Apparently I write incomplete, sad Harry Potter drabbles when I am feeling my mental health problems, as this is the second one I found in two days. I tried to tack an 'ending' onto this, but I don't really like it. This is really just a chunk out of George's daily thoughts, ones that never really begin or end, just continue... Also I'm just generally crap at endings so that is probably why I'm justifying this.
Disclaimed
Mild TW for suicidal thoughts (not actually what I mean by my non-ending, but it could certainly be construed that way and I want to cover my bases.)
It is hard because he has never had to be someone on his own before. There was always an and. Fred and George. George and Fred. Gred and Feorge.
Which twin is dead? Fred. Period.
Which one wishes he was? George. Period.
There is no and involved any more.
People talk about losing the love of their life like they lost their other half or their better half. But not George, he lost his half. Nobody is there to complete his sentences any more. Sometimes in a conversation he will just stop talking, but nobody picks up where he left of.
It isn't as though he has been split down the middle, it is as though whole chunks and slices have been taken out of the middle of his being. The wounds aren't clean either. It is as though a blunt saw was used with no regard for what was left of George.
It isn't a mental pain; it is a real physical ache that envelopes his whole body. And the worse of it is that sometimes he becomes complacent. The ache never goes away, but sometimes, somehow, he allows it to fall to the back of his mind. This is what everyone wants him to learn how to do. That the way to move on with his life is to not think about it constantly. But when he allows his pain to sit on a lower pedestal in his brain, it comes back with guilt and renewed grief as soon as he realizes he is doing it. Any 'moving on' he has accomplished is abruptly halted and guilt for forgetting hits him in the stomach hard.
Ginny has taken to rubbing his back because he is always wound up and tense. In the war this feeling of wrongness, of uneasiness was a sign that something was going to happen. In his mind now, it feels as though the whole forest has gone silent in preparation for something devastating. Only it isn't that which is going to happen; it is what has happened.
It is hard to keep any food down. There is a lack of hunger that is somehow paired with a forever gnawing emptiness.
That, he supposes, is the crux of his problem; the emptiness. His whole world is empty now, cold. He would like to be optimistic, that the dull monochrome his life has become may brighten over time, with healing. But the person who could do that for him, with him, is missing from him.
How can he go on like this?
