Fanaticism of Wrong

DETTA ÄR EN FOLLOW-UP PÅ MIN ANDRA ONE-SHOT, 'INDULGENCE OF RIGHT'. Läs vid: http://www.mugglarportalen.se/forum.php?forum=10&page=3#forum.php?topic=14398

Rating: PG-13
Språk: Engelska
Varning: Innehållet kan uppfattas som stötande och obehagligt.
AN: Den andra i den samling av one-shots jag planerar att skriva på temat Draco/?
Återigen, känn er fria att komma med gissningar om vem 'her/she' är. Känn er fria att kommentera även om ni inte vet :3

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The aftermath was always the worst. I hated her, loathed her for what she made me do. The spiteful voices in my head told me it was all her fault. She was the one who had seduced me, led me to her bedchamber and crawled all over me, forced herself upon me. Initiated all of the revolting actions that came next. She was a serpent, beautiful with silent elegance and grace, until she bared her fangs and poisoned my senses, poisoned my mind. Made me act upon the notions that in the light of day seemed so far away, so tightly locked away and secured in the darkest courner of my consciousness. She tore them out, clawing and ripping away my last shred of sensibility until I succumbed to it, like a demoness. A succubus, cunning and greedy without any compassion or consideration, unless it served her wicked purpose to show it.
WRONG.
And then came the self-disgust and the sickening feeling of revulsion against what I had done. The guilt of the dark thoughts I’d had of her. I was pathetic, blaming her for it all. She was innocent. Pure and kind-hearted. I was the one who was corrupted. I’d stained her white feathers with my own black blood, forced her to be what I now detested her for being. Oh god, I was a monster. No. Worse than a monster. I was filth. Less than human. Something black and foul that had crawled up from the darkest, wettest, dirtiest hole of hell, something rotten, reeking of corruption, oozing of thick, slimy self-justification. Something small, worthless and disgusting, convinced of it’s own importance. And the feeling of wrong that I’d felt that first time continued to linger, on and on through every last moment of my pitiful existence.
WRONG.
Bitter, brittle, breaking. With all of her pure heart and cool intellect, she still didn’t stop me. Why didn’t she? Was it that she did not want it to stop? No, that wasn’t right. She hadn’t wanted it in the first place, and she would never enjoy it. Most likely, it was that she couldn’t. She didn’t know how... no, she did. It was simple. She couldn’t see why... no, that wasn’t right either. She could see all of the wrong, I was sure. But she simply couldn’t bear to face me. That was it. She didn’t have the strength to stand up and refuse me when my lust overpowered my judgement. She was- NO. I mustn’t. I cannot afford to see fault in both ends. If I do, the last pieces of illusion will shatter like that of a broken mirror, raining down upon us and carving the crimson wickedness of our sin into the only part of us that has yet to reflect our indulgences into unjustifiable lust.
WRONG.
And so I realize, as my back is turned against her, that I can end this right now. I have a knife within reach, and it would only take a moment to grab it, turn around and slash her pale skin open, revealing the red red blood gushing all over and drowning me in the warmth of her life and limb and covering me in the sin that pulsed within her. And then I could just run, run, run, escape this horrible, painful guilt, escape the filth and darkness that crawls in my soul. Letting it claw its way out and leave me behind, free from guilt and sin at last. I could run so very far withour ever leaving the dim light of the candles. That knife, by then covered in her crimson wickedness could be my salvation. As my thoughts race, and my mere imagination almost is adequate to bring me to ecstasy once more, I can see before my inner eye how I reach for the silvery pleasure and red and red and red and red and my fingers twitch.
WRONG.
My body tenses, and I get ready to pounce. Just one move, and it would all go. Just one... But the very moment I initiate that one, sacred move, I stop dead. I feel her moving behind me, and her warm breath against my neck. My heart is beating fast, thumping like the hooves of a frenzied horse breaking into a sprint. My breathing is hitched, I can’t get enough air, and as I draw back my hand and let it drop onto the sheets I feel it like my veins are on fire, burning hot and churning away at my insides with the flames of my sin. Unbearable pain that would go away if only I got to feel the red heat of her sin on my skin.
WRONG.
And I turn, and I know. I can’t. Not yet. Not to her. Something as beautiful as her can’t have sinned enough to deserve the same punishment as something like me. Yet. But she must have sensed it, perhaps read it in my wide, darkened eyes, my tense body or my momentarily exposed, twisted soul. She sees, she knows what I was about to do. A flicker of fear upon her peaceful, content features, and that’s all I need to understand. Then it’s gone, and she smiles at me. Ignores her fear, her feeling of wrong. Pushes it aside, pretends it isn’t there. And I feel... safe. As all of my violent feelings of hate bounce back, I feel like I can once again breathe freely. Because now I know that I will soon be able to end it. And with that, a lifeline that helps me cling on to my sanity for a while longer, I am able to acknowledge the ugliness that hides behind the beauty, and admit to myself that I alone am not to blame. Her own fault carries just as much guilt as mine.
WEAK.