Avada Kedavra

They say you look just like your father. It seems that way from all the pictures but you wouldn’t know. Not really. You don’t remember your father.

Sometimes you wish you were dead just like him. You’re not suicidal, just lonely. That’s normal you tell yourself. You’re normal. Then it feels better. Not really.

No one understands. You never wanted this life. You never wished for it to be this way. All those times in the cupboard were just make believe, pretend. You never really wanted it and no one understands that. Except your knife. It always understands. At least, when you make it.

You could go on and on about the feel of cool metal slicing into your skin, but you don’t because it scares you. It scares you how much you like it. It scares you that you do it, that you keep on doing it. That you keep on flashing your wrist to no one in particular hoping someone will ask. Maybe hoping someone will figure it out. Maybe hoping someone will understand.

And it’s not normal to feel this way. You know that. You just want to feel okay like everybody else. Maybe even happy. Sometimes you don’t think it’s possible.

Ron kissed you once. Then he said he loved you. Neither of you ever mentioned it again. You weren’t supposed to. But you’d thought about it. You’d cried about it. You knew then that that was all you really wanted, all you ever really wanted. And for a moment, you felt good. Every moment that you think about it you feel good.

S you live in the memories. Sometimes of Ron, sometimes the made up ones of Mum and Dad, sometimes just of a cupboard when things were simple. You like to stay in those memories because you’re running. You know that. It’s a conscious decision because there’s nothing for you in the real world. Nothing for you except thin red eyes and two words to end it all.