The Glimmer of Death Compels Me
-----Just being, there was nothing more to explain, being is just breathing and breathing is living, so in essence by being, he is living. Without doing much, he could still live, no strings attached, no harsh details to work out. Just be. But just being wasn't an option anymore. Fate has played its role in giving many opportunities to just be, and no, he wanted more than just the simplicity of just being. Simplicity was not his strong suit, so being was out of the question. He yearned for power, for darkness reigning, darkness that was bestowed upon him, and anything but darkness was the epitome of simplicity. Darkness was etched onto his very moral fiber, it was his way of life, it was his life. His memory, his present, and most importantly not his future. His future was oh so dim as the things that brought out the light he so needed to suppress, but no longer could. Light was struggling, and choking him. A choking sensation, one of death, and yet ironically dark. The light was no longer white and pure, but gray and muted, as it was both a good thing to some, and a very bad thing to others. In this point in time. It was neither good nor bad, just there, being perhaps. Like the possibilities he had passed up. Or he had passed up.
-----It all came back to him and what he had done. Now there was no line between him and him. All he wanted to do was kill him for abandoning him, and making his life a living hell. He never wanted to be like him, he never signed up to be a hateful, spiteful bastard. He didn't want this to happen, he didn't mean for this to happen. But things happen, unexplainable really, but they do. Mostly unintentionally, and that's how he got here. To this very place being the man that he was, all because of him.
-----With a gleam, the sharp edge of the long, lethal blade took shape in his hand, with a mere will of the brain, and a twist of the wrist. The glimmering hope shone on the metallic surface of the object. Hope for an end, one of which would finally, rid the world of the monster. The one who had started the whole problem. If the long forgotten paper had said it was Potter to kill him, then it would indeed be Potter. It all revolved around Potter. He would vanquish the world of his evil. But how they were wrong. Wrong, just like everything else the world had said about his motives, his reasoning's. He didn't have many, but they were there. So blatantly obvious. Just like the deathly obviousness of his blade in his hand. Potter would indeed be slaying the most evil, most foul creature of all tonight. Once and for all.
-----Long pale fingers wrapped tightly around the dark, foreboding leather bound handle. Gripping it properly in his right hand, he brought it down to his left wrist. A sharp throb emitted from his wrist as the cold metal was warmed from the almost nonexistent skin. He had left the note, which in turn would make his memory fonder, more important and more well known. It was sure to be a big thing, his epiphany, betrayal, and confession. There was already a small horizontal slice underneath the blade, from where his blood, the draught of life, had been drawn, so he could write such a note of his life. The harsh color contrasted his skin again, as the metal was pressed deeply, willingly, into the pale skin, drawing out a long thin vertical line. The maroon color beaded up and spilled over the side of the trench, onto the flat platform of skin.
-----A swift slash of the hand, the dagger dug another deep trench parallel to the first. The blood ran together, forming one, long stream, steadily drip, drip, dripping onto the cold stone floor. Forming a pool of a new life, a life forgotten, and a life avenged. The darkness was creeping, forming a haze in his mind. An unforgiving color that faded in and out slightly growing stronger as he kept on bringing the knife down, filleting his own arm. With no strength left in his hand, the bloody dagger dropped from the once nimble fingers, hitting the floor, echoing with a muffled clang in his own blood. Brought arrogantly to his knees by his own dagger, his own craftiness, his own will and thoughts. The darkness growing ever near, the last words muttered for no one to hear escaped the now deathly pale lips, "The bell tolls for thee, father."
-----The ringing was growing louder, as the darkness grew ever closer. It seeped into his brain, as roughly as the water is swayed on the eve of a storm. It encompassed every last will, and memory. Blacking out all those brutal, conniving thoughts. At last, the bastard was dead. No longer had he sustained in controlling him, his future. His future was put to rest with his body. He was finally rid of the muggle life voiding him of his true, and utter potential. He had finally bled the noble blood for the last time. The darkness overwhelmingly took the last breath from the lungs, and a wave of despair shook the earth in the hour of twilight.
