Debauchery

Habit

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Bros. And whoever the hell else owns it. Don't sue me. I make no profit.

:looks inside wallet:

I've got two bucks, a stick of gum and my I.D. card. Honest. I have nothing else.

Warning: This is Femme Slash. I don't know if I want to put slash in this one but if its requested I'll put a little bit in. And if it fits the little half assed plot I have for this. Yeah, I've decided to start having plots for the stories I make up. Heh. Anyways, self-mutilation, drugs and maybe some violence later.

Author's Note:

Me. Yet again. I guess I have no self-control. Here's another story. I think I like this one so I'll probably finish it. And if you want to know about Jealousy and Envy here ya go. It'll be done once I figure out how to kill off the baddies. I feel like I totally fucked up the whole surface for it. I didn't really stick to the stories roots and I've been all pissy about that. Heh. Enough of this, on with the story.
She didn't know why she did it. Only that she did. And that it had gotten out of control. She desperately wanted to stop. She wanted it to be over with. The pain gone. The tears dissolved. The scars invisible. And especially the pure sedated satisfaction.

But how could she deny this… this utter pleasure. This simple haven. How could she deny all the bliss?

Simple. She couldn't. She couldn't stop no matter how hard she'd tried. The thought of stopping cold turkey haunted her. She couldn't get through the day; it seemed, without her daily activity accomplished. Without feeling that sheer sense of completion. That contentment.

The self-loathing afterwards was worth it. She smirked. It was always worth it. It always is worth it.

Her fingers itched, her skin tingling in anticipation. She opened the door to the abandoned broom closet. The shittyness of the day was getting to her. She licked her lips. She couldn't wait anymore. She needed to feel it. She achingly wanted to feel it.

She pulled the cold piece of metal from beneath the deteriorating shelf. There was still a bit of blood on it. A dried smear of shame. She stared intently at the blade. It almost glittered in the darkness. It shone for her.

Examining the pale white scars across her wrist her smirk faded into a sad smile. This was a drug. A drug that brought forth a surreal escape from life. An escape from the stress. An escape from the expectation.

The metal slid slowly across her pale flesh, mechanically. It was all protocol. She did it at least three times a day now. It was habit. Familiar habit.

She pulled the knife away. Waiting for that beautiful sting. Waiting for that pure euphoria. For the blood to rush to her ears. For the pain.

The white mark turned red. She sucked in a breath, reflex. It didn't hurt as much anymore. Now all she had to do was wait for that white-hot pain, that white-hot pleasure.

Ah…

It surged through her very being. Mouth forming into a perfect 'o' her eyelids fluttered shut. Her breathes deepened to calm her speeding heart. The adrenaline was one of the good parts. The girl's breathing calmed, her closed eyelids opening slightly.

A drop of blood fell to the floor. Her elated trance ended. The debauchery of her actions hit her. The degrading voice sunk in. Sneering and chiding and taunting as always.

'Are you that desperate?'

She shook her head slowly, trying to be rid of the voice. Be rid of her conscience.

'Are you that set on destroying yourself?'

The questions. Little inquiries filling her mind. Overriding the feeling of pleasure. Overriding her surreal world, making things all too real. She shook her head. She wanted to say no. To shout at that damned voice.

'You're weak.'

No… no…

'Yes. Yes. Yes. Don't fool yourself.'

Shutting her eyes against the teasing jest of the voice she leaned her head against the old shelf. The tears fell. Meandering down from her eyes to her chin where they gathered and fell. She could already feel the blood on her arm drying.

The voice in her head laughed. It laughed at her. At her feebleness. At her vulnerability. Quiet sobs shook her, becoming louder with each falling tear. She dropped the knife pathetically, bringing her hand up slowly to grip the edge of the diminishing old shelf. She tried to hold the sobs in, only serving to make them loud gasps.

'Why the hell are you crying?'

"It… hurts…" she gripped her chest with her other hand. Rubbing at the cold flesh. Trying to put some warmth back into herself. Trying to stop the tortured organ beneath her breast from quivering and aching so pitifully. Trying to melt the ice starting to surround her dying heart.

'Because it hurts? You did it. You're the one hurting yourself.'

And then she laughed through her sniffles. Manic laughter that stirred her. Roused the unbridled rage. The one roaring flame aimed at herself. The gun that she pointed, the one she held steadily straight in front of the mirror at her dreary reflection. Aimed to kill.

'Have you really gone bonkers?'

"Maybe…" A low guttural growl emitting from her hoarse throat. Her hand gripped tighter at the shelf. A bout of uninhibited rage tore at her. She let it. With a few splintering cracks and an audible thump the shelf was reduced to three separately scattered pieces. The voice still echoed. Still taunted her.

'Weak… weak… weak…'

A billow of smoke issued from her faintly parted lips as she sat against the windowsill, staring up at the crescent moon above. She knew she should quit. It was a bad habit. A habit that she'd kept very tightly wound. No one knew about her smoking and she liked it that way.

She took another puff of the proclaimed 'cancer stick' she thrived off of. It was an instant stress reliever. She knew better though. It wasn't a frequent stress relief. Just a last resort. She'd always hid a pack of cigarettes around somewhere. Carefully out of sight so that no professor could find it unless they'd really looked. Not like they would. Who would pin her for a smoker?

Pulling the cigarette from her mouth yet again she proceeded to stare at it. The burning tip would fall onto the carpet, the fire within the ash dissipating before it touched the ground. Then all there would be were specks of dust floating around. Brittle gray dust. She took another puff.

The red copper look of the burning tip enticed her. Fire was bright. Fire was beautiful. Fire could burn. It was a deadly thing. A lively thing. It attracted and repelled. Destroyed and created. Took and gave. It was something glorious and its simple beauty bewildered her.

She flicked the butt of the cigarette and ash went floating about the room. Landing in various places. She'd have to do a spell later to get rid of the smell. The damned thing was almost out.

Bringing the cigarette to her lips she took one last long drag. Letting the feel of toxic substance stick to her lungs and calm her mind. She sighed heavily, mouth closed, eyes shut letting the smoke filter out through her nose. She threw the butt of the cigarette into the air, waving her wand and muttering a spell she watched the thing sparkle and vanish into nothingness.

Her lips were dry and her throat parched. Looking at the now warm bottle of beer beside her she took a sip. It stung. She cringed. Taking another sip she leaned her head back against the wall savoring the tingle of pain as the liquid made its way into her stomach.

She had to stop this. Another dangerous habit. She'd die before she hit the age of twenty-one. Of course, there were worst things she'd done. Other habits she wished she could break. She looked over to her bed. Yes, there were worst things she did.

Author's Note:

That was interesting…