Alone

by headupintheclouds

I never thought I'd have to deal with this alone. It might prove to be too much...

Alone

By Headupintheclouds

I never thought I'd have to do this alone…

This is to you. You were supposed to be here for this. You weren't supposed to be shut up in that tiny little coffin I'm looking at, but not in. You never said that this was part of it, or I never would have let you leave.

You never told me there were options, you set everything before me as though it was all planned out, no decisions to be made and agonized over until late at night. You were dealing with more than cards, or those little metal pieces we used (and you frequently lost) for Monopoly. And in the end, you bargained too much, leaving me with the I.O.U.

It's one I'll never be able to pay in full. It requires too much, it requires I forget you. In the process, I would lose my entire self, because without the vaguest shred of the memory of you, I'm nothing.

It hurts to say that,

But it hurts more to know it's true.

It's so hard to imagine you down there, in that little box. You were always so alive. I can't bear to let that image be etched into my memory: of you, pale, unmoving, stony.

Sometimes I fool myself into wondering if you're scared, being so confined. Sometimes I wait for you to sit up and shove away all the people snotting and crying all over you. You never did know what to do with a blubbering, emotional fool.

You took away everything. You were selfish. You took away even my right to criticize you to anyone but myself, for fear of dishonoring your memory. We always argued when you were alive, but it's hard to argue with a body.

I wish I had the courage to go down there, the merest paces away. To grieve and mourn properly and as I should, with everyone else.

But the truth is, I couldn't stand to.

I wake up at night sometimes, sweating, screaming, and no one's there. I dream of what you might have been feeling as you died, and I envy you. You didn't have to do it alone. But me, there's no 'cause' for me to 'fight' for; there's no one in my position. No, they all passed on with you.

I dream of deliverance, in two forms. The first, of course, is that they're all wrong. That you're not dead, that you're simply sleeping. It's easy to fool yourself into. And then, of course, there's death. My own. I imagine how much easier it would be. If there's an afterlife, you'd be there. If there isn't, I wouldn't have to be without you. Anything seems better than this.

I can see them all; they worry. They look at me with eyes that seem cautious, prepared. As though I might suddenly fall to pieces and they'd have to be the ones to clean it up. They tell me they understand and I feel like ripping out their hearts, to see if they really do. I wonder if they still care about things, the way I don't any more. I wonder if they wake up and check the weather, as though it's just another day.

But the weather won't change this: sunny, rainy, foggy, snowy: you're gone. No rays of sunshine, no flashes of lightning against an angry sky can change that.

They tell me to think of the good times, but they feel hollow. I feel as though I imagined them, or read about them in one of my dusty old books.

Details I can't quite recall, but know existed. Like the smell of the breeze wafting past us the time we lost ourselves in this neighborhood, our first night here. I know it smelled of something that always triggered the memory thereafter, but I can't, for the life of me, remember what it was.

I remember you prancing around for hours with a dab of batter on your cheek. I put it there when I walked in from work one evening to find you cooking. But I don't remember what it was you cooked, or even if I'd liked it.

These things seem so petty, but the most important things are.

It kills me, because I know you'd remember. You could tell me what the breeze had smelt of, how many hedges we'd passed and hoped our neighbors weren't snooty and aloof. You could tell me not only what you'd been making, but how many eggs it had called for, and the name of the grocery clerk who'd bagged them for you.

You always reminded me that I needed to stop and look at the details, because big pictures don't matter without them.

And it seems I never really caught on. And now, it's too late.

I'm eating all the foods you hate. They brought over piles of it, and I force myself to eat. Sometimes I'm glad that you hadn't been the one to live, because you would have starved instead of eating these foods. They're the kinds you say people try too hard for, that take too much work for a taste that could be acquired in an hour's less work.

I imagine you across the table, scoffing. But I do try to appreciate them, or at least the thought. But I don't want to be the poor widow who would starve to death if no one fed her. I'm not helpless. I'm not pathetic. You never would have stood for it.

Nights are the worst. The house is empty, but it still makes noise. You were always there to assure me with things like, "Oh, that's just the dishwasher," and "Dog next door, honey." Silly as it sounds, I should have taken notes. Because now all those noises haunt me, and I feel insecure.

Although, I suppose, I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.

I'm reminded of you every time the doorbell sounds, the phone rings, and the television comes on. I think of your child-like awe and admiration of these things, and wish I could be a bit more excited by the world.

You always made things seem like an adventure. Like when we were filling up the car for the first time, and you got such a kick out of the gauge knowing when to stop feeding the car petrol.

To you, it seemed immeasurable, and you kept pulling the nozzle out of the tank for fear that it would overrun. When I fed the machine my card, you asked how the credit card company knew how many to send, if the cards got eaten all day long.

There was something slightly sarcastic about all of this, but you also wanted the information. Every time I'd offer an explanation, you'd lap it up. And if I simply didn't have one, you'd come up with one on your own.

I wish you'd offer one for your death.

There's no one here who should be mourning you; everyone who deserves a front-row seat died alongside you. Except for me, but I'm shying off to one side and watching as various aunts, uncles, and "fourth-cousin-thrice-removed"s file by tearfully.

I'd bet some don't even know your name.

I wish I had the courage to just break down, right here.

Let out all these tears that are constantly threatening to spill. Let people think I was crazy, not care. Because caring's what got me here. I always bragged to never make the same mistake twice.

The only part I can't think about is the wedding. It was a day of bliss and joy and I can't bear to soil it. It's like the second time you read a story where someone dies. It's so much more awful when you know where it's headed. Like watching something doomed from the started, watching a train hurling toward a car, with no means of stopping. And there's nothing you can do.

I wish I could drown this love inside me. I've ceased to care for everything but you, and that makes the least sense. I feel so illogical, a way you never saw me. It's like I can only bear to care for one thing of two: you, or the world. There's no hope for you, and only a sliver more for the world. But, of course, I chose you.

If I could, I'd shut my eyes. But that wouldn't be living. It'd be cheating, like those people who walk around with their mouths choked full of other people's words. Like getting credit for being alive, but not actually experiencing anything associated with living. Never feeling happy, never feeling sad. Just sort of existing and working through life like you had an instruction manual.

So thanks. Thanks a whole bunch, Ronald Weasley. For leaving me like this. You never said we'd be together forever, but you also never said I'd have to do this all alone.

A/N: Eh. From the POV of Hermione. But I guess it could apply to loads of people, until that last paragraph. Fill in the blanks if you want to. Please do let me know what you think, though.