Chapter Thirty-Six
God's away on business
A/N: This chapter talks about suicide quite a bit. If you're feeling a bit depressed yourself, don't think you like hearing about suicide, or feel you're a bit too young to be thinking about such things, please move on to the next chapter (you won't miss much).
Snape sat with the note dangling from his hand. It wasn't a fresh one (he'd given up on that sort of thing long ago) but it was one of his favourites.
It was a suicide note.
From his early to his mid-twenties, Snape had indulged his young self with the idea that this world could be left behind, that a simple flick of the wrist or a simply brewed poison would rid him of all his problems. In even deeper despair he had heroically decided that the world- here he quirked a wry smile- would be better off without him.
Time and again, he had let the knife lay on the table, had poured whatever brew he had concocted down the drain. Deep down, deeper than the whims he allowed himself, he knew that suicide was simply not an option. It was the easiest option, and therefore not for him.
This realisation had delayed him from corpsehood. Each time, he had cleaned up the mess, neatly filed the note away in a folder, and sat to watch the darkness until the dawn. By the time he had turned twenty-five, when Voldemort had been defeated by a mother's love in a pathetically ironic way, he'd had quite a little stack of notes in a private little folder by his bed, there any time he wanted to remind himself what a pitiful human being he truly was.
This one was the best. It consisted of four words, slashed into paper already stained with tears and mucus and nervous sweat. While the others had been effusive, eloquent and at times poetic, this one stated in four simple words the cause of his entire problem:
I'm not that strong.
Snape looked at it and laughed. It was perfect. A work of art.
He leant down and picked up his snifter of brandy, swirling it as his father had taught him to do long ago, and taking an uncultured gulp from the glass. It made his throat burn, so he took another gulp. At least it meant he was feeling something.
There had been periods, off and on, in his life that the sharp pain he had felt from whatever source at the time had led him to hurt himself. He had done it first at sixteen, when, shrinking from his original plan to slash his wrists, he had used the knife to cut at the palm of his left hand. It had hurt in such a wonderful way. There hadn't been a dramatic fall of his blood into the white sink, but the pain had been enough to calm him.
He had used this fascinating method to cope whenever he felt the need. The depression in his teenage years had never quite reached that point again where he wished to take his life, but he had still found it necessary to augment the mental anguish from time to time. After the first few times, when he had been careless and clumsy in his excuses for his cuts, he had learnt to heal the wounds magically before another person could question them. Not as satisfying as bearing the marks of self- punishment and loathing, but much, much safer for one who guarded his personal trials.
Later, when thoughts of self-assassination took up more and more of his time, his pathetic bloodlettings only made him despise himself more. It was an interesting circle- one that had, one time, almost led to a gracious release when he had cut too deep. Dumbledore had found him in the bathroom of his rooms when he hadn't turned up to teach class. All he could remember was how nice it had felt to lie there in limbo, the blood still feeling warm against his skin, and feeling bitterly disappointed when he woke up in a hospital bed. Of course, part of that bitterness was directed at himself for almost achieving so ignominious a demise. He had been young enough to want to explain himself back then.
Snape rubbed the rough paper between his thumb and finger. These suicide notes had saved him. If he really had wanted to leave the world so completely behind, there were a thousand easy ways he could have done it. It was the time he had taken to carefully explain himself, excuse his actions to the rest of the world that had stopped him. Seeing in stark black and white his real excuse for doing it. Seeing it was no excuse at all.
Hundreds of these pointless exercises in self-pity had led to the crystallised knowledge that he could not simply leave everything behind. He had done bad things; he had to try and make up for them. It was saccharine, it was overly dramatic, it was even, he cringed to think it, Gryffindorish, but it was the way things worked. He paid. Another thing his father had taught him.
In his life, he had committed many fairly foul acts, many of them while performing his role as a spy. Tonight he had taught seven young people how to make a water-borne poison by making a batch large enough to poison the water supply of the entire North of England. It wasn't the worst thing he had ever done, but it was enough.
The brandy glinted redly in the light of the candelabra. It was always when one wanted to get drunk, Snape reflected, that alcohol had its least effect. He had done as much as he dared to ruin the poison, figured out a strategy to lessen its effects, but young children and infants would be less resistant to the altered potion. He swirled the brandy and took a sip, letting the liquid fume in his mouth. This was an old brandy- far too refined a brand to be simply gulped down by the bowlful.
They had tested the poison before he left. It had worked. He had done what he could.
It was the way things worked.
Lullaby
Sun is red; moon is cracked,
Daddy's never coming back,
Nothing's ever yours to keep,
Close your eyes, go to sleep.
If I die before you wake,
Don't you cry and don't you weep,
Nothing's ever as it seems
Climb the ladder to your dreams
If I die before you wake,
Don't you cry, don't you weep,
Nothing's ever yours to keep,
Close your eyes, go to sleep.
