takes place the day before Draco's party..
Alexandre was acting strange. Well, that is, strange to those who did not know him. And let's face it, nobody knows him.
Normally, he starts drinking the moment that first pang of depression or guilt hits him in the morning. Today was different. He rose just after noon and spent most of the day seemingly floating about, barely existing.
He lay outside for a while, until his mother joined him and complained about quite possibly everything under the sun. That exact thought mused Alexandre, glaring up at the bright sun above him. However, mid-sentence, he silently rose from his chair and went back inside the house, leaving his mother understandably insulted. She cursed at his back, but he pretended to have not heard her.
Indoors, while proven to be much quieter, was fairly dark and cold. Goosebumps rose on his skin as he hurried to his room to better clothe himself. He pulled a tshirt over his head and changed out of his swimming trunks and into jeans.
Pausing in front of the mirror, he stared blankly back at himself. He appeared as if it was looking for something on (or, more likely, in) himself. Several minutes passed before he made any movement.
"I'm going to kill myself," he said calmly to his reflection.
As if it was really that simple. Thoughts flooded his mind. How would he do it? Would he leave any sort of note behind? Is this even what he really wants?
Not that that really even matters. He thought of his father; what would happen if he refused to follow his orders to join him?
Is death better than being forced to serve someone you feel no loyalty to?
"Of course it is," he said aloud, now approaching his desk and sitting down.
He pulled out the top drawer and then a small black box. His heart was beating faster as he thought about everything he was leaving behind. Cessy, Draco, his schooling, his future, his mother-
He laughed to himself and threw open the lid and examined its contents. There was certainly enough to get the job done, and plenty left over, he figured, for his mother to sell for a new dress.
He dumped out a small bag onto the desk and began to arrange it in small lines. His hands were now shaking. He thought of Cessy. He thought of Draco's party. Should he write him a letter of apology? No, he'd never find the right words. He was certain they all think he's absolutely mad anyhow, so perhaps they'll understand?
He lowered his head and hoped for the best... or worst. He wasn't quite sure.
Twenty-seven hours had passed and neither his mother or father had bothered to check on him once. Though, much to Alexandre's surprise, he did not feel dead, whatever that meant. He actually felt quite terrible. Everything ached, except his head, which felt several times too large and pounded with each staggering beat of his heart.
He had failed.
"Figures," he muttered to himself, with his face still against the floor which he had passed out on. It took him several minutes to gather the strength and will to peel himself off of the hardwood and face what he had done.
His mirror seemed miles away, but he made his way over to give himself a look. His face was pale, even for his slightly tanned skin, and he had an inch-long cut on his forehead where he had hit it against the corner of his desk before landing onto the floor. He glanced over at his calander, which a circle spun around the current date. He hadn't missed Draco's party, at least.
"ALEXANDRE EDUARD NARMINOV," came the screeching voice of, who else, his mother from seemingly nowhere. "YOUR FATHER AND I REQUIRE YOUR ATTENDANCE AT DINNER THIS EVENING."
Normally, he starts drinking the moment that first pang of depression or guilt hits him in the morning. Today was different. He rose just after noon and spent most of the day seemingly floating about, barely existing.
He lay outside for a while, until his mother joined him and complained about quite possibly everything under the sun. That exact thought mused Alexandre, glaring up at the bright sun above him. However, mid-sentence, he silently rose from his chair and went back inside the house, leaving his mother understandably insulted. She cursed at his back, but he pretended to have not heard her.
Indoors, while proven to be much quieter, was fairly dark and cold. Goosebumps rose on his skin as he hurried to his room to better clothe himself. He pulled a tshirt over his head and changed out of his swimming trunks and into jeans.
Pausing in front of the mirror, he stared blankly back at himself. He appeared as if it was looking for something on (or, more likely, in) himself. Several minutes passed before he made any movement.
"I'm going to kill myself," he said calmly to his reflection.
As if it was really that simple. Thoughts flooded his mind. How would he do it? Would he leave any sort of note behind? Is this even what he really wants?
Not that that really even matters. He thought of his father; what would happen if he refused to follow his orders to join him?
Is death better than being forced to serve someone you feel no loyalty to?
"Of course it is," he said aloud, now approaching his desk and sitting down.
He pulled out the top drawer and then a small black box. His heart was beating faster as he thought about everything he was leaving behind. Cessy, Draco, his schooling, his future, his mother-
He laughed to himself and threw open the lid and examined its contents. There was certainly enough to get the job done, and plenty left over, he figured, for his mother to sell for a new dress.
He dumped out a small bag onto the desk and began to arrange it in small lines. His hands were now shaking. He thought of Cessy. He thought of Draco's party. Should he write him a letter of apology? No, he'd never find the right words. He was certain they all think he's absolutely mad anyhow, so perhaps they'll understand?
He lowered his head and hoped for the best... or worst. He wasn't quite sure.
Twenty-seven hours had passed and neither his mother or father had bothered to check on him once. Though, much to Alexandre's surprise, he did not feel dead, whatever that meant. He actually felt quite terrible. Everything ached, except his head, which felt several times too large and pounded with each staggering beat of his heart.
He had failed.
"Figures," he muttered to himself, with his face still against the floor which he had passed out on. It took him several minutes to gather the strength and will to peel himself off of the hardwood and face what he had done.
His mirror seemed miles away, but he made his way over to give himself a look. His face was pale, even for his slightly tanned skin, and he had an inch-long cut on his forehead where he had hit it against the corner of his desk before landing onto the floor. He glanced over at his calander, which a circle spun around the current date. He hadn't missed Draco's party, at least.
"ALEXANDRE EDUARD NARMINOV," came the screeching voice of, who else, his mother from seemingly nowhere. "YOUR FATHER AND I REQUIRE YOUR ATTENDANCE AT DINNER THIS EVENING."