Disclaimer: I do not own Draco Malfoy; he belongs to J. K Rowling.

Warning: This One-shot contains strong mention of depression, self mutilation and suicide. You have been warned. There is one very slight mention of Yaoi.

Rating: PG-13

Authoress: Shadoweyes1

Summary: After slowly sinking deep into depression, Draco Malfoy takes it upon himself to do what he thinks he must. He writes a suicide letter, chronicling his life and his feelings, and even more so the emotional turmoil he went through that led to his self mutilation.

To Whom It May Concern

I am writing this in the hope that perhaps there is someone out there who cares. That there is someone out there who cares for Draco Malfoy.

There's nothing for me anymore. There's no ounce of joy left in the life that I once celebrated so happily. Sometimes I think back to when I was a child, to a time when I used to be like everyone else, and it always strikes me at how young I imagine myself to be. My indoctrination began at a very early age; I suppose that I have my father to thank for that. He always was too eager to mould me into a replica of himself, to build me up in his own, tainted and sickening image. It has only been over the past few years that I have begun hating him for that. I recall as a child that I never minded what he told me, I ate it all up like syrup on a spoon. I didn't care, in retrospect I think that I was just happy enough being around him. He was after all 'Daddy'. I didn't know back then who he really was. I looked up to him, worshipped him, and took everything he said at face value. It didn't occur to me how he might've been using me for his own foul deeds. I was ignorant as a child. I over heard Granger telling Potter one time that 'Ignorance is bliss' and on that point I have to whole heartedly agree with her.

True my childhood was never wonderful, it was never filled with ice cream and toys and games like everyone else's, but still it was one of the best times of my life. I'll never relive those times again. I mean, sure, my father used to beat me when I didn't live up to his expectations, used to scream and yell and cause me more pain than you can ever imagine, but I used to believe that I deserved it. I used to think that I had done something terribly wrong, how could I not? My interaction with other children my age was minimal. He always told me it was because I was superior to all others, but I think that he was just scared of me learning the truth and rebelling, he couldn't have that, oh no. I was never allowed out. He schooled me day and night in the dark arts and other such matters, and I learned it all diligently, picking up his cruel sense of humour and harsh wit along the way. The best time of my life. Right.

My mother was not maternal, that is not one of the words I could use to describe her, she was more worried about my father's money than she was about me, she spent her days preening herself before her magic mirror, making herself Goddess-like for when she went out socialising. But even that was acceptable then, father told me, a woman's place is in the home, she must obey and never question. Maybe she was told not to interfere with me. Hmm. On the occasions that I did see her, she made some off hand comment about how much like my father I was and then swept away. That had pleased me, I was becoming like my predecessor. Happiness welled within my chest and I went around grinning like an idiot for the rest of the day. But of course, happiness is never allowed in my family, and so I was punished.

By the time I was eleven I had been groomed and prepared to face the world, looking and acting like a younger Lucius Malfoy. I didn't have to worry about friends; my father had already paid for them (But at the time I did not know this). They were to follow me around sending me adoring looks and keeping away all those that were not worthy.

For a while I revelled in it.

But one cannot be thrust out into the open world and expect to stay exactly the same. People change with the times, and I was no exception. Being around so many people corrupted my 'Malfoys Are Superior' and 'I am God' attitude. It was inevitable.

But when I finally did open my eyes, I did not like what I saw, perhaps I would have been happier to stay blind, but that would have been far more stupid than anything I could ever have done. Lord knows where I would be now. Dead already probably.

I wasn't actually the best in the world, I wasn't invincible and untouchable. I was human, a wizard yes, but still human. Damn. It hurt to realise that I was nothing special after all. However even though I knew that I could never be the perfect son to my father, and that I couldn't be the Draco Malfoy I was in my first five years at Hogwarts, I couldn't quite bring myself to abandon the image completely. It was who I was, casting it aside would be like being born again, and I wasn't ready for that. Inconsolable and confused I turned to my friends, and was crushed to find that they didn't care about me after all. How I hated them at that moment, how I hated my father and his wealth, how I hated Voldemort for making my father into the horrid man he was today.

I suppose I just couldn't take it anymore. I suppose that I couldn't take the pressure of being so cold and cruel in public, so uncaring whereas inside my soul was crumbling to pieces and slipping through my fingers. I got tired of always pretending, tired of trying to fit in, nobody wanted me, nobody cared.

So if nobody else cared, why should I?

