InsaneJournal

Current location:	Bunkertor 23, hey, I live here
Current mood:	blank
Current music:	white noise
Entry tags:	drabble, fanfic

DRABBLE: Some Day We Are Going to Party Like It's 1979
TITLE: Some Day We Are Going to Party Like It's 1979
AUTHOR: ms_anthropy
PAIRINGS: none. my first gen, actually.
SUMMARY: Inside the dreaded prison of Azkaban. Inside Bellatrix Lestrange's mind.
WORD COUNT: 500?
WARNINGS: very light R: self-injury, mentions of righteous post-abortions and dark!-ish.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling and various big companies own the world and the characters. (Muggles? Avada Kedavra! -Bellatrix) I do not. Again, they are making the profit and I am not. I just spent some time inside ms. Lestrange's head because I felt like it.

A/N: Somewhat a reflection of my mindset at the time. Thanks for Boyd Rice: the title is modification from one of his wonderful unpop artworks and I got the basic idea from there too. FYI, here: http://www.unpopart.org/artworks/1969.html (Oh, and that link is not work safe.)

Some Day We Are Going to Party Like It's 1979

There is no comfort in the prison of Azkaban. It does not matter, I have no need for comfort. Dementors outside my cell are scarce for they are not able to drain any happy thoughts out of me. I have no need for happiness. I do not fear them for I have never been afraid. Sometimes I feel like they fear me. I do not care.

There is dried blood on my face, dried blood all over my body. Scratches all over and dried blood under my fingernails. Fingernails, long sharp broken edges. Like ten daggers. I feel a slight tingle of disappointment ...and longing. There is only my own blood. The taste is rich and pure but some part of me craves for different flavours. Still, it does not matter. I have no need for pleasure.

Dirt. Dirt all over me. The filthy mattress, my hair a black, tangled web made of years inside these cold stone walls. It does not matter either. I swallow my own blood to keep my soul alive. Or dead. There is no difference. There has never been a difference.

Sometimes I find myself wondering absently how no one is able to see it. No one able to see it is all black. Souls intact or broken. No difference whatsoever. There was one man once. The only one. He came to me, prepared to tell me soft-spoken words of coercion. I had no need for them. In one sharp gaze he understood. We were alike. We are alike because he is not dead.

Dirt. Filth. Filth all over the world. Muggles. Mudbloods. Blood-traitors. That does matter. The bitter taste of the thought lingers inside my mouth until I cleanse it with my own pure blood. The deep dark red river never runs dry. I lick my left arm, the only place I have left unscathed because it is sacred. Blessed. The dark purity that no one can take away from me, no Aurors, nor Dementors. My skin is covered with filth but it does not matter. Inside I am clean. Pure. Black.

Night descends. Even if there were no light I could sense it. Alone in the darkness like I was waiting for death to take me home. The darkness. The light. The ones that chose the light, they were afraid. Afraid of darkness, afraid of death. They are the scum of the Earth. I have never been afraid of death. The death of our enemies I cherish. Towards my own death I feel nothing. It will come some day. Some day... what?

I feel an indescribable tingle in the Dark Mark on my arm. It is my allegiance, it is my soul and it is coming back. It grows blacker. My Dark Lord is returning. My belief never faltered... no, not belief for we who know need no illusions of belief. My knowledge never faltered. Lord Voldemort is coming back to release the world ...and soon we will party like it is 1979.