The blood seeped through the towel which was lightly held to draco malfoys slit wrist. He had been repeating that habit far too many times, so much that the familiar sensation of the knife slicing through his pale skin had become almost routine, almost pleasure. He never had died from his attempts as he had secretly hoped, but the pain brought to him an almost comforting pleasure which with every fiber of his being he had often yearned for, seeking far from what he had received from his loveless family, and pain seemed the only option to turn to.

A knock upon his door stirred him from his musings. He quickly proceeded to wrap the towel tightly around the knife, which was dripping with the crimson, distasteful blood of his own.

At that moment his father pushed the door open, revealing what his truthful eyes did not want to see. “Draco.” He gasped, barely a whisper, had the room not been deadly silent his words would have disappeared. His voice hushed he repeated “Draco… Tell me that blood is fake.” Draco clearly wasn’t as shocked as his father. He stared into the awekward silence for a few seconds, before saying “Father, the blood is fake.”

His father had obviously forgotten what he had come to speak with Draco about, and watching the retreat of his back, Draco couldn’t really say he really cared. “he doesn’t fucking love me.” He uttered those five words under his breath with the most distaste and venom in his voice that he could muster, few seconds of silence passed before his eyes opened wide in shock and he screamed “NOBODY FUCKING LOVES ME! NOT EVEN MY OWN FUCKING FAMILY,” he spat then speaking in a more quiet voice “He wouldn’t even notice if I was fucking dead, he’s so caught up in his own little world… in his job… I HATE HIM!!!!” He screamed more loudly, his shreik reverberating off the marble walls of his room. He turned towards his mirror, breathing shakily as he looked into his reflection, into his very own face riddled with fear and hatred as he put his fist right through the mirror, shards of glass fell upon him, some stuck out of his knuckles where his fist had collided with the, once untouched, mirror. But his inner scars were searing with far too much pain to care about the physical ones lined on his pale cream skin.