Dwindling Pieces

Disintegration

Part 2

I wonder, as I watch you thrash wildly against the restraints, if this is what I wanted in finding you again. There are innumerable amounts of doctors, observers, nurses streaming through the Manor day in and day out, recording your behavior, your heart rate, a million and one things that shouldn't matter. I've decided that I'll kick them all out today or press serious charges against the Ministry for not allowing any of us our privacy. My wife's daughter wails when she sees the men in white robes pass, and I cannot do anything but grit my teeth as Wilone tries in vain to quiet the girl.

The doctors tighten the last of the restraints on the bed, and you lie still as I approach. I dismiss the doctors, and I can tell they already knew they aren't wanted here. They scurry out of the room, taking equipment with them as I lean down towards you.

"You should know," I say slowly, "that this is the time you take to sleep. After three weeks, Potter, you should recognize your 'nap time' when it rolls around."

I don't know what I'm trying to achieve by talking to you. Something about you being here makes me feel like my old self, the arrogant brat from Hogwarts. I feel threatened by you, although I know I shouldn't.

Your eyes roam over me, up and down my body, but then you look away, distant, mumbling things that are unintelligible. I'm only grateful that your appearance has improved; your hair is cut, and I've bought you new clothes. I'm also thankful that it was not I who was the one to wrestle you into the water to bathe you. I've heard that you put up quite a struggle; I wouldn't know, as I had been at work at the time, trying to keep as much of my life in order as I possibly could.

But it is the weekend again, and I leave you in the room I've given you, closing the door behind me. I pause and lean against the door, and I can hear you thrashing again. I sigh and begin making my way to the drawing room. If I am correct, there is someone there for me, and I cannot keep her waiting.

I recount the past three weeks as I make my way down the stairs, thinking about my interactions with you. When I've been at home, I've constantly been called into your room. I would far prefer to be in my study, working on the cases I have to deal with, but it seems to always have been urgent that I come to you. The doctors have always required my presence, as it seems to calm you down when I'm near. I can't deny it, though I would much prefer to think of it as a coincident; you settle down when I'm there, even if you don't listen to what they tell me to say to you.

Occasionally you'll look at me, and your eyes will widen like they had the first day I saw you in the room with the glass wall. But as soon as you've seen me, you look away, and every time it puzzles me. Maybe you don't actually see me, but instead see something of the otherworld you live in.

However, against all rational thought, I hope you feel guilty. I want you to know my life was broken when you left me, and that I think you deserve whatever happened to you. I want you to see through my gaze and know that I have been angry with you all this time.

Because, how could you tell me "You're mine" and then leave me the very next day?

I slide the door to the drawing room open, unsurprised to see Hermione curled up on her favorite couch. She's biting her lip, holding a mug of what must be steamed milk, and staring at nothing.

She must be thinking about you, I tell myself. She never drinks steamed milk unless she's thinking about you. It's an odd habit she's picked up, one that started ten years ago.

I close the door gently, and I make my way over to the armchair opposite her, sliding the piles of paper work off the chair and onto the floor. I sit down, leaning my head against the back of the chair and wait for Hermione to realize I'm here. She takes a moment to shake herself out of her thoughts, but then smiles and takes a sip from her mug. She places it on the coffee table.

"I was thinking," Hermione starts, as she resumes her position against the pillows of the couch.

"About Potter." I finish, staring at her as she frowns.

"His name's Harry, Draco. No one else is here to hear you call him by his name."

"You know very well I can't call him that, Hermione. He never let me call him that when we were together."

Hermione's gaze softens, and she reaches out to grasp my arm. Had I known, years ago, that I would be 'friendly' with Hermione now, I would have hanged myself. But our work together has helped us breach my prejudice and our childhood enmity. I don't think she expected us to be friends, but she always did her best to accept and understand me, though it took me much longer to mimic her efforts.

"Do you still love him?"

My eyes widen, and I want to pull my arm away from her, but Hermione holds on insistently, her eyes searching mine. I don't respond, because I don't know what to say; I wanted you when we were together, and I remember believing that I loved you, though it may have been lust. I've dreamt about you all these years afterwards, and I remember what I felt all long ago when I'm around you now. But the anger and hurt and satisfaction in seeing you in pain are powerful and undeniable. My loathing and my pride seem to have returned to me a hundred fold, and now I don't even want to touch you, don't want to see you. You have been the cause of my pain, and you deserve what you feel now.

