A Letter from A Sinner

[1/1] by y-junkie

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I tried to write to you, and it took a week before I can. The smell of earth and the weight of the heavy air mingled with fear and despondency has somewhat dulled my senses… if not, has dulled it completely.

Even if I'm miles away from Azkaban—a spit of hell that almost drove me insane—I can still feel that awful gloom settling around my thighs, running through the course of my fingers, feasting on every ebb of my character. Even under a shelter of the woodlands, which is far off shore, one cannot be truly safe.

I can feel them. They are everywhere. I heard that they were looking for me, under orders of the Ministry? They cannot find me, Remus. I will be damned first before they find me. They are the worst side of death—let Death herself drink from me, rob me of my life. In her arms, I would be happy.

At the least, in her arms, I could still take a memory of you with me, and be contented with it as I get crushed under the gravity of my sins.

Don't throw my letter into the fire just yet, Remus. I still have many things to explain… things which I cannot tell you in words. I have been haughty, and proud, carried on with a virtually impossible ego. But I have my fears.

Let me tell them to you now, with a quill and a parchment yellow with age and reeking with the smell of silt and sins.

I have always been afraid to lose what's most precious. I had already lost two, and it haunts me still. I almost lost you, Remus, while on the run from fear and misery and eternal damnation. I want to remember, but I can't—the dementors keep on making me forget, making me miserable, choking me with icy fingers…

Even under the shade of pines, cared for by green needles moist with spring dew, I can never be safe. I can never be comforted.

My feet drag on as slow as time. I can't wait to be under your care, where I can be safe, and I can be comforted. Maybe you'd push me away, and bury me under the graves of the earth where sinners belong. But I'll see you. It is enough.

I have sinned. But these sins are often mistaken with the sins I have not committed. Peter Pettigrew is alive, Remus. That vermin has gone from one sewer to another, taken away by murky waters whence he came from, and has, unfortunately, landed on some place safe. He is not worthy of living. Azkaban has not quite bore this notion out of me yet. Death isn't enough. Let the dementors take turns and ravage him with fatal kisses. Pain shall toy with him. Life will leave him with a tragic exit.

I can make it all happen. This would be my last error. I may suffer from it, die from it. I cannot care less. Revenge is the poison that never kills—it resurrects, it enlivens. Revenge is the poison that will never die, never cease to stain my blood with black washes of hate and all manners of evil. Revenge has taken me, Remus. And it will never let go.

It does not stop there. There is still one sin. My most beautiful sin. It fills me, yet the beauty cuts through like a thousand spears against an unarmored soul.

I love you, Remus.

I always have.

It is a sin, the greatest, towering above the sins of our fathers and their fathers, far greater than the sins of Adam and Eve!

I love you.

And as I burn under the fires like wood and parchment, I will always remember my great sin, blossoming, and never withering. The infinity of all hells. It makes me content. It makes me happy.

I love you.

The ink is almost fading. I had better said my goodbyes.

Find me in hell, Remus, like a broken glass embedded on the thickest of stones. Take me. Take me to Heaven.

Until then.

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Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine. [1]

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[1] From 'Auguries of Innocence' by William Blake

Er. Dark. Yeah. Drop me a review, if you like. It'll be appreciated.

Thanks for the time.