How does one live with the knowledge that they've killed someone?
How does one live that knowledge that they've killed someone, but without any other knowledge of their crime?
How does one live with the knowledge that they don't know what they did, but the rest of the world does?
Whether or not Sirius was in Azkaban, he knew he wouldn't remember what he did. He wouldn't remember whom he had killed, or why he had killed them. He wouldn't remember how many people he killed, or if they had meant anything to them.
He wouldn't allow himself to remember. He was afraid of what he would discover about his crimes, afraid of what he'd remember about himself.
He wanted to know though. He wanted to remember everything, every single moment he'd laughed, or cried. He wanted to remember his family, no matter how much he knew he was different from them, or hated them.
Most of all, he wanted to remember James.
He couldn't remember though, no matter how hard he pressured himself to do so. It was as if James, and the rest of the world, was blocked from him by some unknown, but powerful source.
He would rather die than never remember.
He knew he wouldn't die though. It was his punishment; Dumbledore had made that very clear. He would punish himself until he remembered. He knew the Dementors wouldn't perform the Kiss on him until he remembered.
He knew so much about his world since waking up in his dark cell less than a month ago. He knew what it meant to lose one of the few people he knew. Hell, he knew what it meant to lose two of those few people.
He knew what it meant to have a friend who turned his back on you because he felt that you deserved to be punished too.
He knew what it meant to have someone he'd known for a long time leave in anger, giving the impression that he would never return.
He knew what pure terror meant.
He knew without even looking that the Dementors were coming.
He knew when the Dementors performed the Kiss on someone somewhere else in the prisoner because of the way the prisoners cheered.
He knew what it meant to be alone.
Above all, he knew what it meant to hate your self.
He did hate himself.
Wallace hated him.
Dumbledore hated him.
James, Remus and Peter hated him.
He hated himself because he'd made all these people hate him. He hated himself because he didn't know why James and the others would never come visit him. He hated himself because he couldn't remember anything important.
For, the most important things in life are the memories that you have about your friends. How few of these memories did Sirius have? He could only place three memories that meant anything to him, and none of the people in them would ever come to comfort him.
How does one live with the guilt of knowing they've committed murder and that they've turned all their friends away from them? Worse, how does one live with this knowledge and suffer from it the most because they can't remember why.
For those people in the world who think they suffer, Sirius felt no remorse. He knew they didn't really suffer. No one knew suffering until they were forced to sit alone in a jail cell straining themselves to remember any fragment of a shattered life.
He suffered. Every single moment was angst for him, and those two people who knew it, didn't care.
That was enough to drive any man insane.
Yet, somehow, Sirius held onto his sanity.
He didn't know how he did it, because the Dementors had made it a habit to come onto his cellblock no less than five times a day.
He knew it drove Wallace closer and closer to insanity every day. He knew it would drive anyone closer to insanity to be visited by the Dementors that much. It didn't affect him at all.
He soon realized that this was because he was depressed, and he didn't have enough happy memories for the Dementors to take from him.
Those were the only times he ever thanked the fact that he could remember nothing. For he knew, if he did have happy memories, he would be as insane as Pondex had been.
He knew that Wallace was letting himself succumb to the death-like beings that haunted their cellblock. He knew that Wallace cared only about his brother, Pondex. He knew that Wallace wanted to be Kissed, so he could go and be in soulless peace with Pondex.
He knew that if he only talked to Wallace, he could convince him otherwise. Since the day Dumbledore had left, the day that Wallace had found out that Sirius remembered nothing, the two had not spoken.
The cellblock had been silent for close to two weeks.
At first Wallace had tried to make conversation, but Sirius didn't want to talk. Not to the one man who could tell him everything he had done, but wouldn't because he didn't want an old man angry with him.
Sirius knew Wallace thought he had lost all reason to live since he had lost Pondex and because Sirius and he had stopped talking. These two events happened in the run of a week, and it put a lot of strain on Wallace.
Sirius could have saved him, but he didn't. He didn't care anymore. Not for the man he had considered a friend for a few short days. Not for the man who had turned his back on him and decided to let him punish himself.
Sirius had asked himself if he would care when the Dementors came for Wallace. He had asked himself if he would laugh and cheer, or if he would scream and cry.
He didn't have long to wait for an answer.
Sirius counted the minutes he was in Azkaban. He didn't know how he did it, but when he succumbed to the silence, he'd started to count the seconds.
From the last time Wallace had tried to speak to him, it had been two weeks, one day, seven hours, fourteen minutes and thirty seconds.
Two weeks, one day, seven hours, fourteen minutes and thirty seconds before the Dementors came and took Wallace from his cell.
Two weeks, one day, seven hours, fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds from the time Wallace had last spoke was the last time Sirius ever saw the man nicknamed Hoots.
And he didn't laugh and cheer. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. In all honesty, he didn't care.
He didn't care that now he was truly alone. He didn't care that the Dementors would probably never leave the cellblock. Because, nothing mattered until he remembered.
Sorry, I don't have time to talk to my readers, but I just want you to know that I am most definatly reading and enjoying your reviews.
Secondly, I know this last chapter sort of -stank- but, I had to write it to get my own feelings towards the story in order and sort out some problems that I'd created for myself, hope you understand
And last, I have a Halloween memory coming up, and I find it only fitting if I post it on Halloween, so i had to post two chapters today that were written first, I know you don't mind. And, on Sunday (Halloween, when I PLAN to post the next part) there'll be another two chapters, one with Remus as a sexy, angry werewolf :)
Thanks!