Title: Reparo
Summary: You toss the bottle on the floor. It smashes into tens and hundreds and thousands and millions of tiny pieces. Reparo. / You thought the pain would disappear after the first hundred drinks. /He's still dead when you're done with the bottle.
TW: Swearing, and mentions of suicide attempts, alcohol, and cigarettes.
This story is about the aftermath of George having to deal with Fred's death. Let me know what you think of it, by leaving a review, please. Thank you!
Alcohol and cigarettes are just distractions. They help you forget for just a moment what happened. But he's still gone, George. Why won't you fucking accept it?
It's just drink after drink after cigarette after drink after cigarette after drink.
Stop.
You know he would hate you for this. Everyone does. But you don't care.
Walk normally. Stumble. Stumble. Walk. Stumble. Walk.
Pick up your feet. Your mother would scold if she saw.
You toss the bottle on the floor. It smashes into tens and hundreds and thousands and millions of tiny pieces. Reparo. You throw it again. Reparo. Again. Reparo. Again. Reparo. Again. Reparo.
You thought the pain would disappear after the first hundred drinks. It didn't.
Hundreds turned to thousands.
Stop mourning. Five years is too long to be alone.
You think your mother knows because she always does.
Drink after drink after drink.
It doesn't go away.
The demons don't drown.
You even tried to drown yourself but someone stopped you.
You tried hanging yourself but the rope wouldn't tie.
Drugs wouldn't work, you never took enough.
Someone always found you before you bled out too.
So you started smoking and drinking. Maybe if you did it enough, one would work.
Maybe you would stop wanting to rip out your lungs and crush your heart and gouge out your eyes because you see him in every goddamn reflection.
Another bottle of booze. Maybe this one will work. But it won't. None of them ever do. Nothing will bring you to him and nothing will ever fucking bring him back.
Because he's still dead when you're done with the bottle, George.
You have to accept it.
Move on.
AN:
"He's still dead when you're done with the bottle" is from the song Sippy Cup from Melanie Martinez.
I imagine George wouldn't take Fred's death too well, especially for the first few years, so I wrote this up. Nice and short and angsty, just the way I like it.
Let me know how I did, please!
Thanks!