"I'm going to fucking ruin you."
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The Dark Lord conquers the wizarding world, Harry Potter is dead. Muggleborns are slaughtered. Halfblood's are shoved into imprisonment, conditioned to alter their beliefs and dictated to worship Purebloods.
Y/N Y...
ily guys sm — i stalk everyone's pages. i even have some of ur books in my library & i read them silently 😁.
TW - blade, blood, conversations about sexual assault (no physical acts of sexual assault), conversations about self-harm (no physical acts of self-harming), malnutrition.
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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | "𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲."
ϟ
My brain is an extinguished fire. Once it burnt bright and I knew of happiness and light; I could see a future. Presently, my mind is dull, subsisting on the burnt tinder of what my identity was. In these ashes there is nothing to even renew a spark.
All I can do is huddle in this moment, live from heartbeat to heartbeat. I feel like the world isn't actually there by any stretch of the imagination, similar to it was taken and supplanted with something unfilled, altered, counterfeit. It bodes well in an odd manner, this present reality gave me sensations of euphoria. I felt associated with it, part of it. In any case, possibly it was removed or I was; the entire moment of consistently nothing remains at this point but to glide in the void.
The prison cell is nothing but four walls and a mattress, everything grey. The lighting comes from a strip of glass— three feet high and two inches wide, I wonder how long I'd have to spend in here to fail to remember what a tree resembles or the sensation of the breeze on a blustery day.
2 weeks, or 14 days, or 336 hours, or 20,160 minutes, or 1,209,600 seconds— however I wanted to put it.
Whatever the guards said to Vance that day, it snapped a coil in his sanity. He slaughtered nearly fifteen people and shoved me into his personal imprisonment.
I've driven myself mad. Watching the sun go up fourteen times and down thirteen— it relished only a speckle of my lucidity. My duration of isolation has only been two weeks. Yet, every minute that passes by feels like an hour. I've screamed, shouted, and sobbed uncontrollably until my throat swelled and my eyes were bloodshot.
The only differentiating item is the food, it pops into the air and the tray lands on my bed. Three times a day I find it pathetic that my serotonin rises when I uncover the mysteries of what I am to be fed with.
The trays disappear when the fragment of sunlight overlaps the fourth slabbed brick on the wall by the door.
On my second day, I endeavored to conceal the fork furnished with my dinner under my pillow. I haven't a clue on what I anticipated on doing with it— perhaps I figured I could utilize it to dig a hole through the concrete wall.
