Me: Now, how's about an ending?
Me: You are so mean.
So... just the usual. Little bit of metaphysical philosophy, references to various mythological themes, blood consumption, self-mutilation, the eventual references to abuse... y'know. What you come to expect from my stories.
Oh, by the way... Winamp pulled Rose's "Waltz For the Moon' on this song... ^^;;;
Gloria in Excelsis Deo
When people describe themselves as being 'chilled to the bone' I wonder if they really understand the cold. Cold is not a feeling that penetrates to the bone. Cold is a feeling that prickles and dances on your skin, fleeting and momentary for hours on end. And while it dances, it sings in your ears and plays tricks with your eyes. But cold never goes beneath the surface. It is not strong enough to stab at your bones or gouge at your eyes or lull you into a killing sleep. It is time that does all of these things, time you spend out in the cold.
Nevertheless, I find myself glancing at my fingertips and thinking my bones have frozen into stiff icicles. I find myself cursing the cool stone of the school's every wall and the numerous drafty hallways I've been walking down again and again. I am the eternal hypocrite, he who knows he is wrong but does not care. Sometimes I wonder how I ever achieved the universal appearance of the glowing golden boy, since it is apathy that truly rules my heart now.
But the halls are so cold and I'm so tired; all I want is the comfort of an empty common room and a warm fire. I pull my robes tightly around me and walk faster, hoping this will ease the pain of the biting cold. It doesn't, but the false hopes do well to keep my spirits high.
How strange it is to walk these passages alone, without friends or foe, without people. They've all gone for holiday, gone to be with their dear families in joyous celebration. And, for once, I can actually muster the resentment to be jealous and angry. Angry with Ron and with Hermione, who both have the picture perfect families that I could have had. But don't. And it's at times like these, when the rest of the world realizes how blessed it is, that I am able to see how poor I am and how little I have to call my own.
In some silly parody of rage, I begin to run blindly down the hallways, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes and, to my great dismay, trickling great and wet down the flesh of my cheeks. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair! I don't understand, not at all. Why me? Why not choose some other child to be so famous, to be so great, to be the one who lived?
But no... no, the Fates choose blindly and spin the tapestries of our lives without second thought of what we are and what we will be living. They spin the tapestries and weave the great stories, later expecting us to trudge behind picking the pieces and feeling the distress.
I hate being alone. I hate being frightened. I hate crying. And I hate being lost, which is the point at which I have found myself to be currently. I am in a part of the castle I don't recognize; the portraits on the walls are giving me looks of disdain from down their haughty noses, and it is making me feel uncomfortable. I think some of them can see straight through my robes; I suddenly feel strangely naked beneath all my layers of winter clothing. Still others, I'm afraid, can see through my skin, can glean my most personal thoughts and desires from only a glance. I am so unnerved by this that I hug myself in futile protection and tread lightly and quickly along the stone passages. Except…
Except I don't know where I'm going and this fact slows my progress tremendously. My eyes pour over every hallway, every crevasse in every stone, looking for a way out, for a route that I recognize. But all in vain. All in vain, so I take a timid step around the corner closest to me, blindly hoping it will lead me to some clues.
Another dark, cold corridor. In abject frustration, I give a bleating cry and swing my hand to beat senselessly against the solid rock of the walls. My knuckles connect solidly with an audible 'crack!' that echoes in my angry ears. I am breathing hard, my hand throbs with tingling pain and the sharp pricks that crackle across your skin when you break the icicles. Warm, red blood is trickling beautifully between my fingers; I love it so. The pain acts as a harsh wake-up to my sluggish mind and instantly the world seems clearer. I take in my surroundings calmly, gingerly lifting my injured hand to my mouth and letting my little, pink tongue taste the watery liquid. It is salty and sharp to the tastes of my palette, and I find myself grimacing involuntarily. The tiny rivers have dried into crimson streaks, making a startling contrast to the pale, papery complexion of the rest of me.