|Shatter me Gently
Author: Mistress Slytherin PM
Harry does not know who he is, or what happened to make him this way.Rated: Fiction M - English - Harry P. & Severus S. - Words: 1,212 - Reviews: 9 - Favs: 17 - Follows: 4 - Published: 09-02-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7345980
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Reeeeealy short one but I liked how it turned out so I decided to post it...at 3:16 am...ooohhh boy. This is one of those moments where the last time I looked down at the time it was 7:00pm and then i started writing...and yeah, its a good thing tomorrow is Friday- er that today is Friday, Whatever I'm going to stop rambling now.
Not my charachters
NOT FOR THE EYES OF CHILDREN
Sometimes, I feel fragile.
When I sit here alone like this- in these brief moments that I am totally alone…I feel like I'll break into a million pieces.
They'd all laugh at me I know.
Tom, the red eyed man who comes to visit me sometimes and the others who hide their faces and bodies behind cloaks and white masks- they would laugh if I just decided to shatter one of these days. When Tom visits me it feels like he's playing a game that I don't understand, he says things and then laughs when I tell him I don't understand.
Who am I?
Who was I?
So many things that I do not know.
All that I do know is that what ever I did to deserve this fate was truly terrible. Every once in a while Tom will entertain himself by telling me stories of terrible deeds I might have done just to amuse himself. He dangles me by a chain of curiosity and then leaves me here in this cage just as befuddled and confused as when I was first left in this abysmal place. This cage masquerading as a mansion. Tom says one thing however that rings true- I did something horrible and my memory was wiped clean because of it. A small thudding sound drags me from my thoughts and I smile softly at the man sitting across from me and reach to lift the fallen book. I must have missed his return- the fire is growing dim in the grate as well. How long have I been lost in thought?
The day I was put in this place he was assigned as my caretaker, I don't know why, some private twisted joke of Toms' most likely. The man doesn't speak much because he was wounded some time ago and the long ragged scars around his neck stretch painfully if he talks too much, but he is the only companionship I have, and he almost never leaves my side. Sometimes it is painful to look at him though because he gazes at me with haunted pained eyes, sometimes he looks as if he hates me. But when ever Tom comes he makes an offer, me or the man, and always, always the man steps forward. He bleeds for me, screams for me, hates me and protects me, and yet I have no idea why. Oh, he tries to step forwards, but always the man insists that Tom take him, which amuses Tom ever so much. Gently I prod the man shaking his shoulder gently only to gasp when a long fingered hand wraps around my wrist and pulls me forward leaving me a stumbling heap in his lap. Wide, dark eyes gaze down at me in terror and I find it impossible to hold that gaze.
It's all my fault and I know it, even if I don't know the whys and how's of what happened, or in fact of what happened at all. "You'll catch a cold if you sleep here." I say quietly. The fine trembling in the hand wrapped around my wrist fades after a moment. He hates it when I talk, so I don't unless it's necessary, like now. He hates me. I don't know why, but he does, which is why I don't stop him when he pulls me close and pulls my shirt from me. Tom says that the man was once brilliant, but the accident that caused the tearing in his throat also took part of his mind because the poison couldn't be flushed out of his system quickly enough. I suppose that's why he calls me Lily when he touches me.
But oh I do so enjoy it…
I am ashamed to admit it, after all the man is filled with bitter sweet contradictions, but he plays my body so well. The right caress has me begging for him and he simply adores taking his time, as if its some secret cruel torture that he wants to put us both through. I gasp when he bites into my neck laving it with a clever tongue while roughened lips whisper across the sensitized area. Already I feel his fingers sliding past the waist band of my pants. It appears that tonight he is eager. I give in to him easily; give in to the mindless pleasure as sure fingers enter me in a parody of gentleness. He is not a gentle lover; he loves it when I scream almost as much as Tom does. I gasp tossing my head back when the blunt tip of a finger brushes something inside of me and sparks of electricity race through me.
And then he's lifting me.
He's pressing into me with a swift brutal thrust and I am left clinging to him as I fight against the resulting pain. He hasn't wanted this for a while after all, I am tight around him. He groans but does not give me time to adjust, instead he pushes forward stroke after long aching stroke his skin slapping against mine with a lewd sound. His movements are jerky and he only touches me more than necessary but I know that it won't last for long. Even as I think it he deepens and slows his strokes his hands trailing over my skin in that slightly worshiping way that they sometimes do. I hate this, and yet at the same time I love it, love him. Because even while I know he's thinking about Lily now- he's touching me as if he loves me. Hands sooth me and tease me a hot mouth following and as always the tender caresses force my cresting point. Tears slip down both our faces as it hits us a bitter terrible and yet blissful moment torn from us by forces beyond our control.
And there it is.
I stare blankly at the ceiling as he weeps brokenly into my chest and I know that I will never have him. I will never know this desperate love that my dark haired man holds for his dear Lily. It will never be mine just like freedom will never be mine and the answers I seek will never be mine. I feel sick when he pulls out and lays me on the now cold hearth his eyes unseeing, as if he were simply tossing an unneeded pillow to the side. I watch his retreating back and wait for the chill to dry the stray tear that slips from my eye before staring into the grate.
Sometimes I feel that I will shatter.