Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and co., I am not claiming anything that J,K Rowling writes of, the styles aren't even the same. I'll let her figure out harry potter's future.
nar·cis·sism (när s -s z m) also nar·cism (-s z m)n.
Excessive love or admiration of oneself. A psychological condition characterized by self-preoccupation, lack of empathy, and unconscious deficits in self-esteem. Erotic pleasure derived from contemplation or admiration of one's own body or self, especially as a fixation on or a regression to an infantile stage of development. The attribute of the human psyche charactized by admiration of oneself but within normal limits.If you tried hard enough, you would always get what you want. Not wrapped up in a package, it wouldn't be sorted out with plastic paper. But you'd get what you wanted, like a slap from reality, you'd get it. Hard determination and forgotten feelings always helped, stone-faced and ready, the world was at your feet. Doesn't it look nice?
Almost like a canvas.
He felt his fingers twitching without him wanting them to. His body wasn't listening to him anymore, set on over drive automat. Another machine; beating heart and heaving lungs. He couldn't breath.
Even with this noose around his neck, he was still special. They looked at him with smiles beaming with hope. When they would see him tomorrow, they'd be beaming broken hope and slashed smiles. He was meant to be special, to them, he was hope. And to himself, he was broke. No more hope to give to them, it seemed to have been stolen by life. And he just didn't feel like running after it.
They said it was the easy way out. Coward. Coward, coward, coward, coward. He felt their spit before it landed on his face. His special face.
The canvas was filled with grays and whites. Blues and stars. Dreams with fragmented yellows. The moon was a faceless door. In the middle of all colored emotions, lay a solitary prince. Even in all painted empathy, they still couldn't kill the moth.
When tomorrow would come, his love for life would be given through death. They would see crocked smiles and forgotten limbs. But he wouldn't care what they felt. His canvas was already painted; he didn't have enough paint to share with the rest of the world. His own entity lost in oiled stars. They would stare but they would tear everything apart. And no one would bother to place the pieces back together.
Maybe tomorrow there will be a dream.
They would all come to realize how to save themselves from their own demise.
When they wouldn't be able to find their prince, they would come to realize when the picture ends.
The canvas wasn't big enough.