A/N: Remember in the summary where I said it was rated PG for possible later content? This would be that content. Rated PG for violence.

There is not a day that goes by that I do not loathe myself. Whenever I look in the mirror, I see not my sallow face staring back at me, but a monster, hidden behind a hooked nose and greasy hair. It sickens me, to think of what I have done.

Naturally, Albus has repeatedly tried to assuage my guilt by telling me that I am paying for my sins, and my continued association with them is a necessary evil. Something that must be done for the greater good. Sacrifices must be made, of course, and the eternal damnation of my soul has become one of those sacrifices tossed onto the pile.

I still can't begin to fathom how he can stand to be in my presence, knowing what he does about me. This man, who should cringe at my touch, or strike me down where I stand, instead shows unerring respect for me. Either he is the most fearless wizard or the most cruel taskmaster ever to walk the planet.

Possibly a bit of both, now I think about it.

It was only sensible for me to join the Death Eaters when I was younger. Not only were my closest friends and associates joining Voldemort's ranks, but the mere fact that Potter, Black and Lupin would be in my line of fire if I chose to direct it that way was a huge incentive.

I was quite happy to play the villain for a while. It was easy for me. All it required were a few sneers, several well placed hexes and I was established. I was brought before Voldemort personally, and given a task to perform for him.

Few people who are living have actually seen his face. . . if face it can still be called. I can still see it, whenever I close my eyes at night, his visage branded into my brain. He is abnormally tall, and emaciated, as if he hasn't eaten a meal in his life. His skin has all the pallor of a maggot's, and where his nose should be is a hollow with two slits that pucker as he breathes. But his eyes. . .

Red, pitiless things that show emotion the way the spider shows emotion to the fly. It is those eyes that will haunt my dreams until my dying day.

Those eyes and the results of my thirst for acceptance.

The quest I was given seemed easy enough at first glance. Follow my fellow Death Eaters to a Muggle establishment and cause a bit of havoc. Nothing too intense, but enough to cause a stir. Such a simple plan. . .

I swear to you, I had no intention of killing them all. I really had no idea what was truly going to transpire until after Bellatrix and Lucius had stormed down the aisles, and locked the doors behind them.

Before I knew what had happened, I was caught up with the rest of them, throwing unforgivable curses as if they were disarming spells. Bellatrix was always the sadist, and she was having fun watching the Muggles run amuck.

The horrible, incomprehensible part is, I enjoyed it. I reveled in the absolute power we had over them. They were crawling at my feet. I was a god, and they were worms below me, not even worthy of my notice or my attentions. I gorged myself upon their fears and spared no pity for their pleas. . .

"Like sheep. Like blind sheep." we would later tell Voldemort, laughing the whole time.

I can still see it. . . the absolute panic on their faces. The sheer, unadulterated horror of seeing their lives crashing down around them.

I hear their shrieks in the night, when I think I am alone. They visit me. Keep me company in the darkest hours.

Remind me, constantly, of my sins. My damnation.

We ended up burning the whole building, in the end, along with those who were left alive inside of it. There weren't many, so their screams were thankfully short and muted by the conflagration. We left just as the Muggle authorities were showing up, Lucius throwing the Dark Mark high into the sky behind us.

I received the mark that night, from Voldemort himself. It was, I believe, the worst pain I have ever felt in my life, yet, I needed it. I needed it to remind myself that I was still human. I could feel anguish just as readily as the Muggles I had decimated hours before.

When I arrived back in my flat that night, I bathed, trying to get the oily smoke from my skin, but it would not come off. I scrubbed my body until I was raw and bleeding, standing in the shower, as the sanguine water dripped off my body.

I spent the rest of the night mourning my dead, MY DEAD, and retching from the smell of burning corpses that still fills my nostrils.

So you see, I am not human. I gave up my humanity before I was old enough to be considered a man. I relinquished my soul that night to be accepted by the darkest being ever to be unleashed upon the universe.

Do not mock me with your pity. I neither desire, nor deserve pity.

I have earned my place in hell, and will gladly pay the price when the time comes.