Little Slice of Death

They didn't understand. None of them. In a way, he was glad that they couldn't possibly understand what he was feeling. They weren't him. They hadn't lived the way he had. Hadn't seen the things he'd seen. Hadn't done the things he'd had to do. Then again, in a way, he envied them. He envied her for thirst for knowledge, to continue learning, and never stop. He envied him for his drive for life, to live, to experience, to explore and conquer. He envied them both for their ability to love. To love him, to love her, to love each other. More than that though, he envied them for their future. They could be anything and anyone that they wanted. They could have all their dreams come true for them.

And they still took it for granted.

He sighed, the sound coming out world weary and exhausted, fogging the window in front of him. Tired. That was how he always felt now. He tried to play it off. It was from the stress of school – lessons and exams. From all the extra training he'd partaken in lately. It was a long and physically taxing process. But no, this exhaustion was … more. It was physical and mental and emotional and spiritual, and… everything. Sleep, the little he got, didn't affect it. Potions didn't help. Spellwork did nothing. He leaned his head against the cold glass, welcoming the shocking cold.

It stimulated something to be jolted. What, he wasn't sure. His body or mind one. He couldn't really decipher the difference in anything any more.

His hand unconsciously clasped his left arm, rubbing the aching limb slowly. He felt dead. Was that possible? To be dead before you actually were dead? But no, that was a lie. A lie he kept telling himself to get through each day. He had to feel dead. He couldn't let himself feel anything because if he did the pain would come back, and every time it came back, it was so much worse.

That was why he did what he did. His hand tightened further over his arm, palming the scars and half closed wounds. Every time he did, it washed everything away. The memories, the training, the emotions - all of it. It left him feeling blank, void. Every time he did it, it was like a little slice of death, just a tempting view of what he could have. But he kept it pushed to the back of his mind, calling on it when he needed it. He wanted that peace forever, but for now he couldn't grasp it.

When the war was over. When he was no longer needed. Then, if he hadn't already been killed, then he would allow himself the one thing he'd been denied. Peace.

But for now, just one cut at a time, a little peace of death. It would do.