#emoness

            He rubs his eyes feverishly and tries again.

. . .your brother, Regulus Black. . .

            Throwing the letter down, he moves onto his feet, quicker this time, to light the room.             Again.

. . .your brother, Regulus Black, has passed. The details of his death are unknown at this time, but the Ministry for Magic believes his death may have been in association to his role under Lord Voldemort. Deepest sympathies, Albus

            Again.

Sirius, I regret to inform you your brother, Regulus Black, has passed. The details of his death are unknown at this time, but the Ministry for Magic believes his death may have been in association to his role under Lord Voldemort. . .

            He descends at the end of the bed, legs crossed. In one hand, he holds the letter at a perfect crease; the other embeds into his bicep, fingernails cutting his skin. He reads the letter over and over and over again. The words never change. They never rearrange.             He smothers his face with the parchment. It smells like rain and Albus’ incense. The fine grains scratch his beard; the sensation too real to be only a dream. He has never been acquainted with Death. Brother, what do I do? His fists clench, crumbling the letter before tearing it in two. He is still. The owl nips at its feathers, hoots. The wind howls. Rain sputters along through the still open window, drenching the carpet. He does not move. He only breathes.             Fuck this.             Shoving his feet into black leather boots and dressing in a jacket with similar properties, he tears away from the house he shares with James and Lily Potter on his motorcycle. No destination in mind, just speed and the elements to escape the end of the world. * * *             He waits for a letter that never comes. The letter, it would say, was what he already knew – but it would be signed by Walburga or Orion. Maybe it would ask him to come home, or say ‘fuck you’. Didn’t matter.             But its absence confirms what he already knows. Sirius isn’t part of the family. Regulus isn’t his brother – just someone who shared the same genes, the same mother. They never knew each other, only about each other. Regulus knew Sirius was blood traitor, a disgrace to the Black name. Sirius knew Regulus was mummy’s perfect angel, the ideal heir. The relevance of his death bares the same weight as any enemy. Good riddance.             But when the realization Regulus could have grown to avoid and even rebel against Lord Voldemort under Sirius’ influence, he stops talking mid-conversation to hide. He had spent the first half of his life jealous of the affection Walburga doted onto her youngest and dedicating almost his entire existence to be as different as possible that he lacked the patience to even try to justify the significance Voldemort’s reign could have. The ‘what ifs’ plague his thoughts – what if he had never left home? What if he told his brother he loved him, instead of shutting him out?             He never had the chance to tell him good-bye. He was too angry.             Anger was always easy.             He remembers when he first learned Regulus had joined Voldemort’s forces. It was seventh year, in the Gryffindor’s Commons. The mood had altered drastically from first year, as everyone was now very concerned about the dark wizard and his influence. They wanted to become involved, to revolt. Graduation, it seemed, would never come.             “I think I saw the mark on Regulus Black’s arm in Transfiguration. . .” he’d heard one girl say.             “I saw it, too! His friends have it. Bloody stupid, yeah?”             Instantly, he imagined he and Regulus dueling; the idea had made his stomach twist. Kill his own brother? Hell, why not? Better by his hand than any. He had always imagined Regulus had become a dark-eyed fiend, ugly and fat, while reciting Salazar Slytherin.             Not an eighteen-year-old boy, cold and very, very dead. Did he die alone? What were his last thoughts?

Why didn’t he tell him being a Death Eater wasn’t something to be proud of? That it would not bring his family honor? That when he died, their father would die, too?   

* * *                 Rumors stir and are later confirmed Regulus Black died betraying Voldemort. They are instigated when the funeral service is nearly empty, save for his family and a few of the elite. His friends never stop to pay their respects, and there’s an unwelcoming, threatening presence that condones acknowledging any justice for this teenager.             He had tried getting away, he supposed. Why didn’t he ask me for protection?             

    What if he had? What would Sirius have said? Sodder off, maybe, depending on his mood – or maybe, yes, I will fight every one of those bastards. He tried to remember who he was only two weeks prior. Would he have been prepared to die for him? He was weak. Trash. * * *             The family cemetery is located some twenty miles east of London, near the English Channel. It’s established near a cliff, though its marble gravestones have been charmed to resist rust from the sea-salt lingering in the air. His bike rolls up to the location some time before noon, the temperature still cool from the sun’s absence. The stones and monuments are lined like a maze without order, but he soon spots a pair of freshly dug Earth mounds. As he approaches, he reads the names:

REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK 21 APRIL 1961 – 3 JUNE 1979 CHERISHED SON     ORION PHINEAS BLACK 29 DECEMBER 1929 – 9 JUNE 1979 BELOVED FATHER, HUSBAND, AND SON

    A third stone was perched to the left of Regulus’ and read: ‘WALBURGA POLLUX BLACK / 2 JANURARY 1925 –’ and beside it was a gaping hole, shaped like the base of another stone, which he presumed had belonged to him. He lingered at the base of Regulus’ burial, unsure if he could move closer, before finally settling cross-legged and hunched before the stone. He listened to the waves, and the seagulls. There was something that needed to be said, but the neurons in his spine couldn’t communicate that need to his mouth. Instead, he found a packet of Lucky Strikes in the pocket of his coat and, one by one, inhaled them until the last settled between chapped lips.    His lungs hurt. He felt a resistance, a strain, to expand upon each inhale. His mouth tasted like an ashtray. Plague settled in the deepest crowns of his molars, and the very back of his throat burned like no water could quench its thirst. This is stupid. A cheap flip lighter, drenched in the sweat of his palm, lifted to light the tip but hesitated. He needed to say it. No one will hear it. He’s gone. Fingers weave into long, dark tassels and tug until they nearly tear his scalp. His head lowers into his knees, and after a dry sob, he painfully utters:

“I love you, and I’m sorry.”

Ideas As Opiates, In My Mind’s Eye

“We don’t care.”

The sadness and resignation in Roland’s singing.