Alaotsikko: Bellatrix Lestrange, dark!fic
Title: Some Day We Are Going to Party Like It's 1979
Author: ms_anthropy (oh, actually it was Gilderoy Lockhart...)
Character(s): Just lovely Bella
Rating: K-11
Summary: Inside the dreaded prison of Azkaban. Inside Bellatrix Lestrange's mind. Waiting.
Word count: about 500
Warnings: dark!fic, self-injury, mentions about righteous post-abortions
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and various big companies own the world and the characters. (Muggles?
Avada Kedavra! -Bellatrix) I do not. Again, they are making the profit and I am not. I just spent some time inside ms. Lestrange's head because I felt like it.
Unohtumaton lisäsi ikärajan alkutietoihinA/N: Somewhat a reflection of my mindset at the time I wrote this. Timeline: GoF. Title filched from Boyd Rice. Epic thanks to
luciusmistress from betaing and weird shit life. I'd love to receive feedback. Pretty please?
Some Day We Are Going to Party Like It's 1979
There is no comfort in the prison of Azkaban. It does not matter, I have no need for
comfort. Dementors outside my cell are scarce for they are not able to drain any happy thoughts out of me. I have no need for
happiness. I do not fear them for I have never been afraid. Sometimes I feel like they fear me. I do not care.
There is dried blood on my face, dried blood all over my body. Scratches all over and dried blood under my fingernails. Fingernails, long sharp broken edges. Like ten daggers. I feel a slight tingle of disappointment ...and longing. There is only my own blood. The taste is rich and pure but some part of me craves for different flavours. Still, it does not matter. I have no need for
pleasure.
Dirt. Dirt all over me. The filthy mattress, my hair a black, tangled web made of years inside these cold stone walls. It does not matter either. I swallow my own blood to keep my soul alive. Or dead. There is no difference. There has never been a difference.
Sometimes I find myself wondering absently how no one is able to see it. No one able to see it is all black. Souls intact or broken. No difference whatsoever. There was one man once. The only one. He came to me, prepared to tell me soft-spoken words of coercion. I had no need for them. In one sharp gaze he understood. We were alike. We
are alike because he is not dead.
Dirt. Filth. Filth all over the world.
Muggles. Mudbloods. Blood-traitors. That
does matter. The bitter taste of the thought lingers inside my mouth until I cleanse it with my own pure blood. The deep dark red river never runs dry. I lick my left arm, the only place I have left unscathed because it is sacred. Blessed. The dark purity that no one can take away from me, no Aurors, nor Dementors. My skin is covered with filth but it does not matter. Inside I am clean. Pure. Black.
Night descends. Even if there were no light I could sense it. Alone in the darkness like I was waiting for death to take me home. The darkness. The light. The ones that chose the light, they were afraid. Afraid of darkness, afraid of death. They are the scum of the Earth. I have never been afraid of death. The death of our enemies I cherish. Towards my own death I feel nothing. It will come some day. Some day... what?
I feel an indescribable tingle in the Dark Mark on my arm. It is my allegiance, it is my soul and it is coming back. It grows blacker. My Dark Lord is returning. My belief never faltered... no, not belief for we who know need no illusions of belief. My knowledge never faltered. Lord Voldemort is coming back to release the world ...and soon we will party like it is 1979.