Nox (The Marauders, Wolfstar, Jily)

16: im gay and i want death

The room smelt like blood. That was the only thing of certainty: ever present, bordering on overwhelming, at the forefront of his mind. He couldn't even be sure if his surroundings were indeed a room, as everything seemed to flicker and change, the world growing slowly larger and smaller around him, as everything began to deconstruct and fall to pieces. Wooden panelling of the walls he had trusted in, quickly fell right back to the trees they'd came from, where there had once been a floor, something he'd perhaps come to take for granted, now beneath his feet lay just dirt and a slight cover of leaves.

The smell of blood, however, was overwhelming. He trusted himself to it, for it was the only thing he found that he knew in that moment. To come to question it perhaps seemed to be the obvious option, yet despite that, it simply was not a notion that crossed his mind. Partly, however, his mind seemed unreachable, as if detached from his body entirely, as if extended out on a string, like a balloon, desperate to escape, and ready to ascend up into the sky the very moment he might have let go of it. This should have left him to grasp his mind tightly, to pull himself together, for the worry of losing himself, as it was indeed a natural, human worry. What it wasn't however, was a worry that crossed his mind: already too far gone.

Instead he found himself fixated on the simpler things, things without a need for thought or consideration, but things that he was instinctively drawn to, things that connected with his heart rather than his head. He focused on the breeze: gentle and cool, running through his hair and his fingertips. Then his attention turned to the dirt below him, and how it felt against the palm of his hand, and how it made quick work of turning pale white skin a speckled and muddy brown.

In the end, forever, always, he was drawn back to the blood: to the smell of it all. It was something instinctual, beyond everything else, held up on a pedestal beneath the ground, held not before his heart, but deep inside his chest. It did perhaps beg for attention, demand his thoughts, beg for questions to spring forth and answers to join them. If he was in his right mind, if his mind wasn't simply floating away from him as he stood there, in the darkness, in the world that took no one shape, in the world that did its best to escape him completely, he would met the blood, the smell of it all, with the recognition it deserved, with the worry it commanded. Perhaps however, it was for the best that he wasn't, for the best that he didn't, because there was an awful notion amidst it all - a wonder if perhaps the blood was asking too much, for the blood was just blood after all.

His distrust was instinctual, and within seconds he found himself stepping backwards into an unknown darkness, into a world he wasn't even sure that really existed. Part of him began to feel as if it was all falsified, fading in and out of existence as he might require it; the world just a bubble to hold him, just to keep him away from his mind, floating freely out of it.

He couldn't understand why he might have needed to be kept away from his mind, for he was one with his mind, for he liked to imagine that he was one with himself, but he was instead fragmented: several different pieces, like shards of glass, that had once formed the mirror that only showed him what he wanted to see. His mind was drifting away from him because it was afraid, and if he had known, he would have been too, but all he knew that night was the wood turning back into trees, the smell of the earth, the wind, the blood, and the moon.

Instinctively, a part of him looked up at the moon, at its full form, at the white light it dispersed down upon him, with fear. It was as if part of him had been conditioned to loathe it, to do his best to run from it, but that part of him had escaped with his mind. That suggested that the part of him might have been one of the more clued up parts, and that somehow, it might have been right, but he just couldn't understand it at all.

Instead, he stood there, underneath the clear sky, with not a single cloud to be seen, out into the moonlight, bathing in the shine, in the shimmer of it all, for it hit him like a thousand like lightning bolts, right into his veins, as if it held some sort of drug amidst its brilliant glimmer, as if it was more than it seemed somehow. But he was in anything but the position to question that. Instead, he stood taller, taller than ever before, and reached up, fingers pointed and outstretched towards the sky as the moon reflected back in his eyes, still, no matter how tall he grew in the light, he could never reach his mind, as it always drifted just that little way out of reach.