Written for the suicidal competition over at HPFC.
Warning: cursing, suicide, dark
The evening shadows stretch across the dooming white stone of the building, faint moonlight spilling through the cracked glass.
She shivers but can't find the strength to move. A bottle dangles from her fingertips, the dregs of Muggle spirit swirling around with her shaking fingers.
Her eyes are dead, staring unseeingly at the photograph on the opposite wall, a younger blonde boy with his arms around a tall redheaded girl, both of them laughing.
"Get out of here, fat slag. Bitch, slut, slag, tramp! No one wants you!"
She hasn't yet cried, only felt this horrible nothingness, an empty space where her heart should be. The alcohol warms her inside, brings something to the emptiness.
The room spins as she tries to stand and she collapses back to her seat, giggling loudly. The laugh sounds hollow even to her alcohol-addled ears, faked for the benefit of herself and the empty room.
The pictures on the wall seem to be laughing at her, jeering at her lack of friends and family and love, screaming into her ears that she has nothing to live for.
With mocking laughter ringing in her ears she stumbles across the room and pulls the picture from the wall. His final words to her ring in her ears as she raises the bottle and brings it down onto his laughing face.
Glass smashes in a million pieces, shards barely missing lacerating cuts across her face, her hands bleeding from the points that pierce her skin, but she doesn't care. She has enough scars already, faded lines slanting across her back, carved into the fabric of her.
If she strains herself and pushes through the cloud of alcohol and cigarette smoke, she can vaguely remember a time when she was so different. The image is blurry and the sounds are static, but the shrieks of excitement and happy laughter burn through. As do the whispered confessions of love. She remembers unmarked skin, red hair lustrous and spilling down her back in waves, lips as soft as the inside of a rose claiming hers.
But this is just who she is. Her name is intertwined with alcohol, cigarettes and scars - both mental and physical. Her favourite scar slants across her face, splitting the once beautiful features in two. She traces it with black ink every morning to remind herself.
A rip of claws across her face and everything ended. Her beauty was gone and, without it, she retreated, snarling at anyone who threatened to get too close. She was ashamed of the scars ripped across her flawless skin, an ugly mess of pink and white that marred her perfection.
Another scar is two punctures on her collarbone, where the poison entered her veins and she truly joined those children of the moon. She never allowed anyone to heal them, wanting to keep them always. A silver chain hides them on the few occasions when she ventures from her home.
The final scar is one she inflicted on herself. It rests just below her left breast, where she imagined her heart to be, a ragged lightning bolt that slices her skin in two. She did it when he left her crying on the pavement, with the point of a sewing needle. She did it to signify the breaking of her heart.
Tears blur her eyes as she reaches for another bottle, pulling the cork out with practised fingers and drinking deeply, not even wincing as the sting hit's the back of her throat. With ever swallow she grows a little more full, her surroundings get a little more blurry and the horrible sounds ringing in her ears become a faintly annoying background buzz.
The tears course down her numb cheeks, taking snaky black trails of make-up with them. She reaches for the wand lying on the table. Her mind is cloudy, infected by drink and toxic smoke, but she has enough sense to speak the words to end it all as the image of his laughing face dances before her eyes.
They find her the next morning, lying prone on the dusty floor. Smashed glass carpets the floor around her, a torn photograph rests near her head, a vodka bottle is lying beside one hand and in the other her wand is still intertwined through her fingers.
A note rests in black ink on her table, etched with hasty hand into the wood forevermore, shining brightly in the midst of the destruction.
Dominique Weasley: TERMINATED