This is a bit...okay, ALOT, darker than my usual writing style, but it was a school assignment. We had to write a paragraph in the style of Edgar Allen Poe. Who is a very depressing man. Who led to the creation of my very depressing ficlet. Which led to the great depression. No, really. It did.
If you believed that, you'll believe me when I tell you that nice men in white coats are coming to pick you up and take you to a fun place with padded walls. Go quietly and you will not be harmed. Have a nice day!
Ljstagflower4e
.::I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER...but I sure as hell wish I did::.
The endless black of the room at the top of the rickety stairs beckoned to her. Darkest night through brightest day,
the blackness called to her, begging her to save the tired soul within its hold. Upon her arrival in the silent house,
she had begged that he leave the comfort of the darkness and solitude, but silence was her only response.
Seven weary weeks passed by, the dreary house echoing the silent cries for help from the upstairs room, before she made
her way to the foot of the staircase, prepared to attempt to save the achingly familiar face from a life of solitude.
Gripping the worn wooden railing in her sweaty palm, she began her ascent, not looking back but keeping her gaze firmly
trained on the blackened, open doorway residing immediately in front of her.
She moved forwards silently, not wanting to startle the man, her friend, held in the dark clutches of solitude the room
had to offer. As she raised her foot to step into the room, an invisible hand laid itself upon her shoulder, stopping
her in her path.
Doubt flooded her mind; could she save him from the dark recesses of his tortured mind? Taking a few steps backwards
from the doorway, she glanced around uneasily, berating herself for backing out. The hand was on her shoulder again,
pulling her back from the silent opening. More steps backwards.
No.
She lifted her foot again.
Pulled against the restraining hand.
Struggling against its deathlike grip on her weary shoulders.
She could do this.
No.
She couldn't.
What was she thinking?
Her shoulders slumped.
She slid down the dusty wall into the shadowed corner, curling up, making herself as small as possible.
Failure.
She was a failure.
He needed her.
What could she do for him? Where to begin? So many horrible things had happened to him in his short life. Could she
really expect to be his savior? How to convince him to leave the loneliness of his room? To convince him that he was
loved? That he wasn't alone?
The hand slid down her back, across her shoulders, enveloping her within its grasp. Its suffocating grip covered her
mouth and nose. She looked across the hallway to the door. The blackness seeped from its frame, spreading itself across
her vision in inky waves. Her head hit the warped wood of the floor, as the hand gently tipped her sideways. One last
image passed before her eyes before the inky clouds completely obscured her vision.
Him.
Standing in the doorway, tiredness etched in his every limb. Haunted eyes met haunted eyes.
"I'm sorry."
Failure.
Finis.
-->