She's born into a world of hollow, callous souls that wrap their icy claws around her, encasing her and ensuring that she never ever escapes.

Deep in the abysses of her mind she's desperately pleading and bargaining with the souls who just don't care, because all she wants is to be free from the chains labeled with expectations, pure, arranged, perfect, prim, lady, dark, innocent which are so strongly unbending and unwilling to adjust.

She drags a brush through the hair she desperately wishes she could just cut, much like the family ties. Pure, noble, ancient, forever. The only thing that is forever is the agony gnawing and scratching at her skull because she just wants to matter.

But she is a puppet. She is a pawn. She does exactly what the empty shells of people ask of her for she wouldn't dare become a disappointment. That would certainly not do.

They put on a fabulous act for the ever adoring, ever obsessive crowds. And for now, they are the directors, producers and helpers, and she is their star and their masterpiece.

They lionize her.

The Blacks' have always had their dirty little secrets, hidden deep in their derailed minds, immersed in their empty metal hearts, sunken into the floorboards, the peeling walls, the seemingly meaningless paintings.

Oh, the magnificent house of Black. Well, if only they knew. But that is her secret, isn't it?

She has a game, a game with a difference.

She is the artist. Creating a masterpiece of herself, desperately trying to murder the monsters that never go away and are forever scraping and mauling at her mind, whispering yet screeching evil words, they are empty yet so full.

There is never enough paint, never enough paint to kill the monsters and break free from the bindings that are wound round her so tightly she can barely breathe.

But now her art is everywhere as she lies upon the floor- there's more than enough paint, this time. It surrounds her. It overwhelms her and encompasses her and she thinks maybe, just maybe, her masterpiece is done.

Except it isn't. She can't stop herself. She isn't finished. And she drags her paintbrush along her eversoprettyinpaint wrist, and carves the spiral. Her spiral.

It has a meaning that the dismal world she's obliged to be a part of will probably miss, but she does it anyway.

Her downward spiral. This show is over. I started at the top, and now I'm at the bottom. None of you noticed enough to care.

The last thing she does, her last valiant attempt at making herself matter.

The downward spiral.

Her suicide note.

A/N- I'm not sure how I feel about this… well, I'm quite proud of it, I think. Pretty please let me know what you thought of it?

Also in this, Narcissa is 14, Andromeda is 16, and Bellatrix is 18.