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I'M SORRY FOR ALL THE BLOOD I LEFT ON YOUR LIPS / FOR LOVING YOU INTO RUIN.
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EVEN GOD.
The first thing that changed was his eyes, I think. My mother always told me that the eyes were the windows to your soul. With time they blackened and withered, like rotting fruit. Next was his mouth, which quickly sewed itself shut in my presence, needle and thread in constant movement whilst blood spilled through the gaps and down his chin.
His hands, his feet, which were once elegant too withered, veins turned into barbed wires lining the wrist, tearing and slicing already dead flesh. Then at last his heart, once valiant and determined, turned to tar. My heart followed, as it had followed him into all things.
If you cut him, he won't bleed. I tried to once, but his life had been drained and disposed of long ago. I think he can pass on the rot to others, and I can't help but wonder— I fear that perhaps he passed it onto me. Isn't it funny? No? Perhaps a bit strange? I suppose to those looking on the outside it isn't.
( Ara Hendrix's letter to Albus Dumbledore, on Tom Riddle. )
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