Disclaimer: The song is Evanescence; the Snape is Harry Potter, the site is
fanfiction.net, need I say more? I sincerely hope not, because I wont.
Tourniquet
By Evenstar
Severus Snape breath was ragged, coming in harsh cool gasps as he stumbled; near blind towards Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Pushing open the grand doors with his a surprisingly strong thrust, almost tripping over his robes.
I tried to kill the pain, But it only brought more.
With his head hung low in the defeat of a once proud man, the mark on his arm still insanely glowing a midnight black, he slunk towards his chambers, smashing jars along the way.
I lay dying. And I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal.
His thoughts were helplessly flitting through the recent Dark Revel events. Lucius Malfoy, that bastard, the once upon a time friend, had practically ordered the new initiates to practice the unforgivables upon him, as his peers looked on in amusement.
I'm dying, praying, bleeding, and screaming, Am I too lost to be saved, Am I too lost?
His body fell limply onto the green velvet couch. As he sat up, still moving slowly, and rather rigidly, he pulled out a small, detailed knife, with the hilt made into two snakes intertwining.
My God, my tourniquet, Return to me salvation, My God, my tourniquet, Return to me salvation.
With a heavy sigh, and a mixed expression at the small weapon in his hands, he walked towards the bathroom. For a split second, when he passed a picture of Albus, Minerva, and himself, he looked ashamed, faltered, but then walked even more determined.
Do you remember me, Lost for so long.
It didn't matter, only they would mourn, and for a short time, anyways. He would be doing everyone a favour. Even his "comrades" no longer at least respected him. He would end it like a man, something he had always strived to be.
Will you be on the other side, Or will you forget me?
Yes, it would all be over soon. He had no dread, worse had happened to him over the war years, and how could he have any remorse when his soul was rendered into oblivion? With that last thought, he confidently took the knife and shredded off the layers of skin over the mark, cutting the veins.
I'm dying, praying, bleeding, and screaming, Am I too lost to be saved, Am I too lost?
His heart was pounding in his ears, scarlet blood pouring out onto his robes. It didn't hurt, I was almost good, the pain, in which he had been living in shadow of since the first war. The finality, he could basically drink in his yells and moans.
My God, my tourniquet, Return to me salvation, My God, my tourniquet, Return to me salvation.
The circulation was cut; the blood was spreading into a puddle beneath him. His thoughts were coming in a jumble now. He couldn't form anything. The logic that had once reigned supreme was slipping away like water in his cupped hands.
My wounds cry for the grave, My soul cries for deliverance.
Fear. That was what he was now experiencing. No, this was wrong. It no longer felt good, it was scaring him. He was losing grip, his soul had been conquered by the panic of the mounting tension on both sides of the light. As he tried desperately to hold on, realising his foolishness, smeared into the wall blood, that said: 'They know, Albus.' Then took on last breath and let it all come.
Will I be denied Christ, Tourniquet, My suicide.
*** Notes: What do they know, I hear you ask. Well, I'm not going to tell you. You guess.
Tourniquet
By Evenstar
Severus Snape breath was ragged, coming in harsh cool gasps as he stumbled; near blind towards Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Pushing open the grand doors with his a surprisingly strong thrust, almost tripping over his robes.
I tried to kill the pain, But it only brought more.
With his head hung low in the defeat of a once proud man, the mark on his arm still insanely glowing a midnight black, he slunk towards his chambers, smashing jars along the way.
I lay dying. And I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal.
His thoughts were helplessly flitting through the recent Dark Revel events. Lucius Malfoy, that bastard, the once upon a time friend, had practically ordered the new initiates to practice the unforgivables upon him, as his peers looked on in amusement.
I'm dying, praying, bleeding, and screaming, Am I too lost to be saved, Am I too lost?
His body fell limply onto the green velvet couch. As he sat up, still moving slowly, and rather rigidly, he pulled out a small, detailed knife, with the hilt made into two snakes intertwining.
My God, my tourniquet, Return to me salvation, My God, my tourniquet, Return to me salvation.
With a heavy sigh, and a mixed expression at the small weapon in his hands, he walked towards the bathroom. For a split second, when he passed a picture of Albus, Minerva, and himself, he looked ashamed, faltered, but then walked even more determined.
Do you remember me, Lost for so long.
It didn't matter, only they would mourn, and for a short time, anyways. He would be doing everyone a favour. Even his "comrades" no longer at least respected him. He would end it like a man, something he had always strived to be.
Will you be on the other side, Or will you forget me?
Yes, it would all be over soon. He had no dread, worse had happened to him over the war years, and how could he have any remorse when his soul was rendered into oblivion? With that last thought, he confidently took the knife and shredded off the layers of skin over the mark, cutting the veins.
I'm dying, praying, bleeding, and screaming, Am I too lost to be saved, Am I too lost?
His heart was pounding in his ears, scarlet blood pouring out onto his robes. It didn't hurt, I was almost good, the pain, in which he had been living in shadow of since the first war. The finality, he could basically drink in his yells and moans.
My God, my tourniquet, Return to me salvation, My God, my tourniquet, Return to me salvation.
The circulation was cut; the blood was spreading into a puddle beneath him. His thoughts were coming in a jumble now. He couldn't form anything. The logic that had once reigned supreme was slipping away like water in his cupped hands.
My wounds cry for the grave, My soul cries for deliverance.
Fear. That was what he was now experiencing. No, this was wrong. It no longer felt good, it was scaring him. He was losing grip, his soul had been conquered by the panic of the mounting tension on both sides of the light. As he tried desperately to hold on, realising his foolishness, smeared into the wall blood, that said: 'They know, Albus.' Then took on last breath and let it all come.
Will I be denied Christ, Tourniquet, My suicide.
*** Notes: What do they know, I hear you ask. Well, I'm not going to tell you. You guess.