But even if I was sure that I love you, what would that mean for Wilone? She is my wife, and I am legally bound to her. It is evident that I despise her, though I try to treat her as best I can. I've pampered her, I've provided for her, and even though her company is not usually welcome, she has filled that void when I've needed her to. I cannot simply abandon her like you abandoned me; despite popular belief, a Malfoy does not throw his wife to the dogs. Mice, possibly, in the dungeons, but not the dogs, because there is no doubt that those Prophet hounds will be at her the second they hear of it.

I stay silent, and Hermione gives up, murmuring an apology.

"Weasley still doesn't know, does he?" I venture, unable to look her in the eye.

Hermione shakes her head, letting go of my arm and falling against the cushions again.

"I know you didn't want us to know that you and Harry had a relationship, and when I did find out, I respected your wish that Ron not know. But you know I've always felt guilty, and with Harry here now, I think Ron's beginning to be suspicious."

I snort, closing my eyes. "You mean to say that Weasley isn't as thick as I thought he was?"

I am not happy to find a pillow has been thrown at my face, and I open my eyes and glower at Hermione. She mock glares back, her hands on her hips.

"You deserved it. You know you shouldn't say such things about Ron."

I roll my eyes, and I'm about to retort when an ear-piercing scream picks up, causing both Hermione and I to look towards the door. I groan as the screaming continues, louder and more desperate, and Hermione turns to me in shock.

"Do you not care that Rene is crying?"

I shrug, shaking my head. "She's not my daughter; she's simply an annoyance."

Hermione knows me well enough to not respond, but I know she's repulsed with my lack of commitment. She's never approved of Wilone, but she has expressed to me before her views on my lack of being a proper father.

It reminds me of something, and it amazes me that I dare bring it up now.

"Hermione," I begin tentatively, "why haven't you and Weasley tried to have children again?"

Hermione has always adored Rene, if not children in general. It still amazes me that at twenty-seven, Hermione and Weasley have yet to have a single child. Undoubtedly they have tried, but after their first failed attempt, they have never mentioned having children again. That's why I was hesitant to bring it up; Hermione was still emotional about the whole ordeal.

As I look to her, Hermione's eyes glaze over, her expression becoming distant again as she looks at some place above my head. Her body is limp against the couch, and I can see in her posture that she has become exhausted. I feel guilty for having brought the subject up, and I'm about to speak up when she responds.

"When Ron and I lost our baby at birth," she begins, her voice hoarse, "I think he was more terrified than I was. It wasn't too long afterward that I wanted to try again; I wanted a child of my own, one that he and I could raise and teach and love." She sighs wistfully before her gaze snaps back to me.

"But Ron couldn't. He said that he had lost enough in his life time, and that he didn't want to risk losing any one again. He had lost two of his brothers during the war; he had lost his father to an accident at the Ministry; he had lost Harry when the war ended, and after losing our first child, he couldn't go on.

"Ron told me, that if he were to ever try again, it'd be once he was ready. I knew what that meant, and I was afraid that that time would never come. But it has now, and I think he'll be ready to try again."

I gape, openly surprised at Weasley's selfishness and inconsideration for his wife.

"You mean," I say, trying to even out my anger, "that he wouldn't have a child with you until he had Potter back."

Hermione nods, her eyes falling to her hands, which she holds limply in her lap.

"He must have believed - no, you must have believed - that Potter would come back."

Hermione takes a deep breath, her shoulders sagging.

"Did I have a choice?"

I get up and take a single stride to her couch, falling to my knees in front of her to hold her hands.

"You always have a choice; you of all people should know that, Hermione."

She smiles weakly, lifting her head a fraction to look at me.

"Even the smart, the strong and the confident people need reassurance, Draco. You of all people should know that."

I look away, and she sighs again.

"It doesn't mean I've not tried to trick him into making a mistake or, you know. But every attempt to sabatoge the protection always seems to fail. I guess we're just not meant to have children."

I chuckle at Hermione's daring, and I see from the corner of my eye that she's smiling too.

"Hey," she says, causing me to look up at her fully, "promise me you'll take care of Harry. You're our only hope, Draco, and you know he needs you. He always has."

I feel my brow knit in offense. "My word wasn't good once, was it?"

Hermione smiles and shakes her head. "That's why they call it reassurance."

