Hermyohnee: If you're reading this, I just have one thing to say: Amusing thoughts from someone who is unable to spell "Hermione''correctly.
For the other replies, no matter if they were in 'Night After' or 'Selfish', thank you very much. Make sure other friends read them ;)
Selfish:
Hit. Hit. Hit.
It was inevitable. It was constant. It was maddening. It was fiery. And it didn't forgive.
Hit. Hit. Hit.
Rain drops impacted against the glasses of the opened window. Against the floor of the room. Against her face. Her neck. Her bare shoulders. Her hands, so firmly gripping the edges of the window. Provoking her untamed hair to stick to her wet flesh.
Hit. Hit. Hit.
Her chest rose and fell with the heavy movements of her breathing rhythm. Ragged.
The frozen water mixed with the one slipping from her eyes, down her checks, being washed away by the rain, washing away the warmth, washing away the only lame, pathetic attempt of getting rid of her frustration. Her lips parted to let a long, frustrated scream from the dephts of her troath, her voice breaking the silence, shattering it to pieces, resounding through the cieiling, filling the spaces surrounding her, to, suddenly die. As is someone had cast a spell to stop the noise, as suddenly as it appeared.
No more black eyes staring in her chocolate coloured ones. No more rough, large hands caressing her hair. No more strong arms wrapping around her small form. No more.
Her hands curled into fist, before connecting with the edge of the window, brutally, almost, her knuckles aching slightly at the impact, head falling backwards.
Viktor Krum was no longer part of her life.
And what was worse, she did not care. She did not care at all. Since she found her dark gaze held by his grey, stormy one. Since she saw, for the first time; no rage, no despise. He seemed...
Amazed.
But he hated her.
Didn't he?
...Of course he did.
He had to.
She wanted to hate him, again. And again. And again. She wanted to blame him for what happened with Viktor. And oh, did she want to.
All she managed to get was another ache. This time right in the chest. Loathe. Not at him. Not at Viktor.
At herself.
Because, even if she cried...
She didn't care. She didn't care at all.