dead weight. sirius black.

ten.

"i can't do it."
i ran my hands down my face.
my voice cracked embarrassingly loud.
lately,
i've been too caught up making sure my friends were alright to even notice i haven't slept a wink.
between sneaking snacks from the kitchens to making sure yara wasn't trying to jump off the Ravenclaw tower with her newfound recklessness and darting back and forth between the boys' dorm room to make sure remus was alright from time to time while bringing him his favorite chocolate cake and a draught from madam pomfrey,
i hadn't even thought about sleep.

you set your paper down,
drawing merlin knows what—
and turn to me curiously.
"can't do what?"
your voice is always uncharacteristically quiet at this hour.

"i can't do it."
i repeat.
it's the only thing i can say.
i cant i cant i cant.
theres no escaping im stuck and my fate is written in the pure blooded history books decorating my library.
im another soul tied to the tree of tradition and stuck in a never ending replay of my bad decisions

"do what?"
you question a bit more forcefully.
you know im getting worked up too fast too quickly.
i throw my head back and let my back roughly crash in the ground of the astronomy tower.
before my head could hit the concrete you shot out and caught in your palm.
some cry, a wail, sob, maybe, leaves my throat.
you give up questioning and move to lay beside me.

"hey, hey, c'mon don't cry,"
you say,
albeit a bit awkwardly.
it feels odd,
crying in front of someone that wasn't my mirror or my owl tac.
i can feel your hands sorting out my tangled hair sprawled across the floors.
"what's wrong?"

i can feel myself cracking.
i can feel it.
everything thats been bubbling up my chest and shoved down to my stomach and emptied into the toilets later was growing quicker than i could stop it.
"— a week."
i dont want to tell you this,
im sure you could care less about what was going in on my side compared to yours.

i don't have to look at your face to know it's pulled into a concerned,
yet very confused expression.
"what are you on about?"
your hand freezes in it's spot tangled in my hair.
the other one comes up to try and pry my fingers gripping onto my face off.
"marigold,"
and this time i know you're serious,
not in the punny way that makes peter laugh.
"a week. i've got a week."
it's choked out and barely legible to your ears but i can see you've gotten it.

"a week? a week for what? stop being so god damn cryptic and tell me."

"a week."
i whisper weakly.
"in a week."

a hundred reasons to fight for, yet i can't seem to bring myself to work for it.

drowning and none of it is worth it.