Mercy

By: epiphanies

Short one-shot vignette.

I open my eyes with the speed of a stampeding turtle. I see nothing but darkness.

I can smell flesh. Not burning flesh, not bloody flesh. I can smell bodies. Alive, moving, breathing bodies.

I can feel the cold stone beneath me. The scratchy woolen blanket pulled over my head, rubbing up against my stubbly chin and my disarrayed silver hair.

My eyes have adjusted. I look at my hands.

My fingernails are long and rotted and dirty. The callouses are risen from the rest of my palm and protrude in throbbing little mounds.

My eyelids are heavy, and yet my mind is fully sprung to life.

I am cold.

I can hear screaming from down the way, layers upon layers of metal bars away from me. Somebody is screaming for mercy.

I will never scream for mercy.

For when my Lord comes to rescue me, I shall be as little tattered as possible.

For I am a Death Eater.

For I am in Azkaban.

For I am Lucius Malfoy.

I am cold. But I will never scream for mercy.