She Died On Her Birthday
By: Demonic Psycho
Demonic Psycho: My arse is frozen off of my body, my feet and hands are fucking-ass cold, it is five twenty-three in the morning (now it's twenty-four), and, by the way, I stayed up the whole night. This was an itty-bitty, teeny-weeny, random, spur-of-the-moment thing I came up with while reading The Love in Him by eight-cent-plantation. Gotta love that chickeroo.
Oh, and by the way, this is not in anyway affiliated with stories that I have written before this or may or may not write after this.
Disclaimer: I'm not sayin' anythin', bitches!
A woman with light brown hair and hazel eyes was reading the newspaper before her eyes pooled with unbidden tears.
"Remus," she choked, biting her lower lip as she handed the newspaper to her husband.
LILY AND JAMES POTTER DEAD
Son, Harry, survived
"What?" he asked on reflex, his grey eyes widening. "No, they can't be dead. There's no bloody way that they're dead… Oh, God, no! They're dead!"
The couple wept, the wife, Helen, more often called Hell, soaking Remus's shirt through. Remus held his wife to his flat, masculine bosom, his face contorted in pain and grief over the loss of their friends.
"She died on her birthday, Rem. Jesus, she was too bloody young to die! James and Lily were too bloody fucking young to die!" the American witch wailed, burying her face into the hollow of her husband's neck.
It was funny how the deaths of their friends made them bond all the more closely, cling onto each other as if that was the only reason they had for living. It was ironic that in death there was a rebirth, a phoenix from the ashes.
It was ironic that, just as Lily Evans-Potter had just grown another year, she was deprived of her life.
She had died on her birthday.