Of [Un]Requited L.ove

[leah2]

If found please return to the Gryffindor Girls' Dormitories immediately

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[leah2]

And show me how to live[x]

[x]And it all started with a note...

[x]I've never seen a need for diaries, for journals. The only present my mother ever gave me, and I think it was more out of duty than anything else, and yet... seven years later, and here I am using it. Because I'm so frustrated. And talking to other people is dangerous. I tried with Ethan... and his reaction, while nothing out of the ordinary, was not what I needed. But nothing I get from this place is needed. Especially not fucking Pettigrew's attitude towards me. I've dealt with his glaring and sneering at me. I've dealt with him never once looking my way when I want him to. Not once.

I don't know what I was thinking then. But he's in nearly all of my classes. He's always there. Just... sitting there. Just being there. And it's all I can take on a daily basis. I just wanted a few words. Just a few. I wanted some kind of acknowledgment that I was there. So I did what anyone would do to get attention without seeming like that was my intent. I asked to borrow a quill. Just a quill. There wasn't any more conversation after that. Until he wanted the quill back. Well, more accurately, he demanded it back. And I thought to joke around, to make light of it. But the more we talked, the more aggressive he got, the more we started to argue... And I was enjoying it. Truly I'm sick. I'm twisted in ways beyond recognition. It's pretty sick. But it doesn't seem like I can help it. Because I really like this kid. And he doesn't scare me. Which is new. Because I'm always scared. All the time. Walking down the hallway I'm afraid that the guys I grew up with are going to show up in Hogwarts. I'm afraid of someone touching my arm. I'm afraid when I'm walking down the hallway, and my arm brushes someone beside me. I'm afraid when I wake up in the middle of the night, and there's someone moving in the room besides me. I'm afraid when someone breathes funny, or snores. I'm afraid that my dad is going to come out of my nightmares, back from the grave, and get what he feels he deserves. I'm afraid that someone else is going to pick up where they left off.

God that makes me sound weak. But with Peter... I'm not afraid. Not when he threatens me. Not even when he leaves bruises on my arm. Which, I'm happy to report, are fading before even a twenty four hours.

Urgh! I don't care. I like him. I want him to look at me. And if he thinks I'm done... he better be prepared for disappointment.

[leah2]

[x]So what if I never want to be sober?

[x]Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat.

Beat.

Breathe.

Nothing prepares one for the utter blackness of losing their vision, or the completely consuming fear that races through your veins as you wait for the predator in the room to come nearer, to do what it is that you fear the most. What prepares you even less for this, ironically, is when you place yourself in the situation; when you put yourself into danger’s hands –into death’s hands- and you can’t find it within yourself to give a damn. When you’re lying face down on the cold, wooden floor with nothing for a weapon, and your body contorted into an unnatural shape, arms and legs twisted in ways they by all rights shouldn’t be. And despite the awkward position you’re in, you wouldn’t take back the actions in which you completed to get yourself to this place. And what’s worse than all of this, is that the predator you can feel stalking towards you is one that you’ve never fully managed to face, one darker, and more volatile than any you’ve faced before. And the numbness that filters through your chest at the thought that the very predator that you are fearing is yourself, is overwhelming.

I think all of these things as my body lays twisted upon the floor, my right cheek pressed against the surface of the wood, my heart thudding dangerously within the confines of my ribs; it misses a few beats, slowing out until it nearly stops completely, before picking up again at a pace that’s very nearly inhuman. In this state my mind is completely free, completely open to drift upon a multitude of subjects as it floats within the nothingness that is everything. Clouds fill my brain like a smoky haze, and yet I’ve never been able to think more clearly than I do in this state. My lips are chapped, dry as they move impossibly fast, the words falling out silently, without voice. Prayers, curses, lyrics, thoughts, hate, love; they all spill out in silence as I mouth the words that form around them. I can hear my breath coming out in short bursts, erratic and unpredictable as I attempt to keep my body alive, even if it’s the last thing I want. I can feel the vast vat of nothingness that hovers just beyond my reach, the black hole threatening to take me under the only thing I strive for. Emotions are muted, and yet impossibly clear as I feel the floor beneath me shudder from movements of someone in the apartment next door. My neck itches for me to raise it, to move as if to indicate that I know. Though what it is I know I am not yet aware. Thoughts and feelings run through my head, chasing each other around, before another beats them out. My lips pause in their movement to turn into a smile, words running through my inner thoughts that I haven’t heard in forever.

I don’t give a shit if they think this is dangerous.

I don’t give a damn if half of the free world looks down upon what I’m engaging in.

And I sure as hell don’t give a fuck if anyone cares. Because I don’t care. Because I can’t care.

This is what I do, and this is a part of who I am. The pipe resting not a few feet from where my face is, it is my doorway to freedom. The empty baggie across from it is my key. And the blowing mind f**k*ry that it instills is the only reason I can deal with anyone on a daily basis. I can feel my lips tip into a manic smile at the very thought, the very comparison I was making. They can call me weak. The can call me frail. They can look at me with those pitying glances, and fucking promises of false understanding. They can shake their heads and say I just don’t know any better. They can get angry and say that I’m hurting more than myself. But what they fail to realize is that I’m not hurting me, much less anyone else. Because I feel fan-fucking-tastic in this moment. A raspy cough breaks through my throat, aggravating the burn already taking residence in the base of my neck, reigniting the flames that rested beneath. But I'm unable to move from my position, unable to stop the progression that its making within my body. A hacking cough takes over, and I feel my throat tear apart from the insides. There is a reason I normally stick to the basic, simpler form of cannabis. And it has nothing to do with price, or morals, or whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. It had everything to do with the fact that when you laced the shit, your body reacted, in good ways at first, but it never stayed that way. At least with a pure substance of green you knew what you were getting. But today had called for something a little stronger, a little more potent. And I could only pray that it would fucking take me under.

But then, some of us don't have any luck.

"So as for you, you know where to go; I wanna take my love, and hate you till the end."

And just like that my hearing seemed to return, if still slightly muffled as I heard the opening lyrics to the song course through my conscience. My eyelids flickered, though I knew better than to expect to be able to see anything yet. I still had a good while before I finished riding out this wave. My body flipped of its own accord, my back landing against the cold, hard surface with little feeling as I let my head loll back from my neck, hands coming to a rest on my hips. "I'm so ADDICTED to" My right hand trailed up from its perch, fingertips digging into the exposed flesh of my stomach as I pushed my shirt up from my navel, reveling in the ability to feel the heated pads trailing over my too-hot skin.

I loved this shit.

My lids felt heavy on my face, the lashes flickering, tickling my skin as I let them fall to a close. I really, really needed to reach that black abyss floating just out of my reach. I just really, really needed to escape.

I felt my body racing, the heat within it coursing with each new beat that the song provided, the lyrics falling incredibly slow upon my ears, my veins racing with the molten lava coursing beneath.

Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat.

My breathing hitched within my ribs, my back arching into the wooden surface beneath it as the darkness grew impossibly more black. Yes. Yes. Yes. This was what I wanted.

Beat-beat-beat-beat-beat-beat-bea-bea-be-b

And with a stuttering beat my breath gave out as I felt my back reconnect with the surface, my body shutting down as the darkness overtook me.[x]

[x]So what if I wanna be numb all the time?

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