I Shouldn't Write

by Angelkatt
 
 
 

McGonagall told me to expand my ideas. She said my writing wasn't deep enough, and that
I had to flesh out my paragraphs. Well, here is my attempt. Why am I even listening to her?
I don't know. How should I start this anyway? Should I write an essay? God knows she gave
enough guidelines and structuring for that. A journal? It's starting to sound like one, but only
pansies write in diaries. Write a letter? There's an idea, but I have no one to write to. How
about weave a story? Right. About the pretty unicorn who danced in faerieland.

This is hopeless. What am I supposed to do? The Great McGonagall only wants me to write
(excuse me while I gag) from the heart because she thinks I hold the burden of some dark
secret and there's really just a hurt little boy inside. Trying to explain this nasty wretched child.
You just want to make yourself feel better and make it look as if you're trying to help me.
You said writing skills are important in the work field and I will excel in anything if I had good
English skills knowing perfectly well my father will get me any job I want. Nosy bitch.

Here is the reason I shouldn't be writing. You say writing should help emotions flow. Do you
even know me? If you think I'm such a horrible person, don't you think I would write about
horrible things? If you didn't, you should know by now. Let me find a creative way to tell you
I hate life. Let me find an emotional way of telling you my life is just plain fucked. You happy
now? You asked for it, and now I deliver.

Let us start with early childhood. My best friend was a stuffed teddy bear my grandmother gave
me. My father took it away when I way six, saying Malfoys don't get attached to toys. Shall I
analyze the situation to save you some trouble? Even in my young age, I was told I shouldn't like
sonething too much, or else it would get taken away. Thank you very much daddy.

It's not his fault. Everyone thinks it's his fault that I turned out this way, but it isn't. I love my
father. Love his as much as everyone else. Love him like mommy loves him, love him like the
ministry loves him, loves him like Voldemort loves him, love him like those secretaries he fucks
loves him. Didn't think I knew, daddy? How presumptuous of you. What did you think I had
to do in that house? The walls don't speak, but inside the many hidden passages in this hellish
house, they are paper thin. I used to go in there and pretend I was was a hero. I never told you,
of course. Dreaming wan't a good trait for a Malfoy. No toys for a Malfoy, no friends for a
Malfoy, not a DAMN THING for a Malfoy! Except power. Eventually, you said, I would have
power. Like you? Would I have power like my daddy who rapes his fucking WHORES and
make them think they were privledged?! HUH?! Just so you know, McGonagall, I would be
dead for saying it like that. He says it's disrespectful. Well, let me rephrase it then. Like my
father who rapes his fucking whores. That's better.

How am I doing so far? Should I expand more? You wanted to know more about my life. I
hope you regret it now because as I rethink my life for this little project, I realize I don't want it.
Remember how I was debating about what to make this delectable piece? I have come to the
conclusion (aren't you proud?) of making this my suicide note. If these are the last words I'll
ever write, I'd better make them good. I'm not crazy. Just for the record, I'm not. Don't think,
'it's not my fault because the boy was screwed anyway'. Every single person who reads this,
the Ministry, my parents, my teachers, reporters and the person who finds it next to my bloody
dead body, should blame themselves.

Here is my concluding paragraph. This is where I recap everything and end. I should write
something that give the reader something to remember. All I can say is that my world is fucked
and not worth remembering. You really shouldn't have made me write.

Cheerfully yours,

D. Malfoy
 

*****

Fifteen pages. Fifteen tries and he still hadn't gotten it right. There was always something.
Grammar, supporting points, flow, sentence fragments. Maybe it's just a cowardly excuse,
but if he was going to die, he promised himself he wouldn't leave a poorly written note.
Draco slammed his notebook shut.

There was always next week.