𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐫𝐡𝐢𝐜, harry potter

𝟎𝟎𝟎. youth

{ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛɪᴛʟᴇᴅ "ᴘʏʀʀʜɪᴄ". ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴘɪᴄꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱᴇᴅ. (ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜʙꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ɪʟʟɴᴇꜱꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ.) ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴛᴏᴘɪᴄꜱ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴇxᴄᴜꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ.}

✧˖*°࿐ ❝ well, i've lost it all, i'm just a silhouette; i'm a lifeless face that you'll soon forget. ❞࿐°*˖✧

(𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞.)

DEPRESSION HAD DROWNED her in the putrescent grapes that had taught them to swim. The murky red of the water sealed her eyes closed in the everlasting fear of the silhouettes that were kept afloat. Heaves of air escaped her little lungs, the liquid seeping further into her fragile bones, leaving the odd ratio of water to blood, awaiting the abyss of darkness to overtake the brain. However, whenever she was about to lose consciousness, her uncle would unplug the drain of the bathtub, freeing her of the sins that weighed her shoulders down.

Childhood depression was a mouthless face that dug its nails into her taut shoulders, murmuring melancholically in her wishful ears. A thick veil of fog encased her brain unsolicitedly, painting yellow thoughts over with a grey varnish. She had interlocked her pinkies with it, promising to never leave it because if one thing was consistent in her life, it was her depression. They were attached at the hip; they knew each other like old friends experiencing the seemingly perpetual meltdowns and periods of dissociation, together; the ones that crawled up her capillaries relentlessly, lacerating every ounce of dignity that she had managed to retain in her, recent, four years of life.

Alula Luella Black had been diagnosed with the desolate disorder that is depression, at the mere age of three, which it, admittedly, took many threats to get her help. The concern arose by none other than Regulus Black, her uncle, who was around unceasingly, considering the fact that alcohol had driven a path that her parents blindly followed, one which led them far off a cliff of their own form of despair. She knew the words the trail spoke to them like the back of her hand; the desperation of the arms it held out, awaiting for them to walk into them for a bloody embrace. Shrewd commands marinated on the alcohol's crimson lips, hypnotising the couple that had already fallen sheep to cigarettes. Alula knew that the soles of their feet could identify every step they took forward, as they had already gone backward so many times.