Life and Death
A/N: This is a wee bit disturbing. It just sort of came to me and I had to write it down, it is a one shot, and if you hate it, I'm sorry. Once again, it's kind of disturbing and a little graphic so if you don't like that kind of thing . . . hit the back button.
I waited so long for life to start. It never did. I had everything and yet I had nothing. He loved me for a short time, and then he told me he couldn't be with me. I believed he would come back eventually, but he never did. He left me for good. He's out there somewhere probably married with children and will live happily ever after. Key word, live. At least he is living. I'm twenty years old, I have a large family, I have a job, I have friends . . . but I feel as though I have nothing. I have no one. I hate who I've become, what I've become. I feel as though I've never truly lived, or if I did, there is no way I am now. For five long years I've slowly been slipping into depression. I've been in and out of hospitals, I even tried muggle treatment. Nothing helps because I don't care. I don't want help. I want to die, so I can finally start to live. I don't remember when I last ate. My skin is pale with a yellow tinge. The doctors say it's because I'm lacking nourishment. When I look into the mirror I see tangled, matted hair and cold, empty eyes. My lips are red with the constant flow of blood. I can't seem to stop biting them, sometimes I even bite straight through, just to feel the pain. I shake uncontrollably, even when I'm not cold. Ronald says it's from the drugs I take, but I don't remember taking drugs. My hands are my weapons. You see, my fingernails are long and jagged and they often have bits of skin and drops of blood underneath them, because apparently I like to claw at my arms with them. I never remember doing this. I just wake up with bloody gashes all over my body. I want him to see me like this. I want him to see what he's done to me. When I finally do it, I want him to be there, watching it. I want him to see me take the razor and stick it in my wrist. I want him to stare at me while I pull it through my arm and rip apart my veins. I want the blood that spills out of me to soak his shoes and stain his fingers. And as I take my final breath I want to look into his eyes, and see guilt. It will happen soon enough.
A/N: Well there it is, short and sweet. Let me know what you think, and don't reply saying it was sick and twisted, I already know that and I already warned you.