-----Just being, there was nothing more to explain, being is just breathing and breathing is living, so in essence by being, he is living. Without doing much, he could still live, no strings attached, no harsh details to work out. Just be. But just being wasn't an option anymore. Fate has played its role in giving many opportunities to just be, and no, he wanted more than just the simplicity of just being. Simplicity was not his strong suit, so being was out of the question. He yearned for power, for darkness reigning, darkness that was bestowed upon him, and anything but darkness was the epitome of simplicity. Darkness was etched onto his very moral fiber, it was his way of life, it was his life. His memory, his present, and most importantly not his future. His future was oh so dim as the things that brought out the light he so needed to suppress, but no longer could. Light was struggling, and choking him. A choking sensation, one of death, and yet ironically dark. The light was no longer white and pure, but gray and muted, as it was both a good thing to some, and a very bad thing to others. In this point in time. It was neither good nor bad, just there, being perhaps. Like the possibilities he had passed up. Or he had passed up.
-----It all came back to him and what he had done. Now there was no line between him and him. All he wanted to do was kill him for abandoning him, and making his life a living hell. He never wanted to be like him, he never signed up to be a hateful, spiteful bastard. He didn't want this to happen, he didn't mean for this to happen. But things happen, unexplainable really, but they do. Mostly unintentionally, and that's how he got here. To this very place being the man that he was, all because of him.
-----With a gleam, the sharp edge of the long, lethal blade took shape in his hand, with a mere will of the brain, and a twist of the wrist. The glimmering hope shone on the metallic surface of the object. Hope for an end, one of which would finally, rid the world of the monster. The one who had started the whole problem. If the long forgotten paper had said it was Potter to kill him, then it would indeed be Potter. It all revolved around Potter. He would vanquish the world of his evil. But how they were wrong. Wrong, just like everything else the world had said about his motives, his reasoning's. He didn't have many, but they were there. So blatantly obvious. Just like the deathly obviousness of his blade in his hand. Potter would indeed be slaying the most evil, most foul creature of all tonight. Once and for all.
-----Long pale fingers wrapped tightly around the dark, foreboding leather bound handle. Gripping it properly in his right hand, he brought it down to his left wrist. A sharp throb emitted from his wrist as the cold metal was warmed from the almost nonexistent skin. He had left the note, which in turn would make his memory fonder, more important and more well known. It was sure to be a big thing, his epiphany, betrayal, and confession. There was already a small horizontal slice underneath the blade, from where his blood, the draught of life, had been drawn, so he could write such a note of his life. The harsh color contrasted his skin again, as the metal was pressed deeply, willingly, into the pale skin, drawing out a long thin vertical line. The maroon color beaded up and spilled over the side of the trench, onto the flat platform of skin.
-----A swift slash of the hand, the dagger dug another deep trench parallel to the first. The blood ran together, forming one, long stream, steadily drip, drip, dripping onto the cold stone floor. Forming a pool of a new life, a life forgotten, and a life avenged. The darkness was creeping, forming a haze in his mind. An unforgiving color that faded in and out slightly growing stronger as he kept on bringing the knife down, filleting his own arm. With no strength left in his hand, the bloody dagger dropped from the once nimble fingers, hitting the floor, echoing with a muffled clang in his own blood. Brought arrogantly to his knees by his own dagger, his own craftiness, his own will and thoughts. The darkness growing ever near, the last words muttered for no one to hear escaped the now deathly pale lips, "The bell tolls for thee, father."
-----The ringing was growing louder, as the darkness grew ever closer. It seeped into his brain, as roughly as the water is swayed on the eve of a storm. It encompassed every last will, and memory. Blacking out all those brutal, conniving thoughts. At last, the bastard was dead. No longer had he sustained in controlling him, his future. His future was put to rest with his body. He was finally rid of the muggle life voiding him of his true, and utter potential. He had finally bled the noble blood for the last time. The darkness overwhelmingly took the last breath from the lungs, and a wave of despair shook the earth in the hour of twilight.