I nod curtly and sit taller, my voice suddenly becoming more stern. "I'll take care of him, Hermione. I said I would, and Malfoy's do not go back on their word."

She tries searching my face, but I refuse to look her straight in the eye. My stomach feels knotted, like I am offended that she would doubt me. But I feel more angry at you, at what I have gotten myself into.

"It's okay to be angry, Draco," she says after a pause. I roll my eyes; I'm not a child, and I don't need her to be my mother. Her tone grows sharper, and my eyes snap toward her. "It's okay to be angry, but we don't know where Harry's been. We don't know what he's had to suffer, and you need to be there to support him, no matter how angry or defensive you feel right now."

"Even if you don't think you feel anything for him right now, Draco, I know that at a time he..."

Hermione trails off, and she sits watching me. I don't need to let her continue, and I sit in silence, thinking of the meaning behind her words. If she's known that you felt something for me at a time, why did you leave me when you did?

I give Hermione the best smile I can conjure, though I know it's small and sad. She smiles back, and it's identical to mine. My gratitude for her companionship is immeasurable, although I generally don't show it. She has been such a relief to me over the years, that I'm glad you told her of our involvement before you left. She came to me when you disappeared that morning, and she told me all that she had known. I certainly avoided her in the beginning, but then we both began working for the same firm and ended up being partnered together. Hermione's helped me over the years, and although I am glad she is always there, I hate knowing that I'll never be able to repay her.

Without warning, the door to the drawing room opens. I turn to look at the figure standing in the door way, slightly recoiling from the screaming that is starting up again.

"You," Wilone hisses, streaking toward us and grabbing Hermione's arms. She picks Hermione up off the couch and shoves her toward the door. I stand up as Hermione falls to the ground, and I clench Wilone's arm angrily, spinning her around to face me. I know Wilone sees my rage if she does not already feel it in my grip. Her eyes narrow.

"Tell Ms. Granger," Wilone says, her voice quiet, barely audible against the shrieking in the background, "to leave our house immediately."

I narrow my eyes at Wilone, then in turn at Hermione as Wilone continues rapidly.

"And tell her to take Mr. Potter with her. I don't want that madman in our house any longer; he scares Rene and you're with him far too much, nearly as much as you are with that woman. She's been here every day since you brought Mr. Potter to the Manor, and I'm sick of it."

My eyes slide to stare into Wilone's; they've darkened in her anger and they're muddy, a very unbecoming color. I sneer, looking her up and down, deciding she's not worth my time any more, ignoring my prior uncertainty toward her fate. I push her away and stride over to Hermione, lowering myself to offer her my hand. She takes it, and unsteadily pushes herself up. I wonder why she waited for me to come help her.

As Hermione straightens next to me, I hear Wilone growl. She points an furious finger at me, but I ignore it. I turn to the door as I hear the screaming grow nearer. I wonder how the child could have even gotten out of her cot, if that is where Wilone left her - she wouldn't have been stupid enough to leave her daughter simply anywhere. However, Wilone's threatening tone causes me to snap back to her attention.

"I've taken your abuse, darling; I've taken it for the past five years, and I've had enough of it. You've left me in the dark, and you force me outside so that you don't have to face me every morning."

I suddenly feel as if a dull nail is being forced down my throat and through my system as I try to form coherent words. I do not understand why her realization surprises me; perhaps I have thought too little of her intelligence all this time.

"I know exactly what you've been playing at for years. You've never loved me, and you've never loved our daughter. I don't even know how I convinced you that we should have a child. But I convinced myself that if I held on, that you would one day see me, and that one day you'd want me instead of simply use me."

Wilone sneers, looking me up and down in disgust. The screaming continues in the background. "But I've seen the way you look at him; it's the way you should be looking at me. You hold him in your gaze and you worship every inch of him, staring at him for hours and hours as if he were a museum artifact.

"But he's about to break, and if you touch him, you know he'll fall to pieces. Is that what you want? Do you want to stoop down and put together the fragments of a broken man? Because if you do, I'm leaving; I'll have nothing to do with this anymore."

A hint of doubt creeps into me, twisting around in my stomach. It feels as if it should be a simple choice to make. My wife is my shadow, and she knows me down to every last detail. Wilone knows very well that I hate breaking routine; I know she wouldn't have presented me with this decision without using the fact against me. Even though she never attended Hogwarts, she is a Slytherin through and through.

