Loss of Control

Prologue

She was perched upon the highest point that she could find. Feeling the wind whip through her being, she was enveloped in a strange calm that she hadn't felt in many years. She thought back to the last time that she had been truly happy. Thinking, she knew it was three years ago, during her fourth year. The three of them had been so happy and carefree; the only worry in their minds was how well Harry would perform in his final task. But things could change so much in three years, they had changed so much over only the past few months. And now here she was, alone and miserable in her final year at what she once saw as her home - her sanctuary - atop the lonely Astronomy Tower.

She shivered in the wind, her robe long since discarded during her ascent to the tower. It was late May, and she did not wear a sweater. The breeze ripped at the buttons fastening her blouse, the sleeves rippling around her wrists. Softly, she began to stoke the forearm of her left arm and traced delicate patterns across the milky white material.

Slowly rolling up the cloth of her sleeves, she continued to caress the broken skin on her arm. Smiling reminiscently, she gazed down at the marred surface a smile playing across her lips. She could see the imprint of every scar, all of the delicate white rivers that wound their way up her arm, bending and twisting, interconnected. She switched arms, and began following the patterns - so similar - on her opposite arm. So much fresher they were in her memory, the crust of red still there, few having faded away to white slivers of skin. She traced the bloody rivers up her arm, and grazed her fingers across the black mark that looked seemingly like their source. She idly traced around the edges of the image, a small chuckle escaping her lips. It bubbled out from her, crazed, high pitched, and was soaked up by the night.

Her eyes glittered, and she brought her fingers down, pressing the nails deeply into her flesh, dragging them down her arm. They could not cut her, but behind them was left a bright pink trail. The faint tingle of the pain barely registered in her mind, it had so long been void of all emotion. She smiled in sadistic pleasure as she saw the not yet healed markings begin to bleed anew. Pressing a finger up against the pool that formed just below the haunting black mark, she watched in fascination as the red trickles blossomed out across her finger, filling the small crevasses of her finger print. But then the beauty of it was gone, as more blood trickled forth coating her finger in its substance. Rubbing two fingers together, the metallic fluid drying, and was rolled into tiny balls, brushed from her fingers.

Again she began to trace the patterns on her left arm, remembering the story behind every cut. Like a fond childhood memory, she could recall each detail that coincided with every alteration she made to her flesh. And they all culminated in the blackness on her other arm. The still red marks were just the beginning of a new chapter.

She slowly moved her finger across the smallest of all the cuts, just to the left on the inside of her wrist. Barely three centimeters long, she smiled at the memory of the first time she indulged herself in the twisted pleasures that had so easily wound their way into her everyday life. It seemed only yesterday that she had so hesitantly held the trembling piece of metal above her flesh. She could still remember the euphoria of bliss that coursed through her body the first time she felt the blade slice through her skin. With a smirk, she remembered the way she had been mortified at her actions only a few seconds later.

What a long way she had come since that very first day. As much as it seemed only like yesterday, it also felt as if it had happened ages ago, not only just six months prior. Staring wistfully off into the cloud shrouded sky; she continued her loving strokes of her arm.