hate it. Just like I love and hate him.
Shit. How did he manage to worm his way into my thoughts? I don't want to think about him. I shouldn't be thinking about him. But I can't help it. I can't stop thinking about him.
Harry Potter. My greatest rival, my greatest love. I love him. I cannot stop loving him, not matter how hard I try. I should not love him. It hurts so much to love him, and to know that he will never love me in return. It hurts more then anything. More then knives, whips, chains, curses, anything my father thinks to throw at me, or I think to throw at myself.
Yet I love it. I love the pain. There are few things in this world that are real and solid that I can hold onto. One of them is pain. Pain is real. Pain is solid. Unlike love. Love is not real. You cannot physically feel it, just the pain that is causes.
Yet, I admit to myself that I am in love. It seems quite ironic, doesn't it? For someone like me, who has never received more love then the absolute minimum a parent must give his or her child, and has never believed in love, is able to feel love, and admit to himself that it is love. For what else could it be? Whenever I see him, my heart skips a beat. My breath catches in my throat. I can't take my eyes off him. If I dared to speak, I am sure that I would start babbling like an idiot. So I keep silent. I keep silent most of the time these days anyway, so it isn't very difficult.
But it is difficult. I want to tell him, need to tell him how I feel about him. I want to walk up to him, and say, "Harry, I love you." I chuckle. Then what would his reaction be?
"Oh Draco, I love you too."
Not likely. I would probably just get a punch in the face, or a hex or something. So, I won't tell him. I can't tell him. I will never tell him. No matter how much it hurts. I'll just grit my teeth and bear it. It will all be over soon, I hope. All the pain will be over. Soon, no one will be able to hurt me. Not Harry, not my father, not myself. Soon.
Soon.
A freezing cold breeze blows thought the still open window, bringing with it a slight sprinkling of snow. It gently touches my face, the wet snowflakes landing in my skin and melting slowly away. The cold brings me back to reality, and for the moment I forget about Harry. A stronger wind begins to blow through the window, carrying more snow. I look outside, and snow is falling form the harsh, black-gray sky above. I shiver with the cold. I look down. The blood on my arm is beginning to freeze. I had forgotten about my arm. On the floor is a huge puddle of blood. It is beginning to dry at the edges. I hate dried blood. It's not like fresh blood. It has changed from beautiful bright crimson to an ugly maroon. The smell makes me sick. It's the smell of death.
I ring for a house elf to clean the mess. Normally I would leave it, and let the comforting smell of hate to lull me to sleep. But there is no more hate here. Only death. I retire to the bathroom to bandage my cut, and to change into some warm, clean pajamas. I know that the blood will be gone when I return. I am glad. I hate death. I love pain, hate, rage, and depression. But not death. Never death.
That's probably why I'm not dead yet.
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And that's just the end of chapter one! Ok, it was a bit short, but it was hard!!!!!!!!!!! This was a little compulsive, so it might take me a while to figure out where the plot is going. Don't worry. I have all of Thanksgiving week off from school, so and I have been doing a lot of HP stuff lately (I just saw the movie for the second time two days ago), so it won't be hard. And of course, I have had a lot of help from more experienced angst writers. Thanx u guys! And thanx to all my friends (well, actually only two- Kit Maxwell and Tiggerjojo) who previewed this and helped me get it perfect!
Luv ya all!
Grath
Note: this story takes place in the around the seventh year at hogwarts. Everybody is 17.
****************
Chapter one: The Smell of Hate, The Smell of Death (Christmas Holidays, Malfoy Manor, Draco's POV)
****************
I sit on a stool before the full-length mirror by my window. I am holding a long, bloodstained kitchen knife that I keep hidden under my bed. The window is open, and the cold winter night air bites my bare chest. I look into the mirror, and see myself. Silver blonde hair, falling in my face without the usual gel I use to keep it back. Silver eyes that even I can't bear to look into. Pale skin, seemingly flawless on my face, but a hideous mass of scars on my chest and arms. Some from innocent accidents, such as falling down the stairs. Some from my father's terrifying 'punishments'. And some that I gave myself. Some have told me that I am attractive, handsome, and even beautiful. But how can anyone even bear to look at me, when I can't even bear to look at myself?
