Thriving
Many days have passed, but you still can't bring yourself to leave the four walls that now surround you. They are the only comfort possible now; they bring your mind back to childhood days, when life was simple and living was easy.
You can no longer see the point of getting up morning after morning, and your only release is falling into a comatose sleep night after night. There was a time when you'd forgotten the numb feeling of knowing sleep is better than reality, but lately you've become closely reacquainted with it. You don't seem to mind, just like it doesn't seem to faze you that you've lost ten pounds and your brown eyes—the eyes that once were so warm and inviting—now look cold and lifeless.
What does it matter to you? Your reason for living is dead; why should you still be here? You are a mere shell of the girl you once were, and you don't even care. He's gone, gone for good and gone forever, and you almost hate him for it. You swear that never again will you say those three words, those terrible, miserable three words that have the power to destroy you. You swear you won't ever say his name either, you won't ever say I love you, Harry.
It's been months, and your family is worried. You've left your room, but adamantly refuse to leave the premises of your childhood home. After all, why bother? No matter where you go, you'll never be with him again. So your skin turns paler and your heart darker, as you spend day after day throwing a ball against the walls of your room.
You'll never admit it, but you know that secretly, you thrive on this tragedy. You thrive on being so broken, because it's out of your control. It wasn't your fault, what happened, and you know that. You relish the fact that you couldn't have done one thing differently that might have changed what happened; it gives you a twisted and sadistic sense of release.
It's been half a year. Everyone else has begun to move on from their mourning—not forgetting, never forgetting—just trying to continue on with lives that will never quite be complete. It disgusts you, just as you frustrate them. They aren't as careful with you anymore; your brother screams and yells, and your mother has slowly stopped coddling you.
"You can't stay in this house forever," they all say, but you just laugh that empty, heart-wrenching laugh of yours, whispering back "Just watch me." They don't hear you though, just like you don't hear their quiet pleads and prayers that their little red-headed angel will be returned to them once again. Because that's not you anymore; that hasn't been you for half a year. You might as well have died along with that beautiful boy, for all the living you're doing.
Your closest brother is entirely fed up with you. He came into your room the other day; just busted right in, to hell with knocking. He kicked and yelled and screamed; he screamed so loud you knew a part of it was only to hide the fact that you were breaking his heart. Because that's what you're doing, and you know it, but you can't stop it. It's gotten to be so easy, now, this life of indifference and hopelessness. To start to care again, to become truly alive again, well. That would be just entirely too much effort, and much more than you are willing to risk.
Because if you really, truly got down to it, you know you still can feel emotions. It's obvious from your determined efforts not to. You're so afraid to get hurt again, you're pretending it's impossible now. But it isn't, and you're starting to figure that eventually, you're just going to have to face that.
It's been a year now. A long, painful year, but a necessary year. You're different now, there's no denying it. But as you sit in your bother and sister-in-law's yard, watching their baby boy crawl across the green grass toward that blue ball, you know there's a smile on your face. A small one, maybe even one a little unsure, but a smile nonetheless. It's been three months since you moved out of your childhood home, and two months since you've started smiling again. At first hearing that baby's name made you cry; now you know all you can do is just try to smile.
The inflated ball rolls to your feet, bumping against your bare foot. You reach down, and hold it out to the small child in front of you.
"Here, love. Be more careful next time." You don't expect a response—he's just so young—and you only smile when the ball is brought straight to his teething mouth. "I love you, Harry."
A/N: This is reposted, so if you recognize it, that's why…
Anyway. You've taken the time to read this, I would greatly appreciate it if you would leave a review letting me know your thoughts/reactions. Gracias!