Imagine it was a cold night and you had only a small blanket which doesn't even begin to cover your body. You are squeezing yourself, trying to take less space, trying to make that blanket to fit and... and you know you can't. So you hug yourself tighter and tighter but it's just pointless - you are lying, shivering and hoping to fall asleep soon.
This one blanket is the space I was left with. It was tight, it was sickening, it was discouraging. I don't have anything, even in this space, not even that drop of warmth that a small blanket would give you. Nothing. Nothing to make me feel again. No rage, no desire, no hope. Whatever I am, I am empty.
I only exist in the form of a crippled, deformed, drab mess without a chance of going back. No will to fight back, not to fight over the darkness, not to push over the oppression.
What was I going to be punished for for the rest of my life? To watch myself do terrible things, to see without being able to affect this terror. How? Why? Those questions sound dead against the silence of my existence.
Even when most memories have faded away, the answer of those questions lies in a bright memory which I now remember best.
It's all his fault.
YOU ARE READING
The beginning of the end: Bellatrix Black
FanfictionBellatrix had the life of a Pureblood which sometimes isn't such a light thing. She made choices and faced obstacles which shaped her all the same to the person we know but even Bellatrix was once a child. Once she had dreams and a little hope in...
