in the end ~ d. malfoy

Chapter Thirty-Three

MAJOR TW: mental breakdown, self-destructive/self-loathing thoughts, borderline self-harm. mentions of suicidal thoughts, slut shaming. do not read if you are triggered by any of this.

December 2015

"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer" Maya mutters, scowling as she reads out the message on the shirt.

"I kind of like it, " Isabelle reaches out, fingering the hem of the black crop top, all scalloped and trendy in typical H&M fashion. It's not the style that irks her (in fact, Maya owns quite a few black crop tops herself), it's the letters embedded on top. It feels like they're taunting her with their cruel irony.

In parallel to her life, it feels like the shirt is telling her that she can't do either of those things right.

It's a stupid notion; how can a bloody graphic tee offend someone? They're the most harmless thing to exist, just a fun thing to wear over a pair of skinny jeans or a basic skirt. But the more Maya stares at it, the more rage she feels. Her nails dig into her palms as her fists clench in the pockets of Arjun's old hoodie. All the air suddenly seems squeezed from her lungs; when she inhales, nothing happens. Maya shakily exhales whatever air she has remaining, an invisible noose wrapping around her neck, tighter, tighter, tighter, tighter-

"Maya?"

The whole world stops.

"W-what?" Maya tries to pay attention to her friend's words, but Isabelle's voice seems to float off into the distance as the madness inside her head continues. Maybe there is something wrong with her . . . may be, there always has been. She's always had this empty feeling in the middle of her chest, long, long before she came to Hogwarts. It's like something had ripped a raw hole in her soul, dripping acid on the edges of the wound to prevent it from healing. A dark spot created by the malevolent magic that supposedly makes her "powerful".

Magic that she barely knows how to use.

Who is she, really, nowadays? Maya doesn't feel like the bright-eyed, hopeful eight-year-old who loved her mom to death and danced until her legs went numb from exhaustion. She's not the naive, studious fourteen-year-old who got sorted into Gryffindor, determined to succeed and prove everyone wrong. She's not the model student her report cards claim, the "good Indian girl" that the aunties in their community wish she was, the dynamic warlock Magnus believes in, the shapeshifter that Tessa took under her wing.

She feels like she's become nothing. Hollow. It's like every positive thought in her head has been shut off, smoothed over by a cold, malevolent feeling that never seems to go away no matter what she tries. It's always there, frozen stalactites hanging from the roof of her cranium, dripping poison through all the cracks and crevices that make up the fleshy muscle called her brain. There's a voice in the back of her head, always taunting, jeering, making her second guess everything she knows, everything she thought was true . . .

" . . . yeah, yeah, " she finally manages to stammer out, Isabelle fixing her with a quizzical look, " I'm fine with going to Cinnabon before we leave, "

"You all right?" the young Shadowhunter asks, scrutinizing her with concern, "You look a little . . . nervous, "

Maya realizes how fast her heart rate is and immediately panics, "I'm fine, " she replies, lying through her teeth, "Just a little jet lagged, "

A cold and clammy feeling comes over her skin again as Isabelle takes her hand in his, dragging her out of H&M and towards the cinnamon roll cart. She's saying something, but it seems to echo around Maya, who pulls her hoodie tighter around herself like a safety blanket. A strangle tingle spreads up her fine, and suddenly, Maya realizes that her hands are shaking. Her teeth chatter from what feels like fear as Isabelle places the order, squeezing her hand as she eyes her friend with a tinge of worry.