Eating Rats
Wezen Solo
"So dear I loved him that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, no life." Paradise Lost
The room was dark, like the rest of the house. Its walls of grey stone exuded cold and the absence of windows completed the definition of a dungeon. It may as well have been, for the man confined within was haggard and haunted with a sadness so permeable it was warped and twisted throughout his entire body.
He was naked, curled on the frosty stone floor with his arms tensed about his head. His legs would have been tucked close to his body, but the tibia of his left leg was sticking through his skin. Greying brown hair shaggily covered his eyes and a grimace stretched his face, even in sleep.
His cheeks were wet.
This transformation had been the worst he'd ever suffered through. Worse than the first he'd ever had, worse than the month he'd lost his four closest friends in one night.
There was blood everywhere.
His nails were gone, torn by clawing at the walls, but still he'd managed to cut himself multiple times across his chest and face. His hands were smeared red and there was no doubt that he'd broken at least two ribs.
The man looked dead.
He wished he were.
For how could anyone who had lost a mate go on living? Who wanted to? The life of a solitary man was one he had been living for a long, long time.
Alone.
He didn't want to begin again.
Alone.
Yet here he was again.
Alone, and bleeding on the thin rug matted with age and moth carcasses. In pain, but so numb none but that of his heart shone through. It tightened its grip and he seriously considered lying there until he succumbed to loss of blood. There was no point staying around. The last thing he wanted was to live through another war watching while all of his friends died.
No point at all. Bellatrix (he felt a lance of pain and hurt and regret and hate strike his chest) he would see in Hell (for who truly believed a werewolf could end up anywhere else?) and Harry…
The room reeked of crow.
He hadn't killed any, but had eaten more than enough of his share. He still wasn't finished. Harry had lost another friend/parent/hope to Voldemort.
His leg started to hurt.
Tired, grey eyes peered through scraggly fringe. He expanded his lungs and—
"Bloody Hell!"
Those two ribs were definitely broken. Make that three.
He saw red and swiped it away. Blood mixed with tears. He lay on the floor and stared at the cold wall.
Down the hall Mrs. Black screamed, "Stains of dishonor!"
"Peter."
"Filthy half-breeds!"
"Wormtail."
"Blood traitors!"
"Traitor," he snarled.
Remus suddenly felt very hungry.
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Title from the comment Sirius made about eating rats when he was on the run, hoping each one was Peter. Constructive criticism is always welcome. :)