107

In a room littered with blood, engulfed in blood, buried in blood ... Dobby, swathed in blood, loitered. Standing with his fingers clutched around bloody scissors. Bemused, he panted; unable to catch his breath. The pain was once there. But what was once there, was now unbiddenly lost. 

Taking the egregious condition of the room into account, Dobby had been obviously experimenting, meddling about with this new anomaly by which he had been seemingly hexed. 

He heaved, uneasy. What was happening to him? He darted toward his wardrobe mirror. Panic-stricken, he peered at his reflection. Why was his skin becoming so awfully pale? His countenance was besieged by absolute horror. 

He could not impose lethal wounds upon himself no matter what he tried. Much less kill himself no matter what he tried. To kill himself, was certainly not something he yearned for. But at this point, what was he yearning for? Why was he now besotted with this short nurtured goal of his to hurt himself? 

Answers, unbeknown. 

Hellbent, he, despite initially fumbling, cut his vital veins rounds and myriads of times. He had cut a few of his fingers asunder. However, the one thing he could not muster the bravery to perform was decapitating himself or penetrating his heart. He killed himself more than a hundred times. Though, his efforts—so remorseful and true—were to no avail. 

What monster has he become? 

Suddenly, a loud knocking sounded from his wooden door, which he had locked. Startled, he jolted, dropping the scissors—the weapon that had killed him a hundred times over. 

More rounds of aggressive knocks emanated from his bedroom door. Then more. Dobby spun around in circles. The room was filthy. What would he do? The door shook from the most aggressive rounds of knocks yet. Dobby took his shirt off and flung it in a corner of the room. He rushed toward the door; and quickly opened it, revolving the handle. The door clicked. Dobby pushed it opened. The door collided with Lark's face. Lark, Dobby's uncle, had almost collapsed. He quickly steadied, staggering on his feet. 

"I-I'm sorry," Dobby said; still covered in blood. 

Lark squinted at him. Then his eyes widened. "You little fucker. You did that on purpose ... didn't you?" His words slurred and drawled, they crashed into each other like cars. His pitch raised and fell, almost as if to sway. And ... veering left and right—like cars on a highway, Lark swayed. 

Dobby furrowed his brows. "I did. Not. Do. It. On. Purpose!" 

Lark sluggishly raised a hand; ready to strike his nephew with a powerful blow. "Raising your voice at me, Dobbarius?!" He inched closer. 

The closer he came, the more powerful his horrible scent grew. The stench hurled itself up Dobby's nostrils. Lark smelt like filthy pigs in a barn. He smelt like the bar meshed with his own urination. The way he walked, almost sideward, was yet another thing Dobby had experienced a hundred times over. He was beyond irritated. 

Lark grimaced at Dobby. A sight had forestalled his contrived assault. He stood; slowly lowering his hand. He then scrutinized Dobby, his head rising and falling. His pupils had then replicated this wandering motion. Lark was a trifle dumbfounded. It had been years since he'd seen this much blood. "W-where did you ... how did all that blood get on you?" He rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times; unable to believe what was in front of him. 

Years it had been. Someone—so akin to Dobby—was always covered in blood as well. 

On the face of it; perhaps Dobbarius had taken after his dear uncle. A dirty man; who did not fancy smells nor proper health. Dobby's body was a walking chunk of filth today. He was buried in blood. Unbeknownst to Lark, it was his very own. 

Something had told Lark to peer into Dobby's room. From the time he had done so; he gasped aloud. The room, too, was swathed in blood, the metallic malodor flooded the house. 

Lark tossed his head at Dobby again. He raised an index finger and furrowed his brows. "You did this too, didn't you?" 

Dobby hadn't responded. 

"You little fucker. I can't take this anymore. I can't ... it's been going on for too god damn long! And it keeps getting worse .... you keep getting worse, Dobby! You're not talkin' to the man who's raised you, you're not eating the food he worked so hard to buy, and on top of it all, you're hating him in his own house!

"What's the matter with you, Dobby!? What the fuck is wrong with you? Tell me!" Lark snapped. 

Dobby hadn't responded. He looked at his uncle with scorn on his face. 

"Answer me, god damn it! Actually ... you know what? That's it ... I'm fed up with you, I just," he balled his fists, "wanna teach you a lesson so ... bad. Yeah," he furrowed his brows. "That's what you need ... you need ... a lesson!"

Suddenly, Lark lunged toward Dobby and cupped his hand around his neck. He thrust him back, slamming him into a wall. Dobby winced as Lark began to squeeze on his throat. 

"You just don't understand, Dobby! This isn't what I wanted for you! I ...." he raised his brows for a moment, "didn't want to hurt you. Yet I've been doing it since you were little. You're a fucking brat," he furrowed his brows, "you hear me? I bet you remember taking out your aggression on kids at school. Displaced aggression? Why don't you try doing that to me for a change, huh? 

"You came home every day, and I just grinned and drew my belt. That's the way it always was. And the part that sucks the most is that you're causing this to happen! It's all your fault, Dobby! Even though I beat your arse so much, you always find some way to sicken my soul!" He slammed Dobby into the wall again. 

Dobby struggled for breath. He was at first resisting but had quickly yielded ... on purpose, that is. He had plotted to fight back, but now, he was only flooded with relent. Perhaps in this way; he could finally ... die. 

His hand was clutched to one of his uncle's. But now; he had chosen to release it. His face softened; his body deflating. No longer was he tensed. He had accepted this unfortunate kismet. 

A tear trickled down Lark's face as he strangled his nephew to death; still finding some loath to grit his teeth. Hysterical, he was. He could no longer bear the pain. Maybe it was time to end it all. And then ... himself. 

Dobby's eyelids slowly fell.