Author's note: This is my first ever, EVER, fan fiction. I've been reading the various stories on this site for a very long time and just recently got the sudden urge to post. I've never called myself a writer though and I am not particularly proud of this, but I thought I'd have to start some where. Besides, I've seen stories completely absent of commas get good reviews.

On with the reading, then!

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Coma

Maybe I'll go for a walk. Clear my head.

But no, not outside. Never outside. I don't like the sun. Too bright, too full of life. And besides, there are people out there. The ones I don't like. The ones that smile, the ones that laugh, that associate with each other, and kiss their cheeks, or their lips.

Maybe I won't go for a walk.

I could sit, I'm standing now. How long have I been standing? A minute, an hour? A day?

But no. Not that chair. I remember seeing him sit on that chair. If I walk close enough to it, sometimes his smell wafts off, and I can pretend, just for a second, that he's here. I don't want that to go away.

I can't sit.

Some people say that when you first wake up, there's that blissful moment that you forget everything.

What I would give for that.

If I do sleep at all, I dream of things I never thought possible to enter one's mind. I dream of death, screams, faces I want to remember, and others I wish to forget. I dream of bones cracking, of the line of blood that trickled down from his mouth and across his cheek, to slide to the floor just under his ear.

Did it hurt to die?

Probably.

If something so horrific had happened to your body that it was forced to shut down, wouldn't you feel something?

I'd give anything to feel something.

But I can't, so wouldn't that mean I'm dead?

That must be it: I'm dead, he's not.

Or perhaps that wall, that God-awful wall, hit me. Right now I'm lying in a bed in St. Mungo's. I've got a room to myself. My family visits everyday, he hardly leaves my side.

"He's in a coma," they'd say. "Many injuries, a miracle if he wakes up."

Every morning that I watch the rays of light creep into my bedroom in our flat, I feel emptier than before. I guess that means my condition's getting worse.

"Don't know if he'll wake up. Magic isn't working," would be what they'd tell my family, what they're telling them now.

Mum's crying. So is my sister, some of my brothers, probably Bill.

"Isn't there anything you can do?" My father would ask.

"Only wait."

What an answer.

I think he's beside my bed now, maybe crying. I feel him. But I always do, everyday. Everyday since I saw him lying on the floor, bloody, broken. Dead.

But why this crazy nightmare? Why this vision? Why am I living his death?

Must be the treatment.

Wish I could tell them to stop, it's really annoying me now.

This is making me restless.

I begin to walk.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right.

Left.

Left.

--or wait. Isn't that the foot I just used, left?

Start over.

Left.

Right.

--but wait, why did I start with left? Don't I usually start with right?

Right is right is right, isn't it?

I chuckle.

But I don't smile.

No, never smile.

More of a snort, I supposed, at my own stupid joke.

Laughing isn't a concept I understand anymore.

What is funny exactly? And why do we raise the corners of our lips, open our mouths, and allow bursts of noise out of them?

Pointless.

Completely and utterly pointless.

"He died laughing. In fact, there was still a smile on his face, after…"

But he'd been picked up. His head had fallen back and his mouth gaped, more than once.

That smile was gone by the time I saw him.

People cried, but I didn't. At his funeral, even, I didn't cry.

I never cried.

Because it can't be real, right?

Or maybe it is, maybe I'm going mad.

Maybe I already am mad.

I look to the floor, and see small fragments of myself in a million places.

My hand is bleeding.

Now how did that happen?

I didn't feel it.

I see now that I'm in the bathroom, and as I look straight ahead, I realize I can't see my face - his face - anymore.

It must be madness.

There's a knock at the door, and it opens.

Why bother to knock, I wonder.

"George dear, are you here?"

The voice floats over to me. It's mum.

I wonder if she's real.

I won't kick or scream.

"Hello, mum," I call back.

If I'm going to go mad, then I'll go.

I'll go gracefully.

I smile.

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AN: Kind of stupid in my opinion. Well, anyway, as I said before, just a way to get myself started. I think over time I'll get better. But tell me how you think! I'd my first review. Well, first couple reviews would be better. Please help me out with any grammatical errors that I might have made, because I'd rather not do them again. Oh, and tell me if the spacing is annoying. I'll do less paragraph breaks, or whatever you want to call them, in my next story/thingy.