Past Tense
He can’t forget the feeling of Snape’s hand on his shoulder. It makes him long for something he could never have.
He’s tired. The emptiness clawing at his insides won’t ebb. It only creeps in stronger and stronger. Heavier and heavier.
The fog thickens.
___
Draco despises himself. His parents despise him. To put it plainly, he is alone. What reason is there to continue when his existence is only hurting himself and those around him?
His shoulders shake. His hand cups over his mouth, muffling his heavy breaths. He swipes at his arm with a silent spell and pokes a quill into his flesh. He pulls out a piece of parchment and scrawls out rusty, messy words.
i hope when my corpse rots upon the tiled floor,
my blood runs thick and far. tracing
the length i would run just to glimpse you
for a moment.
i hope when my eyes glaze over, unseeing,
my palms face upwards
in surrender.
i hope if i cry out as my life fades,
no one hears.
i hope to leave behind
the smell of rain.
The thought of touch makes him nauseous and empty and longing at the same time. It brings him the sharpest, coldest flame in a world of falling snow. It taunts him.
His hands tug at his hair, pulling and pulling. He curls over, kneeled on the floor, and hears the sound of an anguished, gut-wrenching howl tearing from his throat. It sounds distant, almost. As if his head is underwater, or as if he is watching the scene unfold through a glass window.
He claws at the floor and at his body, wishing for something to anchor him, if only for a moment.
The blood dripping down his arm turns sticky and dry. He slashes at it again and again, as his head spins and floats away. It’s not enough. He’s not enough. He’ll never be enough.
In a daze, he lifts his wand and points it to his throat. His voice is low and quiet, but steadier than it’s ever been.
“Diffindo.”