Dead from the neck up I guess I'm stuck
Jul. 13th, 2011 07:53 am![[identity profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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bait_backup*Mulciber knew his mother never approved of his involvement with the Death Eaters. It was always associated with his father's hobbies, a bit of politics to lighten the boredom of maintaining a fortune. A bit of politics with a side of coercion and murder, but politics nevertheless.
Most of the time she bit her tongue. She never said a word when Mulciber whinged about a massive bruise after a battle, or when he returned home late at night sporting a satisfied smirk and blood smeared across his hands. There was only one thing she ever said every now and then, with a sad smile and a sigh: You're too young to be a part of all of this chaos.
He never paid attention to her. To him she was too apolitical to understand, and since the age of seventeen Mulciber has never viewed his age as much of a handicap. He has never considered twenty-one considerably young. In fact, living for more than two decades almost sounded impressive.
It isn't until he see's the age, Snape's age, his age in the Prophet that it hits him. Snape is dead. His best friend is dead at the age of twenty-one, and now two decades seem comparable to the average lifespan of a house fly.
His initial reaction is nausea, followed by numbness, and before his brain has time to catch up, his fingers are ripping the newspaper to shreds. He can't stop shaking. His cheeks are wet. There is this pulsating ache in his chest that is expanding by the second. He breathes in and out through his nose in heavy, shuddering huffs, staring at the scraps of paper with a snarl. The tiny text and torn photos mock him, and with a sharp jab of his wand every scrap of paper disintegrates.
Nothing changes.
He forces his eyes away from the ornate carpet and looks up to find his mother standing in the doorway. She's walking towards him with makeup running down her cheeks in little streams of black, and that's when it snaps. The ache in his chest bursts and suddenly he's sobbing like a child. If anyone else were to witness him in such a state he'd feel embarrassed, ashamed that his mask of arrogance and control had faltered. But he can give fuck all about something as pointless as reputation when Aurora sits next to him on the bed and cradles his head in the crook of her neck. He's crying even louder now, and he's vaguely aware of his saliva seeping into the shoulder of his mother's robes. Aurora strokes his hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. Her lips move, forming words that he can feel but cannot hear: "I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry."
Mulciber is unsure as to how long he stays there, but well after the sobs subside and turn into the occasional sniffle, he doesn't move. His voice is weak, strained, and nearly unrecognizable as he mumbles into Aurora's neck.*
Don't leave yet, mum. Please.
*Hours later, Mulciber opens his eyes to the haze of mid afternoon sun shining through his window. He doesn't remember falling asleep, he can't really remember much of anything until he spots his mother's handkerchief on his bedside table.
It all comes flooding back, and the ache returns.*
Most of the time she bit her tongue. She never said a word when Mulciber whinged about a massive bruise after a battle, or when he returned home late at night sporting a satisfied smirk and blood smeared across his hands. There was only one thing she ever said every now and then, with a sad smile and a sigh: You're too young to be a part of all of this chaos.
He never paid attention to her. To him she was too apolitical to understand, and since the age of seventeen Mulciber has never viewed his age as much of a handicap. He has never considered twenty-one considerably young. In fact, living for more than two decades almost sounded impressive.
It isn't until he see's the age, Snape's age, his age in the Prophet that it hits him. Snape is dead. His best friend is dead at the age of twenty-one, and now two decades seem comparable to the average lifespan of a house fly.
His initial reaction is nausea, followed by numbness, and before his brain has time to catch up, his fingers are ripping the newspaper to shreds. He can't stop shaking. His cheeks are wet. There is this pulsating ache in his chest that is expanding by the second. He breathes in and out through his nose in heavy, shuddering huffs, staring at the scraps of paper with a snarl. The tiny text and torn photos mock him, and with a sharp jab of his wand every scrap of paper disintegrates.
Nothing changes.
He forces his eyes away from the ornate carpet and looks up to find his mother standing in the doorway. She's walking towards him with makeup running down her cheeks in little streams of black, and that's when it snaps. The ache in his chest bursts and suddenly he's sobbing like a child. If anyone else were to witness him in such a state he'd feel embarrassed, ashamed that his mask of arrogance and control had faltered. But he can give fuck all about something as pointless as reputation when Aurora sits next to him on the bed and cradles his head in the crook of her neck. He's crying even louder now, and he's vaguely aware of his saliva seeping into the shoulder of his mother's robes. Aurora strokes his hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. Her lips move, forming words that he can feel but cannot hear: "I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry."
Mulciber is unsure as to how long he stays there, but well after the sobs subside and turn into the occasional sniffle, he doesn't move. His voice is weak, strained, and nearly unrecognizable as he mumbles into Aurora's neck.*
Don't leave yet, mum. Please.
*Hours later, Mulciber opens his eyes to the haze of mid afternoon sun shining through his window. He doesn't remember falling asleep, he can't really remember much of anything until he spots his mother's handkerchief on his bedside table.
It all comes flooding back, and the ache returns.*
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