The sight of blue stains on my palms inspires me with unbearable, nauseating horror. For I still remember, I still remember the feeling of icy ink flowing through my veins. I still remember you, Tom.
Title: Indelible ink
Author/Artist: Arien Icelight
Author`s e-mail: email@example.com
Beta: Emerald Mistress. My kowtow to her. She inspired me to continue my attempts in writing for it was my first translated story and her approval and help were very valuable.
Pairing: Ginny W./ Tom R.
Rating: PG-15/R(for some... suggestiveness, and me being a paranoid)
Summary: the sight of blue stains on my palms inspire me with unbearable, nauseating horror. For I still remember, I still remember the feeling of icy ink flowing through my veins. I still remember you, Tom.
There are some things that we can`t change and there are some stains that can`t be wiped out of our souls. Mine are dark blue, almost black, and that`s why I hate ink.
One, two, three: I count off each in-take of the air so as not to forget how to breathe. The silence is shattered only by the dripping of water from the tap and by my slightly alarmed heartbeat, but I know that I am not by myself no matter how lonely I feel. You will never ever leave me alone, you will never leave me in peace, will you?
I lean my elbow on the wash-basin and examine my hands intently. In the light of the sunset they look pearly and ghostlike. I always wash my hands thoroughly after classes because the sight of blue stains on my palms inspire me with unbearable, nauseating horror. I can`t find a single stain and shift my gaze to the small mirror clamped in my right palm. The moment Hermione enters the bathroom I quiver a bit; she obviously thinks she frightened me but the truth is that I hardly noticed her - my sense of reality is slightly dulled from the very first course. She stands half-turned to me and when I come to the surface of my daydreaming to take a sip of reality my eyes widen in terror since her hands are in the stains of ink. I take a single, convulsive breath and time has stopped; I glance at the mirror but there is no need to - I know already what I will see there. My heart freezes and so it is, I can swear that there are those very eyes that pursue me everywhere. It happened so many times before but it is impossible to adjust. I unclench my palm and watch spell bounded as the mirror is falling down oh-so-slowly and finally is reaching the floor after capsizing twice with the cold malicious whistle. Smithereens are all that is left. The glass has broken just as easy as my life had. I hate, desperately loathe mirrors because they show you so light-heartedly the things you want to forget and cross out of your life once and forever, once and forever, once and forever. I want to cover all the mirrors with black like someone has died, like YOU have died indeed. Could you just do this, just die, please, I am begging you; vanish from within me because there is so much more of you then of me inside my own soul and I simply cannot take it any more, I can`t feel anymore.
-"Ginny?"- Hermione`s voice soundes worried; she sure remembers what day is today - exactly 4 years have passed after the moment I woke up on the foor of that awul chamber being a small foolish girl with all of her body, with all of her soul spotted with the ink.
There are some stains that can`t be wiped out of our souls. The voice reaches my ears as like Hermione is miles away and I have almost lost my temper - Granger, I don`t require your “Everything is OK, because it has ended for good.”
'For God's sake! Nothing - can your hear me? - nothing has ended! And never - never, never, never will! But then she pronounces that fatal 'I understand' - and then...
I want to grab her shoulders and shake her and shout at her and maybe even slap her.
'You don`t understand a single piece of it, nobody does, nobody ever did or even wanted to. Why do you think that foolish Ginny Weasely was captivated and mesmerized by those sweetly-poisoning words and blue eyes that turned to such a nightmare?
You. Don't. Understand.
...One, two, three. I only need to remember how to breathe. The rage and despair are boiling inside of me but I keep smiling and bend to pick up the slivers of the ill-starred mirror. I am able to keep myself under control perfectly, to act just the way the situation requires, to lie brilliantly and hide whatever dark secrets are trying to escape my mind and be revealed by others. Who do you think had taught me all those things?
The glass sinks into my flesh and I think that you are just the same. You continue hurting me even after death, even though you are gone, despite all your attempts to sacrifice me.
The wooden door is closing after me and Hermione is left alone. She is happy enough to have that precious solitude with no whispers from the dark (or from the memory, I cannot define), with no phantoms of the past that are just about to drag me away into the whirlpool; drag away completely and the way you will be breathless with the sweet poison which is given with such a tender smile that you simply are not able to resist.
I`m running, flying down the stairs - oh how I wish just to reach the bedroom, draw the bed curtains, and lay on the bed with eyes wide open so that the darkness would not draw with the dark-blue paint my nightmares that become reality at night. I'm running through almost empty corridors - yes, I've missed potions yet again - and I can almost hear leisure footsteps; they are so unhurried as though I cannot run away, no matter what. I`m smiling bitterly - you are right again, right just as always - there is no way I can escape from you.
One, two, three. Breathe, Ginny, just breathe, please. Everything is gonna be OK, it will be alright, it was the last time that happened... Why don`t I believe myself?
You say, I will trust you, it`s always so easy to trust you; tell me you won`t appear in my dreams ever again and I will lay calmly believing for half an hour that everything will be alright.
I can hear the rustle from the bed on the left - my classmate slowly and accurately writes something in her diary. I shiver as though the draft has caused it. There is no way, absolutely no way I will ever entrust my thoughts and feelings to the paper - because I still remember. I still remember you, Tom.
My nightmares are growing up with me. And the worst is that I cannot resist them. When I was twelve I only saw you materializing from that damned diary again and I was in that terrifying chamber again and Harry was never there to save me in time. When I was fourteen I woke up trembling from aversion and disguise due to the light touches of your lips to my neck, my cheek, my temple and my own lips; and I was at the edge of panicking because of my willing submissions to your lips every time. I turned sixteen now. No, Tom, please, don`t appear in my dreams. I can't look at Harry in the mornings, I can't talk to anyone, for I have surrendered completely and my skin seems to have a scent of almonds and ink - your scent; opening my eyes I often pant ever-so-slightly, my cheeks are flushed and I don`t even want to know what my body is demanding from you - and from you only. I feel like I'm being drowned in the ink. Again. Always.
I can hear your soft chuckle and start to tremble violently, curling up and pressing hands to my chest to feel how fast my heart is beating. I know it is for both of us - there was too much of you under my skin. In my veins, in my soul.
You`re an obsession. I hate you, I am afraid of you and I just cannot live without you. You, always you, when will it end at last? Why there is more of you in my thought then of me? Why there is more of you in my dreams..?
I pull out the drawer in a flounce, hands fluttering like butterflies, and stiffening as I find what i was for searching for. I still can't see this sheet of paper distinctly but it's not even necessary: I know it by touch, this distillation of my memory and insanity which was left to me by a coincidence. I reach out for the pen and entwine the ink-pot with trembling hands. The paper absorbs the ink avidly and I am shaking from the disguise - it looks like loathsome, odious creature hoping to elicit life from someone, drop by drop. The sun is rising and it looks like the bed curtain is flashing under it`s beams. I feel tears running down my face - just why don't the sunrises heal me?
How much tears will I have to squeeze out of my heart just because you don`t want to leave it? And so I am writing the three most important words ever - I do it without thinking, I'm insane, can't you see?
'I hate you.'
The letters appear as clear as never before - or is it just figment a of my imagination? They appear - and don't vanish.
Fingertips touching the paper ever-so-slightly and I simply can't believe that you cannot answer me, that you are here no more, that I am finally free.
But my world is shattered to hundreds of pieces, my new born dreams wither and there is too much pain to handle when I see the flaring accurate lace of that weak handwriting that I have seen so many times before.
One, two, three.
You have just cut out my heart without an anesthetic.
I hate the ink flowing through my veins.