With that thought, I see the answer now, and I have to laugh at myself for being blind. It's simple, and I look up at her, keeping my expression neutral as I walk over to her with my hands held behind my back. The shrieking still continues, but Wilone now smirks, her head rising in her victory. I feel Hermione gasp, but I address Wilone before Hermione can interrupt.

"Wilone, do you not see how easy of a decision you've presented me? It has all become a simple choice between my lover and my companion, and it is very clear to me whom I would choose."

"Your lover," Wilone breathes.

"My lover, you see, would understand why I would leave them, seeing as said person loves me and wants the best for me. My companion, on the other hand, would grow loathsome, jealous and demand that I remind myself who is important to me."

Wilone's smile fades as I continue, and I know that I've confused her.

"And from the two options, I would choose to be with the person who is most prepared for me to leave."

I step forward, and I lean forward, my lips a bare fraction away from her forehead.

"And now," I breathe, as I feel Wilone inch forward. But I pull back before she takes the chance to touch me, "I bid you adieu."

Wilone's victorious smile is gone, replaced with a vulgar grimace, and her skin is a sheet of white starch. I keep telling myself that it is a simple decision, but the doubt is rising in my stomach, and the twists become vicious. My momentary surety is gone as quickly as it had come, and I have to tell myself that I will not let her manipulate me any longer, and that she may leave if she doesn't like what I'm doing. But I don't like what I'm doing either, and I already fear that my choice may not have been the right one.

She knows not to throw herself at me. I wouldn't welcome her into my arms, for I never have in the past. Her hands are gripping the sides of her dress, and in one decisive moment she breaks eye contact and walks away, side stepping me as she makes her way to the door.

I watch her stop at the door, and I narrow my eyes, wondering why she pauses. I look around at Hermione, and I see that her eyes are wide, her mouth parted slightly in surprise. She glances at me, quickly mouthing "Rene". I realize now that the screaming has stopped - Rene must have fallen asleep while I was dismissing Wilone.

I begin mouthing back to Hermione, asking her what she think has happened, when I hear the drawing room door slide open, and Wilone screeches. The sound is sudden and piercing, and I shudder, turning to see what is going on.

With a jolt, I feel like I'm being hit with the Cruciatus Curse, as my skin seems to peel away and leave me exposed, allowing a million shards of obsidian to slice in and through me. It feels like something's eating me from the inside and forcing its way out, painfully tearing my heart from its place and shredding it with its incisors. Hot lava begins to fill my head and when I try to move I feel as if there are lead weights in my fingers and my feet, forcing me to stay in place.

You're standing there with Rene in your arms. She's sleeping and your face is bleeding; she must have scratched you. Wilone stares at you, unmoving, her mouth open as her scream dies on her lips. Her eyes are wide in fear, but you don't see her. Your arms are holding Rene so close to your chest that the girl might not be able to breathe and I am enraged; you wouldn't want to be anywhere near the girl if you knew who she was. I watch as you look down at her and your eyes clear, and I suddenly feel everything in me explode.

I begin walking toward you - you're not supposed to look at any one like that; you're not supposed to see any one but me. No one should not be looked at like that, especially someone as spoiled and impure as Rene. I want to rip her from your arms and make you look at me, make you see me.

But Wilone realizes what's going on, and her eyes narrow in anger. She sees that it is her daughter there in your arms, and she steals Rene from you. She doesn't look back at any of us as she glides out the room, and the last thing I see are her skirts flowing out the doorway.

I try to stand my ground and look incensed, look furious, but there is a rope around me that is drawing me toward you. I despite my rage, I cannot help but look to you, hoping that you'll look at me now that Rene is gone. Hermione tries to hold me back but I draw closer to you, and I realize that you're searching the room for something. Quickly your eyes wander in the direction Wilone and Rene went, and your eyes grow dark again. However, it is not the same darkness of confusion and blindness that covered your eyes when I first saw you. It's something else and I shudder because I know that look very well. It is the same look that my father gave me when I refused to kill an innocent; it is the look I imagine my mother would have given me when I killed my father. It's the look I would have given you had I seen you tenyears ago, if you had told me that you were leaving. It's the look you're giving Rene now, though I don't understand why.

It's the look of betrayal.

*

I finish tying down the restraints, my gaze skimming over your body as you lay quietly on the bed. I wonder why you haven't put up a struggle, why you let me carry you up. It's not that I wanted to carry you; I would have been fine casting a mobilicorpus, but Hermione insisted that magic use would have caused a tip on the balance. In other words, you would have gone stark mad. But you are already.

