Harry's fingertips graze the smooth metal. His green eyes reflect in the
broken mirror.
Never again- he'll shut himself away from the world.
Why did he have to be a hero? Why, of all the people, was he chosen to be these people's savior when he could barely protect his own family- or what was his family...
He sighs and the blade trembles in his hand-
Should he?
He silently debates as he fingers the shard- it's sharp.
He glares at it, thinking of the man who gave it to him- it had once belonged to his father, but both were dead...
Both were his past and that mattered none to him.
He presses it against his right wrists- it's too dull.
He increases the pressure.
The glass sinks into his wrist- deep.
The pain surges through his brain, showing he was still alive.
A bubble of blood begins to form across the cut, his anger, frustration building up the deep red bubble.
Pop.
The blood splashes down his wrist, gushing.
His eyes widen at the sight- he didn't mean to cut that deep.
So he picks up the glass shard once more and it slices open the other wrist, not aware why he was doing it.
More blood.
The sight now comforts him as it stains his navy blue pants- freshly pressed.
His glasses slide down his nose as his legs grow weak.
He slumps against his bed.
The glass goes deeper.
He sighs release.
His eyes close as he lies in his crimson regret...
Never again- he'll shut himself away from the world.
Why did he have to be a hero? Why, of all the people, was he chosen to be these people's savior when he could barely protect his own family- or what was his family...
He sighs and the blade trembles in his hand-
Should he?
He silently debates as he fingers the shard- it's sharp.
He glares at it, thinking of the man who gave it to him- it had once belonged to his father, but both were dead...
Both were his past and that mattered none to him.
He presses it against his right wrists- it's too dull.
He increases the pressure.
The glass sinks into his wrist- deep.
The pain surges through his brain, showing he was still alive.
A bubble of blood begins to form across the cut, his anger, frustration building up the deep red bubble.
Pop.
The blood splashes down his wrist, gushing.
His eyes widen at the sight- he didn't mean to cut that deep.
So he picks up the glass shard once more and it slices open the other wrist, not aware why he was doing it.
More blood.
The sight now comforts him as it stains his navy blue pants- freshly pressed.
His glasses slide down his nose as his legs grow weak.
He slumps against his bed.
The glass goes deeper.
He sighs release.
His eyes close as he lies in his crimson regret...