May 9th, 1998
It had been a week.
It felt like years.
George sat alone in his room. Except it wasn't his room; it had always been their room. The room he had shared with Fred. As hard as he tried, George could not prevent his eyes from slipping over to the other bed, the bed that had not been slept in since Christmas. Molly had made it neatly, the bright blue duvet favoured by Fred tucked neatly into the equally bright yellow sheets.
It was a sickening sight.
Fred would never sleep in that bed again. Hell, Fred would never sleep again. Or was that what he was doing now? Sleeping, for all of eternity, while George was awake and hating it …
George had never thought much about death, or even life for that matter, because it had never been a particularly interesting topic. He just took it as a guarantee … it was not a subject, as such, it just was. He knew he would die someday … everyone did … but to think that day might be soon …
Except it hadn't, not for him. For Fred.
Fred was dead.
He would never speak a single word again, never breathe again, never move, never eat, never laugh again. How could that be? How could he just be cut off from life so abruptly? George had tried to imagine what it would be like … to be aware of everything one moment, and then the next … well, what was it like? But could it actually be anything? No one would be able to feel it … Fred would not have been able to know that he was dead, because he was no longer able to know …
George did not wish it was he that was dead.
He did not even wish that it had been another of his brothers, or even his sister, because what good would that do anyone? He wished that no one had died. Died. Left. Gone.
Fred was dead …
It didn't make sense. The word was not connected with Fred. Dead, death, died. Deceased.
George had come charging down a corridor, chasing off more Death Eaters, when he had seen him … concealed in a niche, he had wondered how badly Fred was injured that he had had to take a break from the battle …
But he had shook him, and yelled in his ear, and then fallen to his knees, and for a moment he had not felt anything, he had been completely numb, speechless, unable to comprehend anything … but Fred … Fred … his best friend … his brother …
Now, alone in their room, George screamed.
He screamed, a harsh, piteous sound, broken by his sobs. At first, he had felt sorry for Fred, because it was Fred that would never grow old, never have children … but now George felt sorry for himself, because he was the one who could still feel. Fred was no longer, he could not miss what he would never have, he could not yearn to be alive … but George, George could feel everything …
"WHY?" he roared, clenching his fists. Such anger he had never felt … some would say it was wrong to be angry at a dead person … but he had to be angry at someone … this was not George's fault, he did not deserve to feel like this …
"WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GO AND DIE?" George yelled at the ceiling. "IT'S ME THAT'S GOT TO DEAL WITH IT ALL, IT'S ME THAT'S GOT TO BE HERE WITHOUT YOU, WHILE YOU'RE JUST NOWHERE, FEELING NOTHING, BEING NOTHING, DOING NOTHING ..!"
George paused, breathing very hard. He stared at his clenched fists. "God damn it, Fred," he whispered, blinking hard, "you don't even exist anymore."
OK, this is sad. It's just something I knocked out in about ten minutes, but … I dunno, I felt like I should. It was hard, actually, harder than I thought it would be, because I've never experienced something like this and I just threw in my own thoughts about death, I suppose, and the rest just … appeared. So … Chapter 18 of That Was My Intention is in progress, for readers of that … keep a look out, it should be up soon.