InsaneJournal

Waves of Silver Mercury

Damned to the bowels of Hell, you don’t want to know where I’ve been. Tainted like the brine of the sea, full of salt that tortures wounds, full of wrecked ships, wrecked lives that no one remembers, full of the chaos of nature in breathing form.

With every seventh wave does the sea strike out with power. With every seventh piece of soul remaining out there do I gain power too, not that it is a recurring thing. My power doesn’t fluctuate once I’ve leveled it. Not really. I am a static being, or at least a static exoskeleton containing the mercury inside that ruins and radiates and restates my awesome power through every wave of awesome turmoil. The power is unmoving, yet the feeling is not.

I put on a strong front, don’t I, through that exoskeleton? Inside I am so strong I am violent—not that I am not violent on the outside, but the inside of man does not follow reason, is not restrained, and takes no prisoners. Inside we are unmerciful as the sea.I sit and muse quietly to myself about the downward spiral my life is taking. It started with the half of a prophecy a boy once relayed to me. Sometimes I wonder if he had only given me half on purpose—foolish thought, I know. That boy worshipped me more than any of the others. Throw him some positive attention, and he was pudding. Though, throw him some negative and he was a hellcat in need of a good taming.

When I went after the Potters, I figured that no chances need be taken besides letting the boy, the one who’d relayed the prophecy, Severus Snape, be shown my mercy. I tried to, I really did, allow his once-friend to live on, but she wouldn’t have it. She would rather have foolishly sacrificed herself than accepted my offer of charity. So be it, then.

But even my seven parts of soul, in me and my six Horcruxes, were not enough to prevent me from being ripped painfully from my own flesh until I was the weakest, silvery shadow of a being, lost and puzzled, alone. Lily did something that night she herself did not think was possible, and the Potters’ child lived on. Miraculously, I would say, but it is of Satan, of the devil that he did.

Now, I am glad to say, touching him is no longer an agony I cannot bear. It is quite easy, in fact, and I love the way a simple finger laid over his scar can have him braying like an animal in penance for his mutinous crimes—although, I suppose one has to be a crew member before one can mutiny.

This child, Harry Potter, is an ingrate of the worst kind. And I find myself losing over and over in a sickeningly destructive pattern. I’d better not sink like one of the ships in a righteous and unsteadying teenaged storm, for if I do I may not come back again.I am forever stuck in this in-between, this half-life, cursed life, buffeted around like the rot of time, with a lot of time. Time to remember and make forgetfulness appear in kind. I need to get my things in order, I know. I have the dementors, at least, who are populating like nothing else in a sick yet somehow beautiful fog. We are gaining support from some, if not all, giants. We’re working toward acquiring the vampires.

I am, in reality, just as the day I was born. Not letting my voice cry out. Knowing things I should not know. Dirty and hungry, and ready to sleep. And I am still alone, really. Misunderstood. Damned to the bowels of Hell.