By: The Brat Prince
A/N: Umm…so, this is the first drabble I've ever put up on ffn.net. Usually I just stick 'em in English projects or my livejournal. Just in case you can't figure it out (apparently everybody's mind doesn't tick in the same direction as mine), it's about Ron, Hermione, and Harry. If you want an interpretation…I'm afraid I can't help you there. I was thinking I might write a chapter type story before I jotted this down, but, as things go…Yup. So, R+R.
No,
no, no. He thought this, and still it was true. No matter what he did, the
thought couldn't be shaken away or out, or wherever unwanted thoughts go. It
hung in the back of his mind, resurfacing at her smile, her eyes, her
everything he never wanted.
Hormones, it was hormones.
Teenagers are supposed to have them, raging like fire, fire and ice inside your
veins, burning and thawing and raging, raging, raging. It couldn't and it
wasn't; fireworks and strobe lights, wishing on stars and falling down stairs.
Fight, of course he had
to. She was beautiful, and he wasn't. Lanky limbs and wine red hair, a pale,
freckled face. Who wanted that? If the answer was no one, he didn't want to
know.
Sometimes it was better to
run, pound his feet against the green grass pitch rather than soar, because
that way when he screamed, he could pretend she heard him. Worse than her eyes,
the way they strayed from his, blue to darker blue then back to the softest,
sharpest green. Green. The root of all his problems.
Someday long ago, before
all the fairytales, back when he first found himself in the huge halls, the
ones that threatened to swallow his body, a glimpse of green could save his
life. Perfectly narrowed, slitted eyes, boring into his soul, searching for one
more way to make the world a better place.
This is what happened when
he didn't need saving. How could he say he wanted to be the messiah, the
saviour, when he couldn't even look him in those unbearably green eyes. This is
the way the world ended. With one more crass word, one more expletive in a long
chain, a bang and a whisper and a broken friendship.
Her retreating back,
gunshot footsteps, wind blowing that hair, brown and puffy, never staying
straight, even after hours and hours of god-knew-what kind of torture. Don't
believe everything you hear, she said, even as she walked away from him, hand
in hand with the owner of those eyes.
I don't want to be saved, he'd scream, but she'd never hear him, and if she
wasn't near, HE wouldn't be there to hear either. Maybe, one day, the echoes of
his voice, strained and scratched, would reach them and damn them both.
Be happy, he said instead,
but they knew he didn't mean it. She smirked when she lead him away, but she
didn't see him look back, meet his eyes, green to blue. The inquiry was there,
do you want me to save you?
I don't need to be saved,
he thought, but was it true? Hesitation prompted his demise in those angelic
eyes. Green looked away, the world wasn't rosy, it was dead.
When he stepped off the
edge, no one would catch him.