They Said She Was Brave
They said she was brave.
She said they were fools.
They said they couldn't believe she was still so strong.
She said she had never felt so weak in her whole life.
They said she had the makings of an angel.
She said she would rather be in hell than be alone.
They said life had given her a second chance.
She said life was her worst enemy for keeping her alive.
They said she was brave.
She said they were fools.
They said she was brave.
She had been a part of something so tragic and so life-altering that no one could comprehend the pain and horror she must have witnessed, even if they themselves were there. And she had carried on.
She moved and spoke as if life hadn't dealt her a bad hand, and her world hadn't been slashed in two. She could smile as if she was the happiest person in the world. She laughed heartily at the simplest jokes, not caring how often she had heard them. Every moment was special now.
They said she was brave.
She said they were fools.
Her words were clichéd and her movements automatic. Her smiles never reached her eyes and her laughter was hollow. Nothing was important anymore. She wasn't brave; she was just trying to live for the people who never got the chance. So she would go out and smile and laugh and dance. And then she would go home and sob and frown and pretend that she wasn't alone and that she really was brave. She let them think she was the same person she had always been.
She said they were fools.
They said they couldn't believe she was still so strong.
Tragedy has an unfortunate but all too common role in making lives worthless and making tears a nightly occurrence.
But she was always so happy and extroverted. They doubted anything could slow her down. She was on top of the world and everyone wanted to be like her. They wanted to know all of the glorious things she knew and meet all of the fascinating people she associated with regularly.
She was carrying on from a tragedy that would have taken everything out of anyone else.
They said they couldn't believe she was still so strong.
She said she had never felt so weak in her whole life.
She lived every moment in a state of near vegetation, wishing for life to end. The things she saw that night…. No one could even begin to understand. The only people who could understand where in no shape to talk about that night.
She had always wanted to make a difference in the world. She had dreamed of meeting diplomats and chatting with celebrities as a child, but now that she had those opportunities, all she wanted was a life of simplicity in which the whole world didn't know her life story. And then no one would want to be like her, because she would just be the lady you would pass by on the street or stand behind in line at the store.
But tragedy causes tears and heartache and a lifetime of worthlessness that you can never get back. And the hurt begins to mold into baggage, lumped on your back, causing you to sag and wilt because of fatigue. They thought she could carry all of that pain using her astounding strength.
She said she had never felt so weak in her whole life.
They said she had the makings of an angel.
Only the term "angel" was sufficient enough to describe a woman so pure and so selfless. And even calling her an angel wasn't enough to some. To them, she had to be more than that. But everyone agreed that she was a heroine, an idol for every child and woman and man.
Her skin was flawless and her teeth whiter than the most precious pearls. Brown waves of hair framed her beautiful face and not a single hair was ever out of place. Her clothes were the newest and most fashionable and she donated all of her old clothes to charities and to the needy. Her shoes held her high above the rest of the world, a metaphor for her life. If she had wings, no one would have been surprised. She already had the glow around her that a halo would have provided, but she could have had one of those, too, for all they knew.
But she was always modest and shy about her beauty. She never boasted or thought herself better than anyone. Even though men flocked to her, women were never jealous for she never seemed to realize the stares and admiring, longing glances she would receive as she walked down the street.
They said she had the makings of an angel.
She said she would rather be in hell than be alone.
She wanted the Devil to call her number so that she wouldn't have to be everyone's mannequin anymore. Her brain was a waste when all they thought she was good for was wearing clothes and smiling like a fool. She didn't want to be idolized and gawked at as she walked down the street.
She hated her skin and the feeling she got when people touched her. Her skin was too soiled by monsters. No one should have to touch her deadly skin. Her teeth were a source of anger too. Her parents, who had for so long told her how to take care of her smile, were no longer there to erase her frowns. Her lips held back her tongue when she should have shouted. And her hair, her wild, dreadful, unmanageable hair that they all thought was perfect: it too had kept her from saying anything of use. They had pulled her hair to keep her screaming and her eyes to be constantly filled with tears so that she could not warn or see the horror that would soon be hers, and hers alone, to know.
And then there were the clothes that were consistently being thrown at her. She detested all of the lavish mink coats and costly gowns that she was forced to wear. The money that could have been saved to donate to relief from the war and to orphaned children always made her cringe. That was the only rumor that was true: she always gave the clothes away. She would sell them and give all of the money to the fund for the war's victims, even if she knew, better than any, that money could not bring back loved ones.
She saw all of the stares she got. They were calculating her, waiting for the moment of her downfall. Everyone was waiting for her to mess up, to fall, or to surrender. She could feel their eyes as she would walk down the street. The whispers that followed her invaded her nightmares and it was a struggle to not cry.
She said she would rather be in hell than be alone.
They said life had given her a second chance.
Death had been beating at the door and she had boldly gotten up to answer it head on. She had spent her childhood helping others. Now was her chance to live life to the fullest. She could lead a normal life. She deserved peace after everything she had been through. Her acts of selflessness spread like wildfire. It was common consensus that she should never have to lift a finger. Her purpose in life was surely not complete. She had survived a horrible tragedy. There was no way she would have been kept around if she had already fulfilled her purpose. It was time she got to do things for herself. She had earned it.
They said life had given her a second chance.
She said life was her worst enemy for keeping her alive.
She didn't need more years. She wanted out. She wanted to be with her family. Everyone said it was her time to shine. She didn't want to shine. She wanted to be happy and to have everything—and everyone—that had been taken from her. Her purpose was complete. She had helped him through everything. And where had it gotten her? Lost. Alone. Bitter. Sometimes she almost wished she hadn't done her job so well. Maybe then she wouldn't be sad and scarred. Maybe then no one would know her name. Maybe then she would still have him.
She said life was her worst enemy for keeping her alive.
They said she was brave.
She said they were fools.
A/N: This is just something I began a while ago and never had the heart to finish because I liked it so much. I don't care if no one else likes it. I think it's one of my better angst pieces.
In my mind, this is what Hermione would go through should she be the only member of the Trio to survive the War. The loneliness, the loss, the overwhelming sadness… I think I was in a depressing mood when I started this…
Hope you liked it.