The Mark of Bellatrix Lestrange
Sometimes, even when one has received a life sentence, one still counts it down. Most people have not managed to survive Azkaban this long, however. Rodolphus says we have been here thirteen years. He would know. He has fared the best of the three of us. I would like to say I am surviving second-best. Thirteen years. Unlucky thirteen, so they say. Perhaps I shall succumb to the dementors within the annum. They have taken all but one thing from me, and that one thing is what helps me persevere.
It is my Dark Mark, burned into my skin all those years ago, proof that I had been worthy to serve Him. The dementors will rip out my soul sooner than anyone could rip this Mark from my body.
Will He ever return? Did He truly die?
It is blasphemous to doubt Him. I bury my doubt before it buries me. I do not doubt. I must not doubt. He lives. He merely lives in a way we mortals cannot understand.
I stare at the outline of the skull and the serpent on the soft of my forearm. I have pressed my lips to this scar every morning that I have mind enough to know that I still exist. I loved Him. No, I love Him. This morning, the Mark is dark and warm against my lips. Can He feel my kisses, the way He did long ago?
Before the dementors take away this glimmering happiness, I must make myself known to Him. “I am here,” I whisper, leaving out all of the phrases I could add —
I am barely here. I am hardly alive. My mind has been buried.
“I am here,” I declare, trying to find any sliver of strength in my voice. “I have never left You.”