I wrote most of this quite a while ago, and it's new for me because I've never written from this perspective before. See it as an experiment ;)
Read the A/N, please. Thank you!
Sometimes, you feel like you might suffocate from the emptiness. And from time to time you begin to wish that you'd just stop breathing for good. You're tired of the numbness end even more so of the pain, which uses to hit you unexpectedly and pierce through your body in a way that no physical wound could ever do. It's a kind of pain that makes you want to scream in agony so that someone – anyone – can come to help you.
Yet you remain silent because you know that there's nothing they can do. They – your family who come by much more often than they used to; your friends who drop in occasionally to say hello and ask if you're okay. You nod and they smile and hug you and don't see that you're slowly drowning on the inside. You envy them simply because they seem to be able to cope. They have moved on, though with difficulties and tears, but you are still stuck in this nightmare that started four weeks ago when your world fell apart. The first nightmare from which you can't wake up.
You try to find your way in this new, dark life, and you feel like a blind man deprived of his stick, reaching out your hand and not being able to feel anything while every step you take just leads you further into the darkness.
You spend endless nights staring out of the window even though there's nothing outside to be seen, or worth to be looked at. Yet you don't turn on the light, because you rather don't see anything at all than your reflection in the window. You can't always avoid it, though, and every time it happens you look at that stranger you once knew. He's vaguely familiar, but those vacant eyes scare the hell out of you. You hate that man and you don't want to see him. That's why you stay in the dark, the only companion being the bottle of Firewhiskey on the table.
You hold on to the cold glass like a lifeline, the burning in your throat after every glass a welcome reminder that after all, you're still alive. As long as you can still feel anything it means that your brain is working, your heart is beating. What does it matter that inside you're as dead as a breathing man can be? Feeling the cool liquid on your tongue calms you down. Relax. Breathe. You'll soon feel better.
After a while, though, you hardly taste the whiskey, you've become numb to its actual savor. Instead, the only thing you feel when you put the bottle to your mouth is the bitter taste of a comfort which deep down you know you shouldn't seek. Not like this.
Sometimes you're ashamed of yourself and you know that he would be furious to see you this way. Probably also disappointed, which would be even worse. But he's not here to tell you off for it, and that is the biggest problem of all.
You'd give anything for him to yell at you right now.
Another glass of whiskey, then you pick up the quill and stare at the blank paper laid out in front of you. It's time to come up with some new, witty inventions. But as you stare at the white sheet you can't think of anything. Your mind is blank and it scares you, your hand is shaking and starting to blur before your eyes.
Mechanically, you open the drawer and reach for the quill hidden inside. One of the best pranks you ever pulled, nicking it from right under her nose. You can still see her toad-like face contorted in rage when she found out, and you can hear your brother's laughter mixed up with your own.
I miss you. I miss you.
The letters are sharp, forming a regular pattern that is etching itself right into your heart. You can literally feel the words carving themselves into you, a prickle at first, then turning into a steady pain that even the alcohol cannot numb.
It causes tears to run down your cheeks, it hurts, and finally it replaces the other pain, the one you've felt for a whole month and which you can't take anymore, and every letter you write sends you further into oblivion. Wonderfully sweet nothingness to embrace you with her comforting arms, you let yourself fall into her and close your eyes and try to let go. Faintly you feel the blood trickle down the back of your hand, it's distinctly familiar, images of classrooms and detentions flash before your eyes. Distant memories crawling out of the far corners of your head, and they hurt and you wish so badly that you could just go back to that time and stay there forever.
But you can't change the past, you can't travel through time, no matter how desperately you wish you could.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
You watch as the blood slowly seeps down your skin. Your eyes are fixed on the red line, a trace of life, a miracle older than mankind itself. It's a strange thing, blood, you think. It gives power and strength, it makes you weak and vulnerable.
It's so easy after all.
You could end it, end the pain, end the tears. Who cares what waits behind the veil, if there is anything on the other side at all, it can't be worse than this. Nothing can. You might even see him again. The thought takes your breath away, the simply imagination of him at your side and the picture of his smile make you gasp for air.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
It is easy. You're not even afraid of it. Your hand shakes as you reach for the wand, blood drops onto the desk as you move, you point the wand at your heart and you know that you could end it. Get it over with, here and now, for good.
You don't know what it is that makes you hesitate.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
A/N: This is not a death fic. Suicide is always a difficult topic, and I know that there are quite a lot of George-suicide fics out there. I, for myself, think that George would never kill himself, no matter how much he suffers from losing Fred. He simply wouldn't cause his family this pain, even if it took away his own.