I watch you as your eyes slide over to look out the window. They're lighter than they have been since I brought you to the Manor. I wonder what has brought about such a change. You don't mumble any more, and though I'm grateful for the quiet, I don't understand what's going on. I hate it when I don't understand what's going on.

I hate being left alone again. Granted, I dismissed Wilone, but being left without another half is a stage I've been trying to avoid. I shake my head in disgust as I sit on the armchair beside your bed. You stole my independence when we were younger, robbing it from me much like how a beggar would steal bread from my basket when I'm not looking. Undeserving filth. But unlike the beggar, you stole something from me that I'll never be able to replace; something that I don't want to try replacing.

It confuses me, and I run a hand through my hair. I'm not supposed to feel regret for letting Wilone leave. I'm not supposed to feel lost. I feel like there's a glimmer of sand far away, a sudden hope for dry land filling me, but I find that it's only the sun playing off the ocean that I'm surrounded by. I want to let that water wash over me and pull me down. I need to rest and let it take over my senses and simply let me float to my destruction.

I feel helpless. Malfoys aren't supposed to feel helpless.

I rub the heel of my palms into my eyes, willing away the headache that threatens to torture me. I already have enough here that tortures me, namely you, and I don't need any more.

I open my eyes to find you slowly closing yours. Your chest rises and falls slowly. In the fading light that shines through the open windows, your face is peaceful and you seem...real. You're more than real, though; you look like you've been here all these years, like you belong in the world that you left behind.

You're almost normal while you sleep. It's the first time I've seen you sleep, and you're almost sane in my mind while my gaze memorizes the details of your face. I forgot that there's a small freckle behind your right ear, but now that I see it I remember how I used to sit behind you and lick at that spot, reveling in the triumph of hearing a moan escape your lips.

But I torment myself by recalling the way you made me feel, and I try to block it all out. You shift in your sleep, exposing the back of your neck, and I feel like I'm drowning again, feeling helpless. My arms are aching the way they had back at the Ministry on the day that they found you, and I feel myself slide off the armchair and onto my knees before your bed.

No one else is here, I tell myself. No one will know except myself, and even if you did wake up you wouldn't understand what's going on. I need this, I remind myself, I need a solace of sorts, and if touching you will bring that about then I have a justified reason.

My fingers stretch out to touch your skin, gliding above the area that I long to touch. But I hesitate, and when I hear a bird screech out side the window I jump back, falling back on the floor. I find that my breathing is rapid and I shake my head, allowing my fingernails to bite into my palms in my anger. What am I doing, trying to touch you? No reason is justified enough for me to think I can touch you.

I start when I hear the door open and I curse myself for being caught on the floor. Malfoys are not found on the floor and they are not found by your bedside. I should be standing a considerable distance away and observing you in your state. I should be sneering at you; I shouldn't feel helpless enough to want to touch you.

I shouldn't be here at all.

"Malfoy."

I groan inwardly, shooting a glare over my shoulder as I stand up. I do not turn to face him as the light dwindles.

"Yes, Weasley?"

"He's alright."

I furrow my brow at the statement and take a step to turn around. I'm not surprised to see that he's let himself in and I frown. I would have thought he had addressed it as a question, not as a fact. Something strikes me as pathetic as I see him standing there; more so than I have ever had the opportunity of witnessing.

"I presume you mean Potter, Weasley. Yes, he -"

Weasley grimaces. "Don't look at me that way, Malfoy. It makes it look like you're constipated."

"Resorting to childish remarks, are we? Things don't seem to change during the course ten years, do they, Weasley? Your immaturity is a perfect example of that."

Weasley doesn't even flinch, and I have to admire his self control as he takes several breaths. Not admire; more like anticipate his next blow. He's silent for a time, and I want to tell him to leave the room, but he speaks up.

"Hermione wants to know how he got out."

"How is 'he un-strapped himself' for an answer?"

"Improbable."

"Ah...But it is the truth."

Weasley frowns. "He's not...capable of doing that, Malfoy."

I wonder why he won't call you by your name.

"But he did."

He pauses. "I can tell by your short answers that you don't want me here."

"How very wise of you."

"Well I don't like being here either."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because..."

I wait.

"I have to tell you something."

I still wait.

