The Path Downwards
It's a silly thing, human nature. Most people don't really contemplate it, but perhaps that's because they simply don't have to. When you've hit rock bottom, that's when everything becomes crystalline, and you see this world in perfect focus. It seems to me that I've hit that point. I look at this world, and all I see is the clarity of our madness. We are a mad species simply because we care too much about that which does not matter. What I've come to realize in my very short time on this earth that life, which we value above all else, fits perfectly into that generalization. It won't be too hard, watching my own blood run down my arms. I've done it before, but this time, it is of my own choosing, on my own terms and choosing. No longer is it up to the monster that has ruled my fate since childhood.
Sirius Black walked into the owlery, an irritated frown on his face. Remus had said that he would meet him before dinner, and it really wasn't like his friend to make him wait. The last anyone had heard of Moony, he had been heading up to send an owl to some person or another – no one really cared about the details of such a mundane activity. Sighing, he looked around the gloomy room for some sign of life other than the birds hooting softly above him. A small whimper in the back caught his attention. Walking closer, he tried to peer through the dimness, and…
"Holy shit," he breathed.
Remus lay limp on the floor, a bloodied glass shard still clutched in his hand. A hand which, Sirius noted dully, seemed much paler than usual when contrasted to the crimson which covered most of both his arms. Trembling, Sirius kneeled next to him, listening to his breathing. After tending to him after two and a half years' worth of transformations, Sirius could tell what that harsh, shallow panting meant, and it was nothing good. Suddenly, Remus moaned weakly, startling his friend out of his shocked daze. Standing up, Sirius bolted towards the infirmary, hoping to any divine power that would listen that he could get help in time.
I look back at that day, and I'm not sure whether I should smile or just curl up into a ball of self-loathing. I had been so sure that I had known what it was to be hopeless, but time has told me otherwise. My seventeen year old self hadn't hit bottom, he had just run into a particularly hard landing on the way down. I probably haven't seen the worst yet, even now, but I don't want to risk it. I survived the years between wars in the vain hope that something would come along to change fate. The Second War brought me purpose again, gave me something to fight for instead of fighting myself. Now, the war was over, Voldemort was vanquished, Tonks is dead, and Harry is…well, let's just say that he's fallen a few floors farther than I ever thought existed.
My time is up. This time, however, there is no one to come searching for me, no one to run hysterically to Madam Pomfrey. I am alone, and this time, when the glass rips through the arteries in my wrists, I won't wake up to the face of a worried friend. I would feel remorse that our story, the Marauders' story, will never be told, but I feel it's for the best. Posterity will remember us for the map and not much else, and that is as it should be. No one needs to know about the pain that followed. That will die with me.