A/N: No idea where it came from. And it's general. No pairing. Wow.
*snogs her gf* Thanks for the beta!
Going Down
Ginny drinks often, not enough to get wasted, just some to make her calm, soft and perfectly all right for a while. The radio is playing something unfamiliar but pleasant and she listens while being led down on the sofa, her blood embracing the alcohol and them together creating a love parade of their own.
Cigarette butts are piled everywhere. She's losing her fire and no amount of inhaling will ever give it back, but that doesn't keep her form trying. Sometimes she wants to fall a sleep with a cigarette in her mouth. She would wake up and it would feel so hot, she would be on fire.
Yes.
She would fucking burn until she died.
It's not that she's suicidal or anything. She just feels so cold.
Pictures of dead bodies and scared faces fill her mind. And when the radio isn't on she's sure she can hear lifeless cries.
Ginny, why didn't you save me? Ginny, how come you are alive?
So many died, a few of them by her wand. Of course they had been on the wrong side, the bad side. Pansy had been one of them. The Slytherin Pug as she had been called back in school, had really been bitchy and sometimes Ginny had dreamed of meeting the girl at war, saying something cool and witty before killing her.
But that was before she actually had killed anyone.
When standing there, the green light floating above the body, Ginny had been sure that she would have felt bad if only she had been able to feel anything.
Now she reaches out and prays for that kind of apathy.
No one ever comes home to Ginny. She pretends to be busy when they call her. Once in a while she visits the Burrow, a fake smile plastered on her face the whole time, and sometimes she goes out for coffee with one of her old friends who are lucky enough to be alive. But most of the times she stays in her fallen and dirty apartment, afraid of the things she sees outside. Deathly pale bodies with anguished faces amongst the unaware crowds. When she drinks they're always gone. But she can't forget and besides, there are always new ones.
The worst thing is that she doesn't know if she's crazy or haunted.
Ginny puts her hands under her shirt and lets her fingers run over her ribs. She can easily count them. Someday soon she won't feel guilty anymore.
Everyday she looks more alike the ghosts she keeps seeing.
