The hospital bed in St. Mungo's was extremely uncomfortable. I'd think with all the well educated wizards in this bloody building they'd be able to use a simple charm and make this mattress less like a board and more like something civilized human beings sleep on.
I'd do it myself but the nurse took my wand at the front desk. What's she got to be doing with my wand, really? Stir her bloody tea with it?
In my rampage I was beginning to realize I used the word bloody too often. Or maybe I just used it too often in this place. Who knows.
The doctor finally walked into my room. He bore a striking resemblance to a male Umbridge. That sure made me feel comfy with him.
"George Weasley?" he grunted.
"The very same."
"Hmph. Yer mum tells me you've ad' a bit of a problem."
"No, no I just really enjoy the mashed potatoes you serve here."
The man squinted his beady eyes and analyzed me, "This is no joke. Suicide is too easy for wizards-"
"I wasn't committing suicide. I wasn't. I was just depressed."
"Is that so?" He paused smirking a bit, "Cause Mum tells me she brought up a batch of laundry for you to find you lifting your wand to your throat."
"She lied."
"A mother wouldn't lie about something this serious."
"She. Lied."
"Hmph."
"I've told you. I was depressed, and she wanted me to get help. Now she's spinning tales to get me to see some damn doctor."
"Trust me. The magic on this building could get the truth out of anyone. And, unless I am doubting your mother's acting skill, she was about upset as anyone with a suicidal son could be."
"I'm not suicidal," I hissed. I didn't need him to determine my own problems for me, thank you.
"You're right. You're in denial."
I wanted to reach out and punch this man. What's he got in his squat, plump little body that gives him the authority to talk to me like that?
He stretched his sausage-arms behind his head, "Okay, George. How'd it start? Tell me."
I wasn't going to lie; I'd wanted to get this out for ages. It was nice to be able to pour out my thoughts and memories but I felt weak inside. Like if I poured out my hardships they'd be gone. And wasn't I supposed to be learning from them? How could I learn from them if they weren't they anymore? Oh well, what've I got to lose.
"It started," I gulped, gritted my teeth, and squeezed my eyes shut tightly, "the day after my brother Fred died."
It was out. There it was. Floating about like a patronous. The words were in the air, gently turning over and mulling in the little fatty's brain before he gobbled them up. Yes, sir my kid twin brother died. He was gone, and now, so were the words I just spoke to you. They were out, and before I spoke again, I inhaled, tasting the tart, bitter flavor of the words before I started up again.
"He was my identical twin brother, Fred. But sir, as corny as it sounds, he was more than that. We were best friends. Unmistakable in a crowd, and we fit together perfectly. Sure we teased and joked around but it was all in good fun. Everyone knew us, not individually but by the both of us. We were never Fred or George but Fred and George. We both knew that nothing could ever separate us. Nothing but death. And, quite frankly, I thought I'd have I bit more time to prepare to lose my best friend. I thought there'd be an itinerary. A schedule or something. Anything. But no, it was sudden. A flash and he was gone. My brother. My best friend. My business partner. My Fred was gone forever."
The doctor looked thoughtfully at me. I didn't want sympathy though, I just wanted a listener. I think he could tell this for he didn't look long, and after scribbled something with his quill.
"I mentioned before that we were identical right? That was one of the worst bits of it. Weeks after Fred's death, I was afraid of mirrors, or anything reflective. For George wasn't staring back at me. Fred was. He was looking at me, the same pained expression etched on his face. Fred needed help. Fred, not me. I saw that in the mirror, so in would keep my head down the whole time in the bathroom. One night, it was really late at the time, I went to the bathroom and completely forgot about the mirror. I looked straight into Fred's face. Again, it wasn't George Weasley in the mirror, it was Fred. So my expressions and looks were not mine, but Fred's. Looking in the mirror I saw Fred, though. Pale. Disheveled. Sick. Thin. Again, pained. Huge bags drooped under the usually cheerful eyes. Veins were-they were bulging at the temples. I needed to help Fred but when I asked, I couldn't get an answer. Fred wasn't there to answer me. He was dead. But he was there, for me, in that mirror, and I couldn't figure out what I had to do for my brother. I had to help him though, so I stood in front of the mirror, whispering to him. Asking Fred what was wrong and how I could help. Asking Fred to stop hiding in this bathroom. Asking him to come back to me. But I asked and asked and got not one answer. So I sunk. I leaned up against the wall and slid down the side, my head in the crook of my arm and my knees to my chin, and cried like I never had before. I bawled. I sat there, hysterical. I was gasping for air and occasionally whimpering. Between sobs, Fred's name would squeak out. Because I was helpless, and I'd left my brother like that too. No one deserved this feeling and yet I'd left Fred in the mirror like this. I knew I had and that made me feel even more like a failure than ever. I failure I was. A miserable wimp who had no right to even go out in the world. How could I? How could I live with myself knowing I had a chance to save him right there in that mirror. I saw the face. I saw Fred's misery and his pain. His struggles and his strife and I let him stay that way because I'd failed to get through to him in that bathroom mirror. So I stayed there. I didn't get angry or punch walls. Just cried. Picture that, will you? Because then it got worse and worse towards the end. Finally all my sobs condensed and snowballed into one enormous screech. A yelp, a cry, a burst, what have you. All I know is that it was the most horrible noise I've ever heard out of a human being. And that, is where all this started."
The doctor didn't say a word for a moment. Just looked straight through me.
"Well,"
"Wait you haven't heard the half of it. It's worse for my family, and that is why I considered killing myself for a while. I can't pass pancakes across the table to Ginny without her looking away. They can't look just at me. I am George, but I have my baby brother's face. Ron has the toughest time with it. He's got this temper of his sometimes, and one day we were all in the kitchen. He looked over at me, and his mouth just hung there for a moment. When he finally closed it, it was just a second before he burst out in this rant of his. Telling me to stop reminding me of him and I said I couldn't help it but that just set him off further. 'Yeah, right. We can't do a bloody thing can we? So it's not just picture like Harry has for his mum and dad, I have it everywhere.' he says. I felt even worse then so I went up to my room and thought it'd be better if I was gone. No one would notice, in fact what an asset. What a benefit to not have to look at my face anymore and be reminded of what was lost. Lucky them. Anyways, for a while after I'd lift up my wand to my throat but I couldn't do anything. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but my mum caught me and here we are," I finished, nervously cracking my knuckles. Out the tiny window above the oatmeal colored door, I could see Ginny. She waved awkwardly and I nodded hello to her. And that was when I started to think.
"George. You need help."
"No," my response jostled me a little too, but I knew what I was doing.
"No? What the hell do you mean 'no'?"
"I don't need help. I know what I need, and I can't get it from you."
"Yeah? What's that?" the doctor said, agitated and purple-faced.
What I needed to do was stupid. It was silly and unnecessary but I did it anyway. I marched over to the corner where a mirror leaned casually against the wall.
"You take this down for me? After my mum told you?"
"Well, yes. I thought it would be better for your-"
I didn't let him finish. Instead I hoisted the mirror onto the wall, waved goodbye to Fred, and smiled at George. Because after I left St. Mungo's, (without any permission from that meatball of a doctor) that was all I saw in mirrors: George Weasley.