deplorable child, you have gone
It was regrettable, to say the least. Being a living memory. It was lovely, in its own way – it was also horrible and painful, mistaken and ugly. You could call it narcissism, but that'd only make you a fool. He stares in the mirror, dead but alive, patting his hair over his mangled ear to look into a face that doesn't solely belong to him. Then, he screws it up once more to look at the difference that separates him and his twin.
Other than the fact that Fred's dead – indefinite difference.
It's the kind of mistake he had always wanted to happen, and always dreaded. A difference, something that makes him not just the latter to a pair, but a whole person – what a joke. If he really wanted differences, he would have killed Fred with his own hands.
You did, though. You know you did.
He breathes in hard, relinquishing all sense of self-control, emotional composure, and brings his fist back only to force it into collision with the mirror. It shatters on contact, and he hears footsteps rushing up the staircase. Blood trickles from his knuckles and he feels nothing – except a little self-hate, regret, dreariness; nothing a bit of alcohol can't cure.
"George? You alright?" says his youngest brother from behind the door, "What's going on in there?"
"Nothing, broke something."
"What'd you break?"
"Nothing."
Even though it's silent, he can basically hear Ron's hesitation, it's oh-so-obvious, but he doesn't press on, and the sound of his footsteps follow their tracks back down the stairs. When the house is silent once more, he leaves the bathroom, glass still covering the floor and sink. He doesn't bother wiping or treating the wounds on his hands – there's more than a couple, he's shattered every mirror in the house by now – and sits down in their room, cold shoulder to an empty bed and vacant eyes to a blank wall.
A worn-out stuffed rabbit sits in the corner, looking dirty and defeated, a bit like himself. Percy had given one to Fred and George both, after he had broken their toy broomsticks on accident. They had lost one of them, and as it had been unclear as to which one of them it had belonged to, they continued to share the remaining rabbit. Like they had shared everything else. He subconsciously feels his scarred, rough arms under his sleeves, and a little bit of anger – guilt – hatred – sadness falls over him like an afghan, though lacking the comfort.
He hears the door open, but he's far lost in his mind.
"Mum wants you down for dinner, George."
Ginny comes a little further into the room, though stepping as if it was treacherous ground – as if she were about to desecrate something sacred.
"I'm not hungry." he replies quietly, though his stomach growls traitorously, and he shifts uncomfortably, his skin suddenly feeling a little too close to his ribcage.
"You haven't been hungry for days now," says Ginny, shutting the door behind her, "I brought you a biscuit, just in case."
His sister places herself next to him, and it's saddening for the both of them that it's the closest bit of contact anyone's dared to have with George for a few months now. Everyone left him alone after the funeral, and he often pushed them away with a newfound desire to keep to himself, to be unique, solitary.
When he turns his head only slightly to look at his sister, he catches a glimpse of the rumpled, uninhabited bed. He also sees the pictures left on the walls of happy times with happy faces, genuine smiles of him and his twin, and good friends. The overzealous decorating of the Yule Ball stands in the background.
He finds it oddly uncomforting that Fred still sits next to him when he's in his bedroom, he's still got a girlfriend – Angelina – and he himself is still contented, holding hands with Katie Bell. Then there's other pictures, closer to now, less overenthusiastic, less agitated – still happy.
He wonders how or when it became possible for things to go to shit in a matter of minutes.
"I'll go with Percy, you stick with Ginny, and we'll all meet up later, alright, Georgie?"
"You're sure that's a good idea?"
Never once had George actually questioned his brother's actions, not when they were strategic, anyways. Fred had usually been right – they had usually been together.
"I'll see you later, Georgie."
"Yeah, you too, Freddie."
The feel of his twin's arms wrapping around him almost causes him to crumble, quick and without warning. Maybe if he had been thinking properly, maybe if he had been looking him right in the eye, maybe if he had realized –
You should have known better, George.
He used to believe that proper thinking could fix anything, change stone to liquid – and maybe it still does, but he didn't think properly. He didn't think he needed to, because he never looked into Fred's eyes that day, and now, when he dreams, all he can see is his face, his eyes. Different than usual, as if he knew it himself.
Ginny's gone, having left the room without a sound. Or perhaps she did let him know, though he's been too caught up to notice. Snow whistles and attacks itself in torrents outside of his window. He creeps down the stairs, quietly, quietly, and not a soul notices from the dining table, though it's silent.
Maybe they did notice, and decided not to say anything. He didn't like questions, though.
Snow crunches between his toes before he realizes it, and he barely registers that it's freezing cold, and he could die out here.
Die.
You should have known better, you really should have.
He should have stopped his brother; he should've yelled at him and forced him not to go; he should have said that twins should never be apart, his ear being a main example. He should have been there to tell him that they're better together, that he loves him.
He should have known better than to believe that his whole family would make it out of that war alive – that a set of twins would make it out, scratched, bloodied, beaten, alive.
George's body begins to numb – more than it already has. He can feel the blood pooling in his fingertips, attempting warmth, failing horribly. His nose is running, his eyes bleary and sticky with tears, he's a mess. It's only just occurred to him that he held it together until he was one foot out the door.
Just give up already.
Far, far past home, George collapses. He closes his eyes, and as minutes pass and snow covers his body, he doesn't feel much of the cold anymore. A sound fills the air, and he's dimly aware of it, confused as to whose lips it has passed.
He's heard the sound of laughter, a bit like his own, though different.
A/N: Written for the Suicide Competition. Sad, but I enjoy writing George-angst. I relate to it. George feels guilty because he feels that he was somewhat responsible for his brother's choices and actions. Leave a review, please.