Note: This is a bit of an intense chapter. Yes, Hermione has turned into a
self-mutilator. No, this writing is not from experience, simply a vent for
pent up emotions so deal with it. As you can tell it has been a bad day.
Hell hath no fury than a women pushed to the end of her rope.
I don't want to loose my place in line.
I've been here too long and i've spent too much time
So now I want to loose my place in life
Something missing, left behind
Searching circles everytime I try.
Hermione sat in the sill of her window, watching the early morning traffic
that collected on the streets below. She'd been forced to do this alot lately. Her parents had been up to their usual fighting so she decided it
best to just stay out of the way and become somewhat of a recluse.
She hadn't heard from Harry or Ron lately, and this saddened her emensly. She'd always used those two as her rock. A staff to lean on in the hardest times of her life. But they weren't here now. No one was here except for
the numb and dull silence her mind brought her.
Her parents cared no more for her than they did themselves, and she suspected her mother had turned to drinking, and her father to other women. This was probably enough to have thrown her into the confines of depression
she'd suffered from lately.
She had to escape.
Sure she had considered suicide, and for a while it had seemed a wonderful
idea. Certainly hell was better than that of which she was living
presently. At the last moment, however, the blunt blade of the razor balanced precariously over her pale wrist, she'd chickened out and simply
cut a small line in the thin skin of her upper arm. It made her feel
better.
With this thought in mind she crossed the room, sliding the drawer of her bedside table open and withdrawing that jagged weapon of choice. She ran her fingers experimentally over the blade. Sharp enough. Sharp enough for
pain relief, for escape, for liberation, freedom.
With this blade she felt empowered. She was in control. No one could hurt her with this piece of metal in her hand. She was calling all the shots.
Slowly she poised the razor over her arm, choosing an inconspicuous place
that she'd not yet cut, holding it expertly now between her fingers and
pressing it slowly into her soft flesh, rewarded with a small spurt of blood which presently turned into torrents, snaking down her arm, dripping
down to the carpet. She'd cut deep this time. Too deep.
Blood wasn't the only liquid that fell at this point. Tears dripped down Hermiones cheeks as the reality of her disease crashed down upon her. This wasn't normal for anyone. Not even someone suffering as she was. She would
die here. She knew it. There was nothing she could do...
Pain flooded her mind, blinding, white hot pain with which no pill could cure. Curses sounded from her lips, venomous words directed to her bleeding arm. She tried to grasp her thoughts but nothing would hold, nothing except for the pain, and a crushing knowledge that her consciousness was fading.
She felt her fingers drop the blade, felt her thoughts cease completely, her body falling limply to the floor, blood defiantly dripping silently on the stained carpet, leaving Hermione in a deep pool of her own pain, yet
her eyes were shut to all this. Shut perhaps forever.
Hell hath no fury than a women pushed to the end of her rope.
I don't want to loose my place in line.
I've been here too long and i've spent too much time
So now I want to loose my place in life
Something missing, left behind
Searching circles everytime I try.
Hermione sat in the sill of her window, watching the early morning traffic
that collected on the streets below. She'd been forced to do this alot lately. Her parents had been up to their usual fighting so she decided it
best to just stay out of the way and become somewhat of a recluse.
She hadn't heard from Harry or Ron lately, and this saddened her emensly. She'd always used those two as her rock. A staff to lean on in the hardest times of her life. But they weren't here now. No one was here except for
the numb and dull silence her mind brought her.
Her parents cared no more for her than they did themselves, and she suspected her mother had turned to drinking, and her father to other women. This was probably enough to have thrown her into the confines of depression
she'd suffered from lately.
She had to escape.
Sure she had considered suicide, and for a while it had seemed a wonderful
idea. Certainly hell was better than that of which she was living
presently. At the last moment, however, the blunt blade of the razor balanced precariously over her pale wrist, she'd chickened out and simply
cut a small line in the thin skin of her upper arm. It made her feel
better.
With this thought in mind she crossed the room, sliding the drawer of her bedside table open and withdrawing that jagged weapon of choice. She ran her fingers experimentally over the blade. Sharp enough. Sharp enough for
pain relief, for escape, for liberation, freedom.
With this blade she felt empowered. She was in control. No one could hurt her with this piece of metal in her hand. She was calling all the shots.
Slowly she poised the razor over her arm, choosing an inconspicuous place
that she'd not yet cut, holding it expertly now between her fingers and
pressing it slowly into her soft flesh, rewarded with a small spurt of blood which presently turned into torrents, snaking down her arm, dripping
down to the carpet. She'd cut deep this time. Too deep.
Blood wasn't the only liquid that fell at this point. Tears dripped down Hermiones cheeks as the reality of her disease crashed down upon her. This wasn't normal for anyone. Not even someone suffering as she was. She would
die here. She knew it. There was nothing she could do...
Pain flooded her mind, blinding, white hot pain with which no pill could cure. Curses sounded from her lips, venomous words directed to her bleeding arm. She tried to grasp her thoughts but nothing would hold, nothing except for the pain, and a crushing knowledge that her consciousness was fading.
She felt her fingers drop the blade, felt her thoughts cease completely, her body falling limply to the floor, blood defiantly dripping silently on the stained carpet, leaving Hermione in a deep pool of her own pain, yet
her eyes were shut to all this. Shut perhaps forever.