It was so dark. Why? Because he wanted it to be. No one was going to come for him. His so called friends only wanted to be around him because of his name. They never really cared about him.

The real him.

He sat there in the empty class room and chuckled. It was his last year there. Two more weeks and he was out. He would never have to deal with these people again.

Everything was over. The war was over. Nobody needed him anymore.

He was only ever needed because of the damn prophecy.

Stupid fuckers.

No on knew him. No one wanted to. They only saw the picture, the outside, the façade. The real him was scary. Dark.

No one wanted to touch that.

He held up the wand and studied it. It could do some pretty powerful things.

He snapped it in half.

He wasn't going to need it anymore.

Not where he was going.

He took out a knife. So plain, so simple. It was beautiful in its own way. He held it up to the moon light that was shining into the room.

He took it and slashed his wrist. Then the other.

He cut them again, making an, ironically lightning bolt shape on both wrists.

He watched with a morbid curiosity as the blood rushed out of his veins.

He let his body fall to the floor, watching the blood pool out of his wrists, he watched as the room got darker and darker until there was no light left.

He heard voices calling his name.

No only one voice.

It was crying.

No one would cry for him. No one would care if he left.

His body felt cold and he closed his eyes relishing in the black coldness, the emptiness that surrounded him. He welcomed death.

And it welcomed him.