A/N: Rather short. Draco's gone a little loopy in this one. Some of it might not make sense, but . . . oh well. Read. Enjoy. Flame. Whatever.

WARNINGS: Loopiness. Sorta squickiness. Sorta slashiness. Angsty-ful.

Summary: Why Draco really hates Mudbloods. Why Draco really hates his life. And why Draco really wants to be smothered.

~ Smother Me ~

I'm really tired, you know.

Tired of this, of that . . . of everything. Of Life.

I have nothing to live for. I will never be able to make you proud, we both know that.

And I'm so tired of trying to follow in your footsteps as well.

The only time I make you proud is when the Dark lord 'approves' of my actions.

I hate Life.

It's a horrible thing. A horrible, evil, twisted, sadistic little thing that someone put together from all of these disgusting little things and called it life. And added Mudbloods to it. The Mudbloods that ruined my life . . .

The Mudblood, actually. Singular. But I hate them all anyway.

And if it were all up to me, I'd say we were better off dead.

But it's not, and we're not dead. The Great War is going on now, and some people are dying and people are crying and mourning for them . . . when they don't know how lucky they are. The dead ones. They don't have to live Life anymore. They can just . . . not feel. Not feel a thing.

I imagine it is bliss, not feeling. Of course, I will never know. For I may act like I can't feel, but really, there is so much anger and hate and fury and rage and everything else all put together that I have bottled up inside. And I can feel it boiling in my blood every time I look at him. And you. And him. And her and him and her. And everyone. Everyone who, Merlin forbid it, //enjoys// life.

I am seventeen years old now. Seventeen, and wish that I had not lived those extra sixteen years and ten months that I had.

Because I know what happened when I was two months old.

Obviously I don't actually remember it, since it was so long ago, but I know. Oh yes Father, I know.

I know you tried to smother me.

I was crying, loudly, and the house elves all seemed to be too busy to care for me, my mother was visiting her sister in France, and you were working on something incredibly Top Secret in your study, and I was wailing so loudly, and I just wouldn't stop crying, so . . .

You tried to smother me.

You were yelling, "Shut up! Shut UP you little shit!" and I howled even louder, and so you got a pillow that was lying next to my head, put it right over my face, and pushed downwards.

How I wish you had smothered me then. How I wish it. So I wouldn't have had to live Life.

But wishes are stupid, and they don't work.

Because, while you were pushing that pillow down onto my face, just a few seconds later . . . Mother was home.

And just for the sake of making it sound like I have a caring mother, I wish that I could say that she ran over to you, screaming about killing you for trying to kill her baby boy, and hitting you and pulling you away from me and scooping me up in her arms and hugging me . . .

But I can't. For that is not what happened.

My mother came home, yes, and when she saw what you were doing, she rolled her eyes. Rolled her eyes like this was an everyday occurrence, like every day you tried to kill your only son with a pillow.

And then the gardener appeared. That disgustingly filthy Mudblood gardener we had, and he ran over to you, yelling, "You'll kill him!" and pulling you off me. Pulling the pillow off my head, and watching me slowly get my breath back as tears poured down my cheeks.

Surprisingly enough, you didn't kill him. In fact, you //thanked// him for stopping you from killing your heir.

He worked for us for sixteen years. Sixteen long years. From the day I was born, until the day of my sixteenth birthday.

When I was at my Death Eater initiation, you asked me who I wanted to kill most of all.

I think that you expected me to say Potter. I think the Dark Lord did as well.

But no. I said the gardener.

You looked surprised, and a little embarrassed as well.

The Dark Lord asked me why.

I simply said I wanted to kill him because he was a mudblood. Scum. Dirt.

From the dirt he was born, of Mudblood name, and a gardener as well, and into the dirt he shall be put.

I killed him with my own bare hands. Not the killing curse, as I was supposed to. But I wrapped my hands around his wiry little throat and squeezed, squeezed so hard you wouldn't believe, killing him for the life he had let me live, instead of just letting you take it when I had been two months old.

The Dark Lord was incredibly pleased with me. So pleased, in fact, that he reverted to his Tom Riddle form, just so that he could 'teach me how to pleasure a lover'.

I felt sick after that. I spent three hours under the shower, three hours of rubbing my skin until it turned red and raw and bleeding . . .

But I could not wash away that feeling, that horrible feeling of sickness that went right down to the bottom of my stomach.

Being fucked by the Dark Lord . . . Merlin.

You see how cruel Life can be?

Then again, I wouldn't think that you would believe it to have been cruel at all. In fact, I think that you would have //enjoyed// it, had you been in my position.

Because you're not in control, Father. You're never in control.

The last time you were in control was sixteen years and ten months ago, when you had a chance to smother me completely.

But then that gardened, that stupid Mudblood gardener, happened.

Filth. That is all they are, filth, the lot of them.

How dare he save my life all those long years ago, how DARE HE?

But now, he's gone, and you're the only chance I have.

Please Father, I beg of you, do what you hadn't managed to do when I was just a baby boy . . .

Please . . .

Smother me.