fear disaster; tom riddle

4;

I REMEMBER.

i know you presume i dont— but i do.

i remember watching as they lowered you six feet down, into the depths of earth and and torn up grass, to waste away and rot like every other pathetic corpse.

i remember the way your mother wept— as if she would miss you— the real you. the you that dressed in modest attire and said your blessings. the you that prayed for all things heavenly (while you pledged to the devil at night).

i remember the way abraxas shielded his eyes, red i'm sure from the weakness he spilt in the form of despondency and mourning— while he muttered his 'i love you's' as if you'd say it back.

they all thought they understood you delia.

they thought they knew your ins and outs, your clandestine enigmas, and virtues. but they didn't— no, only i really knew who you were— you sadistic, facetious ange—bitch.

a part of me thought, while i watched black sheathed men with turned down crescent frowns lower you, that you'd just spring back up and laugh. say it was some sick parody like you always did— the type that i always abhorred, the type you'd do just in malignity of me.

but you didn't— and i found myself wishing you would, regretting my deeds, cursing myself, ruminating my abstractions. the poison of self-aversion crept up my bloodstream and made my skin sultry.

i remember loosening my tie— the thought of you making my insides churn.

i found myself desiderating— hoping that spontaneously i'd see you amble past the lining of the trees, in that low-neck silky thing you always wore that drove me mad, hoping that i'd spot those lips so red and stained with rascality grin, your fingers beckoning me to come to you.

but when i you didn't, when that dirt began to befoul the dark grained shell of your casket— the yearning was quick to turn to detestation— i hated you for not doing what i wanted.

delia nyx what have you done to me?

they played that song— the one i liked so much, but it felt wrong when the melody sounded by the fingers of another. that lullaby of black and white moonlight drenched keys were unattainable in my conscience, and while the warble ripples dalliances along hunched bodies of doleful melancholy like ocean waves over tumbling sand and seashells, i found myself shutting my eyes and trying to picture you.

your figure, your ring embossed digits, your face, your smile, your lips, your eyes— the ones that you used to pretense to as odious, but i? i thought they were the most beautiful sight. i'd never admit that to you— not that i could now, but i wouldn't even admit it to your headstone— you'd have to kill me first...

and the song was over before i knew it, albeit the only materialized delineation of you was the moment just before it all ended. murder was sour on my tongue, and there was a wetness on my cheek that i found curious, my hands shook as i wiped it away, pellucid salt water staining my fingertips. it burnt like acid on my skin, feeling it sear through the cloth of my trousers as i tried to rid of the evidence, but even then delia— i could not rid you from me.

you haunted me.

this nudge at the back of my head that tingled down every blade of my vertebrae. like your daggers had begun to slice little divots of macabre ghastliness into me until i was nothing— nothing but wasted flesh and bones. and even then, even after you take and take and take— i still wished to see you, i still wished that i could take it back.

i remember delia,

you had this look in your eyes when they stared back at me, they weren't bright anymore, they no longer had the constellations swarming in them— no andromeda, no big dipper. and your lips— were parted and blue, no longer that humming saturated shade of rose— they didn't have that sticky honey sweetness that drew me in and soothed my throat when you kissed me.

i remember delia,

lie to me
lie to me
lie to me

lie
     to
        me.

your father tapped my shoulder, he raised a brow with some sort of deplorable expectation. i swallowed, my throat sore from the incinerating of my insides while your screams thrashed in my psyche and your touch gnawed at my insides, while your heart stopped beating and mine spilt in two. and i nodded, like i knew what he wanted.

i could laugh you know? like actually ingenuously and unpretentiously laugh because we always did when it came to your parents, because you hated them— you thought they'd dance on your grave... maybe they still would—maybe they would when the bodies trickled away and you were left alone in the cold soils and weeping moonlight.

but then dusk drew nearer, swarms of ducked heads of condolers dispersed into the air of disconsolation. Malfoy offered to drink our—his— sorrows away, i declined.

your mother fell into hysteria, she swore she saw you again.

the night fell in thick bleeding blankets of contrition and i?

i remained.

and maybe this is the moment i hated myself the most, or maybe it was some ludicrous twisted passage to redemption, but when silence fell, and i implicitly assured myself that you weren't going to spring from the surface of freshly laid earth and drag me to the abyss of the netherworld, i settled and let that familiar silence take hold of me and drown me into introspection until everything went cold.

and then, and only then— never to be repeated i finally did what you wanted 'lia— you'd never get to rejoice, you'd never get to vaunt... you'd never get to kiss me the way you do...

and so i lied.

i (one)
love (two)
you (three)

but i didn't want to be a liar.