Disclaimer- I do not own Harry Potter.
A/N- This is in Tom Riddle Sr.'s point of view, of course, but still in third-person. And it's not supposed to be very descriptive and the fragments are on purpose. I'm trying to accomplish a certain feel to this. There are a lot of grammatical mistakes in sentence structure. That's on purpose.
Anathema: one that is greatly reviled, loathed, or shunned.
Anathema
The first thing he felt as his mind cleared was horror. Utter, repulsive, horror.
He stared at her as he fully started to comprehend what was going on. Those eyes, those horrible, abnormal eyes stared…he wasn't sure, but they must be looking at him. She was very silent, waiting.
His eyes drifted down to her slightly swollen abdomen. He shuddered…there was a thing, an abomination inside that—that horrible, vile woman. He put that monster there.
He let out a strangled yell and stumbled backwards, falling into the door as he tried to open it without turning his back on that—that witch.
'She's a witch, she's a witch, she's a witch—'"Tom!" she cried after him in a choked sob. He shook his head, his pale hand finding the brass knob behind him and he twisted, barely catching himself in time as he stumbled out of their home.
He half stumbled, half ran, down the sidewalk when it started to rain. He found a payphone and called a cab, and by this time it was pouring. He didn't care. The rain would help wash the filth away.
The driver pulled up, "You look like you've seen a massacre," he commented, eyeing the passenger's ashen complexion and wild look in his eyes. "Where to?"
It was awhile before Tom managed to force out "Little Hangleton" between words of complete gibberish.
They arrived at the Riddle House, and the rain had let up. Tom still had trouble walking steadily when he burst through the front door.
"Tom!" his mother exclaimed in surprise, rising from her chair. He tried to answer, but the only words he managed were "witch" and "bewitched", and scrambled up the stairs to the bathroom. He slammed and locked the door behind him.
He leaned against it, his hands pressed tightly to the door behind him. Slowly he sunk to the floor and caught his breath.
He crawled to the large, deep, tub and turned the faucet on to scalding. He stripped himself bare and slowly sunk in, barely noticing that his skin turned beet red under the hot water.
Images of the past year flooded his head.
Her on top of him, skin on skin, those eyes, those God-awful eyes, staring at him. The hot prickling of tears itched his eyes.
The things—the things he did… she bewitched him…she bewitched him.
He fully submerged himself under the water and inhaled. His lungs felt like they were being pierced and his nose stung. He stayed for a few seconds before he rushed, panicking, to the surface and took large gulps of oxygen.
He gripped the side of the tub tightly as black danced across his vision.
He couldn't even drown away those loathsome memories.
The "I love you's" and "you're beautiful's" they were lies, they were lies—he never loved her and she wasn't beautiful.
Those eyes.
He methodically started to scrub his skin.
Their skin, slick and salty with sweat, rubbing against each other as they drowned in the ecstasy and moans of lovemaking.
No. No. No, no, no—
He choked back a sob as tears ran down his red face. He scrubbed at his arms harder. There was not enough soap in the world to wash him with.
A year. A year wasted. Spent with that—that witch with those awful, awful eyes. With that thing inside of her that he helped make.
A strangled sob released itself from his throat and he scrubbed vigorously at his skin.
His mouth, hot on hers. Hers responding passionately back. Oh God.
He needed to wash it off. Wash all the filth from his body. He could smell her; he could smell her scent on his skin.
It. Needed. To. Come. Off.
They'd talk. The neighbors would talk about him. His elopement with that wretched girl and that damnation he planted inside of her.
'She made me do it; I didn't want to, she made me. I was bewitched, I was bewitched!'
But those eyes.
He wasn't holding back the cries anymore and he scrubbed violently at his red skin. Tiny droplets of crimson blood swirled and danced in the lukewarm water.
People were knocking hard on the bathroom door, calling his name. He only answered with more wails.
His life was ruined. It'd never be the same.
Those eyes, those abhorrent eyes would haunt him day and night; track him in his dreams and transform them to nightmares. One would stare to the right while the other stared to the left, but he'd know—he'd know they were staring at him.
He loathed them, he despised them, hated them passionately. He could not describe how much he cursed those damn eyes.
"Tom! Tom, are you all right? Answer us, Tom!" his mother's shrilly voice sounded through the doorway.
"I'm fine," he called back hoarsely, and he slowed the scrubbing down.
"Oh, thank goodness, you gave us such a fright," she said, relieved.
"Sorry," he mumbled, but he doubted they heard him. His lids drooped shut
He could still see those God forsaken eyes.
My very first Harry Potter fic not centering on members of the Black family. This is a sympathetic portrayal of Tom Riddle Sr., although he's definitely at fault too. I do feel sorry for Merope. I thought it would be realistic that he wouldn't stop thinking of her abnormal eyes, since he seems like someone who would value looks greatly.
Constructive criticism is extremely welcome. Please R&R!