Soul's Escaping,Through This Hole That is Gaping.

[Jaiden Dragos]

I's a lot like a dream.

You've had them before, even if you don't think you have. Everyone has had this sort of dream before. You're going someplace, and you know where it is, but you don't honestly want to. You know you're going, and you know it is by your own choice, and you know it is for a good reason, but you can hardly make yourself.

One foot in front of the other.

I could see it in front of me. It is not at all like the dreams were; what I imagined had been some sort of fortress, intimidating, dark, twisted, insane. It was nothing like that.

But yet, it was worse.

The dream, remember? One foot in front of the other. Walking to an end. You're not sure how this dream will end, and you're not sure when or if it will be painful or if it will be quick. All you knew that the end was coming, and it was coming now, and there was no avoiding it.

There was no avoiding it.

It's that one sentence I keep on repeating in my head. There was no avoiding it. I would be here at some point or another.

It was either to be by something I had done, something my brother had done, something that I had been framed for, something that I was found guilty for association by. I couldn't have gotten around it. The Ministry was a large, working organization. It was corrupt, though, vengeful.

Dre killed their families. Well, they could kill his.

Royce killed my best friend. She's alive, yes, but not as she used to be. She's dead from him.

So, I followed the Ministry's theory, and accepted the inevitable. I killed Royce and now, they were going to kill me.

I've come up with a list. I was never really into the whole Organization thing, but this seems to be where my thoughts keep coming back to. They can kill me, but I'll make it hard.

Dawn always used to say that I was a rebel.

One.
Accept it, embrace it. It was going to happen anyway.
Two.
Disrupt the calm. Make it more realistic.
Three.
There is an outside. It is dark in here, pitch black, but there is an outside.
Four.
Ignore the man in the next cell. He hasn't moved for days, though the guards insist he is just sleeping. They're wrong. You can smell the decay from feet away.
Five.
The dementors are lethal. Stay away from them, but haunt them as much as they haunt you.
Six.
Survive. Escape this place. Trial's are coming. There will be an end. All I have to do is survive, and defy the Ministry's intents. It is possible. I am strong. I can do it.

Seven.
Keep on thanking god, or whatever is up there, that I am a very good liar.

-----------

The dream again.

Walking, the building, sweeping black shapes.

Running, Azkaban, dementors.

Screaming, though my mouth is not open.

Other's screams. It doesn't bother me. I've heard them before.

Lying. Lie to the world. I am gone. Lie to the Ministry. I don't know where he is. Lie to Kira. I'm fine, I'm okay. Lie to Hadyn's memory. You will be fine, love. Lie to the guards. Yes, I can take care of it.

Lie to sanity.
Yeah, you're still there.

Lie to me.
I'm getting out. Really.

Ignore the truth.
I'll be getting out of here.

------

Do I remember what a smile looks like?

Teeth, lips, yes. It is possible. No one does it here, though, no one smiles. I was never a really big smiley person like Denny was, but it was normal to see it. Smiles on girls' faces, grins on guys', and smirks on teachers'. Yes they exist.

It's just no one seems to know how here.
Do I know how?

I don't know. I can't feel myself. I can look down at my hands forever -- to me, they symbolize my change. They are dirty and grimy, nasty with grit from whatever has accumulated on the floor of my cell from years and years of abandon. The nails have grown out, yellowed; they grow tired. My hand is broken; the bone sticks up, in an odd angle. I am strange, a pariah, and broken on the inside. But the bone has not broken the skin; you cannot see the break. All you can see is the skin, stretched and taunt, as the bone forces its way through. Painfully.

It hurts. But that's okay.
It seems to be the only thing I can feel right now.

I can feel my hand; my broken, dirty, pale hand.
But my smile?

I don't remember how to.

------

I found a book.
A diary.
Not mine, no.

Kamilla Lestrange's.

I remember her -- dark hair, tall, thin shoulders. Yeah, I remember her. What did she look like? Now that I read it, I don't know. I remember the way she looked, but the way she acted. When I first picked it up, I could remember. But that image has warped with every word that my eyes go over. It is twisted. I don't know, now.

It leaves me worried.

I don't remember being this worried.

I knew Kamilla. I knew Hadyn. I knew Kira. I knew lots of people, people I don't recall anymore.

I knew how to smile. Something I can't bring myself to do now.

I am in Azkaban. I am a murderer. I am physically broken, but tough, hardened, my muscles more noticeable than ever from my intense workouts inside my small cell. I cannot smile, I cannot remember my enemies nor my friends. I cannot remember what I wrote yesterday. I cannot remember even when the turn of the day starts. I cannot figure out what is night and what is day. I cannot recall the way the light shined; I haven't seen it in months. I cannot see the opposite wall from my cell in the darkness, although I know that if I stretch, my fingers will touch it. I know that the man in the next cell is dead. I know that I read Lestrange's diary. I know that I'm messed up.

But, somehow, even knowing all of these things, I can't answer the question.


Just what is wrong with me?

~Jaiden.