SWAN SONG; tom riddle

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dear tom,

          my grave is filling with water.

          i'm helpless as the sticky tar of dirt and waste seeps into the shallow grave and my skin. the walls are closing in on me and i can't breathe.

          i can't fucking breathe.

          what a frightening thing that would be for you if you actually cared.

and if i was alive.

          how terrifying it would be to lose the girl you loved. to hear her pleading incessantly for her suffering to end. if only there was someone you did love, tom. someone who could make you feel these things.

          for me, that person was you. when i watched you make that first vile horcrux, i felt my own heart be split into two as you thrashed like a wounded animal. god, it was fucking horrible watching you do that to yourself.

          your lips — those beautiful, heavenly pink lips, faded and blue as you gasped and struggled for air. i tried to help you, pushing your drenched hair away from those enchanting eyes. but you didn't like that, did you? i still remember the sting i felt when you shoved me away, cowering in the corner of my room, silently weeping. it was the first time i saw you cry and it was certainly the last.

          oddly enough, your cruel rejection hurt more than the hours i spent under the red curse, a reminder to never speak of that night.

          and i never did. i never wanted to. because regardless of the pain you put me through on that night and on countless others, nothing — and i mean nothing hurt more than watching you scream.

          god, i hate you.

          i hate you and your enrapturing ways. i hate that you make me feel things for you that i shouldn't. i hate you for the crippling fear in my heart that only appears when you're in pain.

          i want you to know how i feel. i want you to feel that pain.

          i want you to love, tom. i pray to the gods that you find someone to share your life with and who understands the unescapable foul stench of fear that lives within you. i want you to feel so unbelievably happy that you wonder how the bastard and shame of the house of gaunt, the twisted orphan half-blood, could ever deserve such a life.

          then i want it to disappear.

          i want the joy to melt like black tar and be replaced by dread and melancholy. any ounce of any emotion besides self-loathing and desolation would be gone and in its place would be a personal abode of the damned crafted by me, sinister enough to drive the devil mad.

          and when she's dead i'll meet her here. in hell.

          because anyone who sinks as low as loving you is evil in their heart of hearts. the prey you feed on, the innocent doe-eyes women you pride yourself on deceiving are secretly just as bad as you.

why the fuck do you think i'm here?

          when she's dead, i'll comfort her. because i know she never saw it coming. because she is me and i am her. because i know if she's dead it's because you killed her.

          because nobody loves tom riddle and gets away with it.

yours,
florizel