Trails Of Blood

Trails Of Blood

We've all heard the muggle saying: "better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all", right? I am sure we all have.

Well I am here to tell you what a load of utter crap that is. Whoever said it should be drawn, quartered, sliced, diced, puréed, boiled, and any other type of torture my drunken brain can think up. Cause he ain't ever had to go through it. If he did he probably would be exactly where I am now.

Drunk. Drunk and alone.

I hate my life. I hate myself. And most of all I hate that it is my entire fault. Everything that is wrong in my miserable life stems from me. ME, ME, ME!

All Hail The Bloody Boy Who Lived But Will Never Be Happy Cause He Is A Poncy Git!

Bow down before my holey stupidedness. I grunt to myself at that thought. I am stupid. What the hell had I been thinking! I knew my reasons and they had made sense at the time but now, now they were stupid. Just like me.

I lean my head back and take another swallow of the drink of choice for this little pity party I am throwing myself. Party of one. Party of one. Man, I am pathetic.

I winch as the dark brown liquid burns as it travels down my throat and don't even feel it as it hits my stomach mixing with the red, clear, and piss colored liquids that I have already consumed this night.

I had it all. Hell, I had it all twice!

The first time I had hurt him was not entirely my doing. He had had a say in that one but it had still taken months for us to be able to trust each other again. This time it was all me. I had everything that I thought I wanted in my life.

And I blew it.

Me and my big mouth. You would think that I would have learned to keep it shut, but no, I had to go and be the hero once again. To do what I thought was right instead of what I wanted to do. And I once again hurt the only one in my life to look past my fucking FOREHEAD!

With a shout of rage Harry jumped up and threw the bottle against the wall, watching as the liquor dripped down the wall and staring dispassionately at the glass all over the floor. He turned to stomp to the table where he had laid his wand down when he had stumbled home.

Before he could take two steps his knees gave out and he crashed to the floor. His body started to shake and the sounds coming from him were not recognizable as anything but the sounds of grief. Hard and strong they bounced off the walls back at him and doubled his grief. Harry struggled to breathe at the same time he struggled to keep in the sobs of despair that were being jerked from his body by an invisible hand.

The cold logical part of his mind asked him why he was crying. This is what he had wanted isn't?

Stop! Please! He begged the empty room, as the air seemed to leave it.

To hell with air

his mind screamed as the sobs racked his body. He wanted to die. Right then and there he wanted to end everything. He never wanted to relive that moment ever again. Nothing, there was nothing. He felt empty, drained, dead.

The pain on his lover's face when he had told him that it was over was excruciating. He had stared at him, not saying a word, but with that look that one look he had said everything. He never meant the hurt, the pain, that he had caused. He had accused him of seeing someone else but that wasn't it. Harry was sure that he had convinced him that there was never going to be anyone else for him but him.

But he couldn't live like that anymore; the fights, the not talking, the rather be at work instead of home, the 'open your mouth and speak to me and you will find my fist in your face' feeling that had overcome him in the last few days.

Slowly he could feel himself breaking. Piece by piece of him was breaking off and disappearing and nothing he could do would bring it back. He opened one eye and saw in front of him a piece of the bottle that he had thrown against the wall.

He saw his hand reach out to pick it up. He watched, as if from afar, as his hand grasped the piece of glass tightly. Watched as the blood flowed from between his fingers. Watched as it dripped and stained the carpet before him.

He stared at his hand, his blood, and the piece of glass. He wondered why he had it in his hand. He glanced around for help and the pain came crashing back in as he realized that there was no one there to help him. He had made sure of that.

He struggled to breathe, his vision fading in and out. He lifted his hand to bring it closer to his face. He watched as the blood now flowed down his arm. He followed the trails of blood made on his arm. He lifted his other arm and wondered if it too would have trails of blood. His brow furrowed when he saw that no, this arm had no trails of blood.

He made up his mind to fix that discrepancy why he was not sure but knew that he had to do it. The hand holding the glass moved towards the arm that was clean. He felt nothing as he made a swipe that resulted in a trail of blood down his arm. He was fascinated as the blood flowed down his arm, dripped from his elbow, and pooled at his knees.

He was stupid. He just couldn't leave well enough alone. Harry knew that he loved him but he also knew he was hurting him. That something was wrong with him and it was better this way, better for him. Now he could move on and find someone else to love him. Someone who would appreciate him. Love him. Be with him.

And not hate him.

Harry didn't hate him but he was terrified that he could and that terror made him tell him it was over. In his mind it was all logical. He did it so that he could be loved. So, that one day, Harry wouldn't come to hate him. Because hate was final. And Harry did not want it to come to that.

Harry took another swipe at his arm and watched as a trail of blood flowed with the other down his arm to come to rest in the pool at his knees. He felt nothing. And nothing was good. For if Harry felt nothing then maybe he could finish what he had started. If he was gone then he could grieve and then find someone else to give him that part of himself that Harry was unsure existed in him. He had been different ever since he had killed Voldemort.

Dirty, dead, cold.

Another swipe. Another trail. And another.

Still, he felt nothing. He knew that this was for the best. Finally the Boy Who Lived would be no more.

"Goodbye Draco," he whispered as he fell forward into the pool of blood, unconscious.