Of Darkness and Light
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,286
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,286
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Of Darkness and Light
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In some alternate universe, it is possible that I might actually be J.K Rowling and own all her stuff. But that is some other universe and hence not this one and ergo, I am not and do not. So quiet and don\'t sue me.
Nix.
***********************************************************************************
Of Darkness and Light
Chapter 1
It is strange how apathy can become the driving force in a life. By nature, it should not be able to, in the act of caring for nothing, one should not be able find a way of living. And yet, somehow, I appear to. Or maybe I don’t really live. I wouldn’t call sitting here, doing this, living a life. I feel that my life is…stalled and on hold. I have forgotten what it feels like.
I find it amazing that I can hide it. Hide these feelings, I mean. It’s like being in a play. There’s all the colour and glitter and activity of it all, yet everyone is wearing a mask, everyone is acting a role. And I have perfected my role over the years. I am the person I created, down to the last little detail. And everyone believes that charade. I’m not one of those distasteful people who complain avidly that they are wearing a mask that prevents their true selves “shining out.” Yes, some of them actually use that term. What I have is a perception problem. And I’m sel self analytical.
But I hate it. I hate this lack of realisation in my life. I hate the lack of a future that I can make my very own, the lack of a world in which I can do anything. I hate bloody arms at arms length and I hate that no one else but me can possibly understand the impact this has on me.
The closest I get to my old self, is when I’m flying. My demons can’t catch up with me when I go fast. It almost makes me smile properly. I think demons really do exist. A type of invisible dementor that can lodge in your head and sap all the goodness out of a life, out of a soul, that kind of thing. I think this stuff I feel is so… real for me that it has taken on a form and it torments me... It stalks around my head, sowing conflicting notions in me, reaping the ensuing despair that makes me want to tear myself and everyone else apart into pieces.
There are moments when I struggle out of myself, when I wearily climb the slope of normality back to my vacant brain and I possess it for a while. And every time it gets harder. And every time I take control, I reign for briefer and briefer moments before it comes over me again like a great black tide, a darkness so cloying that it chokes me. And I drown in myself, once again.
In a secluded corner of Hogwarts, sitting uncomfortably on a rough stone windowsill and looking out at the night-shrouded gardens, the sleeves of his rough black jumper pulled up to the elbows and his face hidden in shadow, was a boy. It was raining outside and he was watching it, the abundance of falling water droplets entirely unlike his own smooth cheeks. The leaded windowpanes and old glass made the world viewed through thistoistorted and he tilted his head, a smile twisting his lips as he watched the moving madness outside.
A drop of red, red blood slid down his arm.
The boy turned his head at the tickling sensation and watched as it moved over the bones of his left wrist and down his index finger, where it formed a bigger and bigger drop, then fell. Again, the smile twisted his lips as he raised the blade and inspected the edge carefully, noting the play of light on the sharp surface.
Then he placed two fingers either side of the cut on his arm and stretched the skin, pulling it apart. Taking aim carefully, he placed the tip of his knife into the wound and pressed lightly, dragging it along. A slight gasp of pain echoed in the otherwise silent room, and he closed his eyes for a moment, pressing harder, slicing deeper.
This time it bled some more. It didn’t clot up after a while, this time. He watched it dry slightly on his skin, and rubbed the cut angrily, agitating it, drawing more blood and smearing his skin red. Redredred. It was amazing how red it looked, even in the darkness, like it was somehow glowing. It glowed almost as much as the edge of his blade.
He smiled in the darkness and, after carefully pulling the sleeve of his jumper back down, went to sleep.
In some alternate universe, it is possible that I might actually be J.K Rowling and own all her stuff. But that is some other universe and hence not this one and ergo, I am not and do not. So quiet and don\'t sue me.
Nix.
***********************************************************************************
Of Darkness and Light
Chapter 1
It is strange how apathy can become the driving force in a life. By nature, it should not be able to, in the act of caring for nothing, one should not be able find a way of living. And yet, somehow, I appear to. Or maybe I don’t really live. I wouldn’t call sitting here, doing this, living a life. I feel that my life is…stalled and on hold. I have forgotten what it feels like.
I find it amazing that I can hide it. Hide these feelings, I mean. It’s like being in a play. There’s all the colour and glitter and activity of it all, yet everyone is wearing a mask, everyone is acting a role. And I have perfected my role over the years. I am the person I created, down to the last little detail. And everyone believes that charade. I’m not one of those distasteful people who complain avidly that they are wearing a mask that prevents their true selves “shining out.” Yes, some of them actually use that term. What I have is a perception problem. And I’m sel self analytical.
But I hate it. I hate this lack of realisation in my life. I hate the lack of a future that I can make my very own, the lack of a world in which I can do anything. I hate bloody arms at arms length and I hate that no one else but me can possibly understand the impact this has on me.
The closest I get to my old self, is when I’m flying. My demons can’t catch up with me when I go fast. It almost makes me smile properly. I think demons really do exist. A type of invisible dementor that can lodge in your head and sap all the goodness out of a life, out of a soul, that kind of thing. I think this stuff I feel is so… real for me that it has taken on a form and it torments me... It stalks around my head, sowing conflicting notions in me, reaping the ensuing despair that makes me want to tear myself and everyone else apart into pieces.
There are moments when I struggle out of myself, when I wearily climb the slope of normality back to my vacant brain and I possess it for a while. And every time it gets harder. And every time I take control, I reign for briefer and briefer moments before it comes over me again like a great black tide, a darkness so cloying that it chokes me. And I drown in myself, once again.
In a secluded corner of Hogwarts, sitting uncomfortably on a rough stone windowsill and looking out at the night-shrouded gardens, the sleeves of his rough black jumper pulled up to the elbows and his face hidden in shadow, was a boy. It was raining outside and he was watching it, the abundance of falling water droplets entirely unlike his own smooth cheeks. The leaded windowpanes and old glass made the world viewed through thistoistorted and he tilted his head, a smile twisting his lips as he watched the moving madness outside.
A drop of red, red blood slid down his arm.
The boy turned his head at the tickling sensation and watched as it moved over the bones of his left wrist and down his index finger, where it formed a bigger and bigger drop, then fell. Again, the smile twisted his lips as he raised the blade and inspected the edge carefully, noting the play of light on the sharp surface.
Then he placed two fingers either side of the cut on his arm and stretched the skin, pulling it apart. Taking aim carefully, he placed the tip of his knife into the wound and pressed lightly, dragging it along. A slight gasp of pain echoed in the otherwise silent room, and he closed his eyes for a moment, pressing harder, slicing deeper.
This time it bled some more. It didn’t clot up after a while, this time. He watched it dry slightly on his skin, and rubbed the cut angrily, agitating it, drawing more blood and smearing his skin red. Redredred. It was amazing how red it looked, even in the darkness, like it was somehow glowing. It glowed almost as much as the edge of his blade.
He smiled in the darkness and, after carefully pulling the sleeve of his jumper back down, went to sleep.