Cuts

CUTS

It started as one fine slice dragged across sun kissed skin. Soon the slices began to take the shape of letters, and one by one initials were carved into the delicate skin of the boy who lived. The first set of initials were those of his mother and father, and then after those he added he added his godfather's name to the living, bleeding memorial. As the war raged on, he watched as friends, professors, and lovers fall into the blackness that was death. Each time one fell he would pull out the sliver edged razor and preserve them forever into his skin. After two years, there was almost no room left on his arms or legs. He wore long robes to cover the scars, even though there was no one left to even care about the cuts he made. Those that would have cared died long ago. The first to fall, all because they had dared to love him. It was this knowledge that drove him to slice their initials into his skin. He was the reason they had fallen, and he made sure he had a permanent reminder of their sacrifice. It was etched into his skin, bled into his cells, and the pain was his punishment for still being alive. There were many times he had tried to end it. He would hold the blade close to his wrist and pray for the courage to plunge it into the useless vein that gave him life. He would always stop right when the first drops of blood would appear, for the first set of initials he had carved had been on his wrist and he could not bring himself to cut in half those he had loved. Maybe he was just a coward or maybe it was simply that if he still lived so did they. They were forever remembered on his body, while he breathed and moved they expanded and flowed with him. Every movement, every breath they were with him, so close that that he could never lose them ever again. He was the one left to bear their names, and carry their memories. So the boy, who lived, lived on until his flesh was nothing more than a slate of dead names. In the end it was a pale skinned, blonde headed boy that killed him. His last lover, they boy that would betray him. His betrayal was the worst, for Draco had promised that he would never leave him, but Draco ended up like all the others, dead, and he knew then that a hero could not be a hero if he had no one left to save. So the boy who had once lived took out his blade one last time. He found a spot he had reserved on his body just for Draco, and he began to carve the last set initials right under his heart. When the blood had dried and he could trace the letters D and M with his fingertips he knew that the time had come for him to end it. All alone he whispered a spell that cracked open all the once healed scars. As his blood poured from the thousands of letters that decorated his skin, he watched as the dead rose from his wounds and gathered around his bleeding body. In his living they had been tied to him, now in his death they were finally free. With his last breath, he whispered he was sorry, and all the cuts and memories that had haunted him vanished from his mind and body. As he looked into the crowd, he saw the living, breathing tear stained faces of all those he had loved. As he floated away from his now mark free body, he saw the same set of initials carved into the wrist of all those he had known. The initials were H.P. For the boy who had lived had been dead all along.