It's a hell of a role

He looked around, breathing heavily. He had to get out. He needed to leave. But how? His eyes fell on his broom in the corner. His eyes darted about to see what he could grab. What he could take to keep what he needed. Most of the photographs were permanently stuck to the wall. He didn't have time to reverse those incantations. Not without drawing attention to himself. He stood in front of them, one last time, and sighed. They would never know about his home life and for that much he was glad. They knew it was bad, that was all they needed to know. That was all that concerned them. His family usually took great care to fix him up before he saw anyone so they didn't have any suspicions outside of heavy emotional abuse. He lifted his hand to his jaw and fingered the swelling around the gash that had been cast there. Grimacing slightly at the pain, he couldn't imagine what they would think if they saw him now.

He moved to his broom stick and threw open the only window in the room. It wasn't terribly large but it was just big enough that he could get out of it. He looked at the door one last time. Regulus. He should go to him. He should say goodbye. But he couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk leaving the room and being seen. He couldn't risk what could happen if they got a hold of him again. His stomach knotted once over in fear. He could practically see the look on his mother's face once again as she threw curse after curse at him. There was no anger, no sadness. The only emotion that existed there was glee. Pure, unadulterated glee. She enjoyed causing him pain at this point. He was a disgrace to her family's name, and she made sure he knew it every time he walked through that door.

His stomach dropped to the floor. He could hear footsteps coming toward his room. He couldn't tell who they belonged to in his panic. He didn't have time to wait anymore. He looked around what had been his bedroom for the past sixteen years one last time before shoving himself out the window, broom in hand. He headed for the only place he could think of, the Potters'. Moments later, Regulus stuck his head into his older brother's room.

"Sirius?" he whispered, not wanting his mother to hear him. But there was no answer, and there never would be again.

It's almost physical, the pain of writer's block. Trying to push through it. It's like ripping through scar tissue. You know that it shouldn't be there, you know it can only do harm to you in the long run. At the same time you know it needs to be taken out, removed, destroyed. Sometimes the only way to do it is to rip it out. It always makes a mess, and usually isn't terribly good at first. It tears at you, makes you writhe under the force it takes to remove it. However, unlike scar tissue, there is nothing you can take to dull the pain of ripping a new hole in your soul. It's a fresh wound, something new to speak from as the old one had dried up, hardened. You grimace as the first few lines of whatever dribble out. You know it's not up to standard, there's something slightly off about whatever it is you're writing about. You're never sure what but it's shaky or delicate, like if you look at it wrong, those lines will shatter. You're careful. It's a precious few lines of something new, something you've been craving to have for weeks now. It can't be likened to child birth. No, it's not quite as natural as that. Whereas the body is created to give birth and make way for new life, the soul is always hesitant to be exposed. The soul shies away from the rest of the world, hoping that it won't be embarrassed. Praying that it can withstand the pressures it is under. Wishing that it didn't have to live forever and bear the earth shattering conclusions it has come to in its owner's short life time. No, ripping holes to bear the soul cannot be natural. It is why there are so few writers in the world, so few artists. They've all suffered for their work. Perhaps it isn't so far off that writer's block is in fact a physical affliction. Or maybe, the affliction is the cure.