the beautiful derek d. dobbs (![[info]](https://www.scribbld.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} bigd) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.scribbld.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} valesco, |
Crack.
The hand he'd forgotten about, the one not touching his sister in anyway, holding his wand, seized. Snapped the useless instrument in two.
Bits of the wood jutted into his palm, scraping it, piercing it. It didn't matter. He threw the pieces away from him. It didn't matter, because that wand hadn't done anything to stop this. A wand, in fact, was what allowed his sister to be so—
He could not think it. Did not dare think it.
Nausea rolled over him in waves. He could feel that same hand tensing, as if unable to stop itself from ripping away at that flesh with its incessant crawling and creeping and dragging and itching and burning because this was his doing, and it was his fault—
He slid closer, more for himself than her, to know she was still alive, and still here, and still walking and talking and thinking and his baby sister. He extended his arms now, gentle, so gentle, like she was moth wings and the slightest touch might crumble her, and slid them around her utterly still frame.
They would not touch her again. They would never touch anyone he cared for once more, ever.
"I will make it all right," he told her tonelessly, numbly. "I will make everything all right again."
The hand he'd forgotten about, the one not touching his sister in anyway, holding his wand, seized. Snapped the useless instrument in two.
Bits of the wood jutted into his palm, scraping it, piercing it. It didn't matter. He threw the pieces away from him. It didn't matter, because that wand hadn't done anything to stop this. A wand, in fact, was what allowed his sister to be so—
He could not think it. Did not dare think it.
Nausea rolled over him in waves. He could feel that same hand tensing, as if unable to stop itself from ripping away at that flesh with its incessant crawling and creeping and dragging and itching and burning because this was his doing, and it was his fault—
He slid closer, more for himself than her, to know she was still alive, and still here, and still walking and talking and thinking and his baby sister. He extended his arms now, gentle, so gentle, like she was moth wings and the slightest touch might crumble her, and slid them around her utterly still frame.
They would not touch her again. They would never touch anyone he cared for once more, ever.
"I will make it all right," he told her tonelessly, numbly. "I will make everything all right again."
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