I resolved from that day, to just not care anymore. I locked all emotion away and threw away the key; it was a decision that changed my entire life. Seconds blurred into minutes which fazed into hours, they sped by my life taking away everything that was going on around me. I distanced myself from the other Slytherins, and distanced myself further from everyone else. Food turned to ash in my mouth, drink turned to acid, and every gulp of air I took was like breathing in smoke. My skin felt unclean, dirty even. So I took to carving out the filth with any sharp object that I could lay my hand on, it was comforting to see blood flow, but even that didn't make me care.

School work carried on as usual, although my grades did drop slightly, I didn't care to try extra hard, I didn't care if I beat Granger or not. I dropped out of Quidditch, gave up my position as prefect, and even stopped teasing Potter and his friends.

Potter. Harry. Oh how I used to envy him. He has friends that care, people that are like family to him, he lives a full life. But even the thought of him does nothing for me anymore; his name doesn't stimulate me in the way it used to. I used to think that perhaps under different circumstances Potter and I could have been friends, perhaps even more. But that will never happen, because he hates me.

Just like every one else.

Everybody hates poor spoilt Draco. At one time they used to fear me, hah; it doesn't even come close to that now. I know that some of the first years still whisper as they walk past me. Talking about how 'there goes Draco Malfoy; he used to be the most infamous Slytherin around.' That was the old me, I'm not that person anymore. I'm not anything anymore.

My hair has grown, as most have surely noticed, and I trim it occasionally, but only to stop myself mirroring my father's image too closely. I can't recognise myself in the mirror anymore. My once cold and calculating eyes and dead and empty. It's like looking into a black hole. I've tried to keep my weight at what it was when I was the old Draco Malfoy; it wasn't that hard, I didn't eat much anyway. But my skin, ah my skin has suffered the worse, almost as bad as my mind. My arms are covered with peach coloured scars, red scars, and old dug out scars. They criss-cross my arms all the way up to my elbow. I doubt that anyone has noticed my self mutilation. They probably couldn't bring themselves to care. Why am I not surprised?

I've forgotten what my voice sounds like, even as I write these words I am struggling to remember the biting edge it had to it, and its often harsh but sometimes soft tone. Perhaps it's because my mind has locked that memory away with all the others.

But perhaps it's the effects of the thirty or so painkillers I have taken (along with excessive amounts of alcohol) starting to kick in. I don't know. I took them ten minutes ago, just before I started writing this; they were dry on my tongue, like patches of dirt. Obviously I am hoping for death, this last letter, this 'suicide note' as it were should be proof enough for that.

I guess I should leave a will sectioning off all my belongings to those close to me, but I have no one to share my meagre possessions with. My school supplies may be donated to another student, any money I have can be given to whomever, it's not like I care. My knife should be cleaned and used for another purpose or disposed of. After all who would want to keep such a horrible tainted, twisted item around? Then again I can see why people would treasure it; it cut the flesh of a Malfoy.

My hands are starting to tremble as I write this, the pain killers I suspect, the muscles in my stomach are clenching. It's painful. But it's a good kind of pain. HAH! Where's you're smooth words now father? Where's your indifference mother? Where's your 'Love Everybody' attitude Dumbledore? Where is your cutting remark Potter? I think that I'll miss that most of all. Our arguments in and out of class. They kind of gave my life meaning, both before and after I found out that all my father wanted me for was to give to his 'Master' to pay off some intangible debt that he now owed. Bur as I withdrew into myself, even our rivalry faded away into the darkness.

But none of that matters, as I won't be here much longer. I can't see what I'm writing, so I had better finish this before I pass out completely, Lord knows I won't have a chance to finish it otherwise.

So in conclusion I ask you this, you will never get to tell me the answer, but you will think about it and it will stay in your thoughts until your grave.

Why was it so hard for someone, for anyone to love me?

I'm not a machine, I had feelings too you know.

I had feelings…but I don't anymore.

Was I really that hard to love?

With deep regrets,

Draco Malfoy.

OooooOooooOooooOooooO

Draco Malfoy didn't even have time to put his quill back into the inkwell stationed at the corner of his desk before the drugs overcame him and he slumped forwards into oblivion.

It looked as if he was sleeping peacefully, with his head resting upon his arms like that, a smile curved onto his features. It looked as if he was dreaming of happier times. To his right a candle flickered gently illuminating his body as he took weak breaths that grew shallower with every passing second.

Eventually his chest stilled, his last life's breath whispering out from between his parted lips like a dreamy sigh.

It was in this normal looking position, with his legs hooked together under his chair and his head resting on his scarred arms that they found him in the morning.

Nobody said anything.

There was nothing to say.