I hate myself. I am worthless. Everyone knows it. My friends would know it, if I had any. Those fools, Crabbe and Goyle, don't give a shit about me. They fear me, so they pretend to be my friends to earn my protection. But I see right through that. My mother would know that I am worthless, if she paid any attention to me. Ever since I turned 13, and I began changing from her little boy into the man I am now, she has been acting like she doesn't even know who I am. Occasionally we exchange hellos when we meet in the hall, or at dinner. But we never speak other then that. Perhaps it's because I'm 17 now, and she thinks that I don't need her. And father. If it weren't for the fact that he needed an heir, then he'd have killed me long ago, for I am worthless. I don't even deserve my self-pity. I don't even deserve the pain I am about to feel.
I hold the knife against by arm. Not my wrist yet. I don't want to die yet. I press the cold blade into my skin, and draw it back, making a cut about eight inches long along the underside of my arm, and about ½ an inch deep. Intense pain shoots up my arm, branches out at my shoulder, moves throughout my body, causing me to shudder. My blood pours out of the wound, thick, crimson blood. It runs down my arm, drips onto my white silk pants, spatters on the spotless white marble floor. I don't care about the mess. The house elves will clean it. They are not unaccustomed to cleaning blood off my floor. The smell of fresh blood reaches my nostrils. I love that smell. It's the smell of hate. I love it, and hate it. Just like I love and hate him.
Shit. How did he manage to worm his way into my thoughts? I don't want to think about him. I shouldn't be thinking about him. But I can't help it. I can't stop thinking about him.
Harry Potter. My greatest rival, my greatest love. I love him. I cannot stop loving him, not matter how hard I try. I should not love him. It hurts so much to love him, and to know that he will never love me in return. It hurts more then anything. More then knives, whips, chains, curses, anything my father thinks to throw at me, or I think to throw at myself.
Yet I love it. I love the pain. There are few things in this world that are real and solid that I can hold onto. One of them is pain. Pain is real. Pain is solid. Unlike love. Love is not real. You cannot physically feel it, just the pain that is causes.
Yet, I admit to myself that I am in love. It seems quite ironic, doesn't it? For someone like me, who has never received more love then the absolute minimum a parent must give his or her child, and has never believed in love, is able to feel love, and admit to himself that it is love. For what else could it be? Whenever I see him, my heart skips a beat. My breath catches in my throat. I can't take my eyes off him. If I dared to speak, I am sure that I would start babbling like an idiot. So I keep silent. I keep silent most of the time these days anyway, so it isn't very difficult.
But it is difficult. I want to tell him, need to tell him how I feel about him. I want to walk up to him, and say, "Harry, I love you." I chuckle. Then what would his reaction be?
"Oh Draco, I love you too."
Not likely. I would probably just get a punch in the face, or a hex or something. So, I won't tell him. I can't tell him. I will never tell him. No matter how much it hurts. I'll just grit my teeth and bear it. It will all be over soon, I hope. All the pain will be over. Soon, no one will be able to hurt me. Not Harry, not my father, not myself. Soon.
Soon.
A freezing cold breeze blows thought the still open window, bringing with it a slight sprinkling of snow. It gently touches my face, the wet snowflakes landing in my skin and melting slowly away. The cold brings me back to reality, and for the moment I forget about Harry. A stronger wind begins to blow through the window, carrying more snow. I look outside, and snow is falling form the harsh, black-gray sky above. I shiver with the cold. I look down. The blood on my arm is beginning to freeze. I had forgotten about my arm. On the floor is a huge puddle of blood. It is beginning to dry at the edges. I hate dried blood. It's not like fresh blood. It has changed from beautiful bright crimson to an ugly maroon. The smell makes me sick. It's the smell of death.
I ring for a house elf to clean the mess. Normally I would leave it, and let the comforting smell of hate to lull me to sleep. But there is no more hate here. Only death. I retire to the bathroom to bandage my cut, and to change into some warm, clean pajamas. I know that the blood will be gone when I return. I am glad. I hate death. I love pain, hate, rage, and depression. But not death. Never death.
That's probably why I'm not dead yet.
********************
And that's just the end of chapter one! Ok, it was a bit short, but it was hard!!!!!!!!!!! This was a little compulsive, so it might take me a while to figure out where the plot is going. Don't worry. I have all of Thanksgiving week off from school, so and I have been doing a lot of HP stuff lately (I just saw the movie for the second time two days ago), so it won't be hard. And of course, I have had a lot of help from more experienced angst writers. Thanx u guys! And thanx to all my friends (well, actually only two- Kit Maxwell and Tiggerjojo) who previewed this and helped me get it perfect!
Luv ya all!
Grath