Disclaimer: If I was the actual author of Harry Potter, I would NOT be putting my stories on any website with the word fan in the name...
He lay on the floor, crying, not caring about dignity, or anything else as vain as that. Just Lily. One of the few things he had ever cherished. She was gone. Forever. He was never going to see her again. Not as long as he lived. This was, of course, why, amidst his sobs, the barely audible whines of "I want to die," could be, occasionally, heard.
Of course, he had made a promise to protect someone who he wouldn't even meet for ten years, and, being a man of his word, he couldn't kill himself. He had to stay alive long enough to save Lily's son from a man that was, as far as anybody knew, dead. He hated his life.
He had been lying there for hours, it was almost dawn, but he still had infinite tears to cry. He would be sad forever. Happiness was even farther than it had been, now. But, right now, he didn't care. He hated himself.
He stood up, shaking with sobs, and stumbled into the kitchen of his childhood home. He had feared this room in his youth. He wasn't even sure if he could fear, anymore. The kitchen had recently become his favorite room of the house. Both his past dismay and his current delight were caused by one thing. The drawer right next to the sink. The drawer that contained the knives.
He opened the drawer and looked through it carefully. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He pulled out the roughest, dullest knife he had ever seen. As far as he knew, it had never been used, even for cooking. It was possibly the most painful knife in existence. He had been saving it for someone he really hated, someone he detested beyond all belief. He had found them. Nobody could ever loathe anybody more than he did himself at that moment.
He went back into the living room and sat down on the floor. He looked for an area of his body that wasn't already riddled with scars. He couldn't find one that wouldn't kill him. He wished he could do it on one of those areas. Finish off his miserable existence. Just a simple cut to the bone on his wrists would do it. Or, better, a stab to the chest, just below his heart, just barely cutting in to the aorta...but, no, he couldn't do that...he had promised.
He decided his lower arms were too used to pain by now for it to have much effect. So were his legs. And his stomach. He decided his upper arms were the most sensitive area left on his body.
He pulled his sleeve up to his shoulder. Still weeping, he positioned the knife at the top of his left arm.
He stabbed through to the bone. He flinched and groaned loudly as the knife ripped through his flesh, causing deep crimson blood to flow down onto his clothes and onto the floor. He regained himself and slowly, carefully, pulled the knife down his arm, savoring every second of the superb agony.
He pulled the knife out and looked at his arm. There was a gouge there deep enough to see the white bone through the scarlet blood and flesh.
He was still crying. His tears mixed with blood as the wound bled. This didn't always work as well as it used to. It did seem to barely diminish the horrible sadness he still felt. He was still filled to the brim with sorrow, still overflowing with tears of grief and regret, but it seemed to be a bit less than it had been. The physical pain seemed to lessen it, just a little.
He pulled up his other sleeve. With his injured arm, he positioned the blade. He almost screamed as he cut through it. It wasn't as deep as the first one, his left arm was already more fragile than the right, and it was weakened by pain and blood loss. But it was deep enough to make him suffer. Suffer enough for him to be satisfied that he could not make it hurt any worse on his own. And it was deep enough to bleed. And bleed it did.
Blood covered the dark, hard, wooden floor and the old, threadbare, grey rug, coloring them both deep red. He didn't move from the pool of his own blood. Instead, he sat in the middle of it, as it grew larger, his salty tears mixing with it.
His grief wasn't quite as overwhelming as it had been, before, but he was still sad enough to continue bawling like a young child. He had lost the one person he had ever cared about, and the only person ever to care about him. The best friend he had gone through so much with. The woman he had loved, but who had loved someone else. The person that had helped him cope with his father's fury. The girl that had stuck with him until he had insulted her, in a moment of rage and humiliation. His first and last friend. Lily Evans.
And the worst part was, it was his fault she was dead. He had told the Dark Lord the prophecy he had heard. He had informed him of the danger of the boy. He had actually recommended killing him. If only he had known who it had meant. But he hadn't. If only he had never become a Death Eater, he would never have told Him the prophecy. But he had. And now Lily had paid for his mistakes. He wished he could've taken her place the previous night.
But he knew that he couldn't. And he knew he would never see her again. Not in life, nor in death. She was much to good to end up where he was going. She was gone to him forever. And there was no way to get her back. Not ever.
And this was why he lay on his floor, in a pool of his own blood and tears, nearly screaming it grief, and sobbing hysterically in sorrow. He wanted desperately to die, but would not break his promise. So he compromised with himself.
From that day forward, Severus Snape was dead inside.
A/N: Don't forget to review, and tell me what you think! (Even if you think it's horrible. Just don't comment on my overuse of commas, if you don't mind. I can't help that.)