-Tom Waits
God's away on business
A/N: This chapter talks about suicide quite a bit. If you're feeling a bit depressed yourself, don't think you like hearing about suicide, or feel you're a bit too young to be thinking about such things, please move on to the next chapter (you won't miss much).
Snape sat with the note dangling from his hand. It wasn't a fresh one (he'd given up on that sort of thing long ago) but it was one of his favourites.
It was a suicide note.
From his early to his mid-twenties, Snape had indulged his young self with the idea that this world could be left behind, that a simple flick of the wrist or a simply brewed poison would rid him of all his problems. In even deeper despair he had heroically decided that the world- here he quirked a wry smile- would be better off without him.
Time and again, he had let the knife lay on the table, had poured whatever brew he had concocted down the drain. Deep down, deeper than the whims he allowed himself, he knew that suicide was simply not an option. It was the easiest option, and therefore not for him.
This realisation had delayed him from corpsehood. Each time, he had cleaned up the mess, neatly filed the note away in a folder, and sat to watch the darkness until the dawn. By the time he had turned twenty-five, when Voldemort had been defeated by a mother's love in a pathetically ironic way, he'd had quite a little stack of notes in a private little folder by his bed, there any time he wanted to remind himself what a pitiful human being he truly was.
This one was the best. It consisted of four words, slashed into paper already stained with tears and mucus and nervous sweat. While the others had been effusive, eloquent and at times poetic, this one stated in four simple words the cause of his entire problem:
I'm not that strong.
Snape looked at it and laughed. It was perfect. A work of art.
He leant down and picked up his snifter of brandy, swirling it as his father had taught him to do long ago, and taking an uncultured gulp from the glass. It made his throat burn, so he took another gulp. At least it meant he was feeling something.
There had been periods, off and on, in his life that the sharp pain he had felt from whatever source at the time had led him to hurt himself. He had done it first at sixteen, when, shrinking from his original plan to slash his wrists, he had used the knife to cut at the palm of his left hand. It had hurt in such a wonderful way. There hadn't been a dramatic fall of his blood into the white sink, but the pain had been enough to calm him.
He had used this fascinating method to cope whenever he felt the need. The depression in his teenage years had never quite reached that point again where he wished to take his life, but he had still found it necessary to augment the mental anguish from time to time. After the first few times, when he had been careless and clumsy in his excuses for his cuts, he had learnt to heal the wounds magically before another person could question them. Not as satisfying as bearing the marks of self- punishment and loathing, but much, much safer for one who guarded his personal trials.
Later, when thoughts of self-assassination took up more and more of his time, his pathetic bloodlettings only made him despise himself more. It was an interesting circle- one that had, one time, almost led to a gracious release when he had cut too deep. Dumbledore had found him in the bathroom of his rooms when he hadn't turned up to teach class. All he could remember was how nice it had felt to lie there in limbo, the blood still feeling warm against his skin, and feeling bitterly disappointed when he woke up in a hospital bed. Of course, part of that bitterness was directed at himself for almost achieving so ignominious a demise. He had been young enough to want to explain himself back then.
Snape rubbed the rough paper between his thumb and finger. These suicide notes had saved him. If he really had wanted to leave the world so completely behind, there were a thousand easy ways he could have done it. It was the time he had taken to carefully explain himself, excuse his actions to the rest of the world that had stopped him. Seeing in stark black and white his real excuse for doing it. Seeing it was no excuse at all.
Hundreds of these pointless exercises in self-pity had led to the crystallised knowledge that he could not simply leave everything behind. He had done bad things; he had to try and make up for them. It was saccharine, it was overly dramatic, it was even, he cringed to think it, Gryffindorish, but it was the way things worked. He paid. Another thing his father had taught him.
In his life, he had committed many fairly foul acts, many of them while performing his role as a spy. Tonight he had taught seven young people how to make a water-borne poison by making a batch large enough to poison the water supply of the entire North of England. It wasn't the worst thing he had ever done, but it was enough.
The brandy glinted redly in the light of the candelabra. It was always when one wanted to get drunk, Snape reflected, that alcohol had its least effect. He had done as much as he dared to ruin the poison, figured out a strategy to lessen its effects, but young children and infants would be less resistant to the altered potion. He swirled the brandy and took a sip, letting the liquid fume in his mouth. This was an old brandy- far too refined a brand to be simply gulped down by the bowlful.
They had tested the poison before he left. It had worked. He had done what he could.
It was the way things worked.
Lullaby
Sun is red; moon is cracked,
Daddy's never coming back,
Nothing's ever yours to keep,
Close your eyes, go to sleep.
If I die before you wake,
Don't you cry and don't you weep,
Nothing's ever as it seems
Climb the ladder to your dreams
If I die before you wake,
Don't you cry, don't you weep,
Nothing's ever yours to keep,
Close your eyes, go to sleep.
-Tom Waits