"Malfoy, I hate you."

I roll my eyes. "Merlin, that's it? I though you were going to confess your sordid love affair with my wife. Ex-wife, actually."

Weasley scowls, but continues as if he hasn't heard me.

"I hate you, but I know that you're the only one who can help him."

I look quizzically at Weasley, tilting my head. I again wonder why he doesn't address you by your given name, but I let the matter slide. I don't know what he's playing at, and I want to be ready to throw what I can back at him.

But he turns around and opens the bedroom door, looking back briefly.

"I know you'll take care of him."

I cross my arms, annoyed. "I do believe that's what I said I would do."

Weasley has the audacity to shake his head. "I don't care what you said to the rest of us, or what you said to Hermione. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't heard it from him." He looks pointedly behind my shoulder and I resist the urge to look at your sleeping figure.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Weasley."

I want to rip that head off his neck; he won't stop shaking it.

"Just...make him better, Malfoy."

I gape after Weasley as he closes the door with a soft click, and I want to yell after him and remind him that that's not my job. I'm not your best friend, and I'm not your nanny. I'm not supposed to watch you like the baby-sister watches the toddler, and I don't want to be stuck with you. I might start feeling helpless again.

The silence is eerie now. I start to wonder why Weasley believes that I'll take care of you. The tone of his voice mortifies me; it is as if I am to care for you with affection. Almost like he knows we were once together. But I don't know where he bases this belief. I won't go searching for the evidence either.

I sigh. Today has been hell to get through. It has been nearly as bad as the first day you returned. I don't know exactly how you got out, but seeing your bedroom in the condition it was when I brought you back up, I can only reason that you had un-strapped yourself and walked out of the room. But that's impossible, just as Weasley said. It might be possible that Rene got you out, but she was supposed to have been in her cot.

I slump back down into the armchair by your bed. I don't want to think any more. I've given up enough things for the past several weeks that I don't need to give up my sanity now. I feel drained and there's nothing in the world that could possibly give me the drive to stand up and walk out of the room.

There's a rustling of sheets, and I figure that you're uncomfortable. You continue to move, and I start to grow uneasy; you were silent before, maybe something's going wrong. Maybe I should make sure you're alright.

But my head's too heavy to lift and I sigh again. I wish the light of day would fade now and let me rest. Maybe sleep will take away the weariness.

The moving stops and I'm almost relieved. But I hear feet falling to the ground, and my head shoots up while my eyes widen in shock. I want to back up and disillusion myself so that you, standing there, won't see me, that you'll simply walk past me. But your eyes are focused on mine and they're green; real green, like grass and emeralds and envy.

The sheets disentangle themselves from your legs as you take an unsteady step towards me. I was right; you some how are able to loosen the restraints on your bed. If I had been thinking I would have remembered to lock them with magic, but it seems this day and night are not times for thinking.

I want to speak to you and warn you to stay away from me, but if I speak you will not hear. If I speak it might upset you, and I can't have a madman loose and displeased.

You're nearing and I grip the sides of the chair. Why aren't you distracted like you have been all the other times before? You've been calm lately, but this isn't natural, this isn't right. You're being normal, like you've been alive all this time.

I push myself further into the back of the armchair. Why is it that I am the one who is left alone? Why is it that I am the one who is tortured? Why are you here and why are you so alive?

You're standing in front of me now. Why can't you be strapped in the bed? You're making me feel weak and helpless again. It's like the way you made me feel when we were younger.

Your hand is reaching out. I'm trying to pull away, but you're moving slowly and I can't back away any farther.

I bite my lip and shut my eyes. I'm so weak; my father would have killed me if he had ever seen me this way.

Rough fingertips scrape the side of my cheek. I flinch, and the sting is painful enough to bleed. The touch slides down my neck, scratching me. It's agony to sit here and not stop you. You shouldn't touch me; I didn't tell you that you were allowed to. But you wouldn't hear my warnings, and you wouldn't hear my pleas. I just want this to end.

There's a sound, and it sounds like gravel when carriages are driven over it. It's just as excruciating as your hand on my face, and I can feel the pain seep through me. My chest is blindingly hot and it's agonizing. I open my eyes to see a blurry smudge of black against the fading light behind you.

The sound is there again, and it tears through me. I haven't heard you speak in years. I haven't heard you say that for eternity.

"Mine."

Maybe I'll let myself be helpless, if you say it once again.