This is the story of me, Ginny Marie Weasley, aged 16, the 24 of December. This is my obsession, the one that never ended.
Harry. He is the beggining and end of everything. Harry. And now the complete chain of my life has been splintered, destroyed, broken. Done. Over.
I'm sitting on my bed nursing a drink. It's bitter taste makes me cringe until I finally knock back the whole glass. I usually don't drink. Now I have a reason to.
I know I look like a mess. Bloodshot eyes, half moons, and uncombed hair. I'm wearing red silk dress robes. I pick at the fabric with my fingers. What a waste of money. I pull my makeup off the counter and one by one, destroy the contents. I throw the tubes and bottles into the waste basket. What a waste of time. My hands are greasy and sticky with creams, lipsticks, my fingernails coated in blues, greens, and expensive browns.
I take out a pair of scissors from my drawer. Slowly and diliberately, I hack at my robes. It all makes it look more interesting. Slowly, the silk is ruined and an abstract picture is drawn on it. I admire my handiwork.
I pour myself another glass. This time I don't bother sipping it slowly and just gulp the the whole glass; the amber liquid leaving a burning trail of colour down my throat.
Where did this all begin? Was it the first glimpsse of him? His first visit? His first word? Or is it something more obscure altogether, melting, melding, dripping into a mere memory, a mere thought?
A stream of cold passes through me, it's cold and sweeping, saying nothing of the pristine snow falling onto the grey slush outside. Saying nothing of my ruined robes, ruined makeup and ruined life.
I get up, my steps uncertain, and lean against the door. The warm laughter I hear strikes a chord; didn't I do that once? Enjoy myself, laugh, have fun and party? My ankles are numb, my heels turning into hardened ice. The dull ache brings me to my senses and I place my slippers on my feet. I change into simple black robes and press open the door.
"Ginny!" cries Hermione. "How lovely to see you!" She is hanging of Harry's arm, her cheeks flushed. What contrast to me.
The colours are too bright; their smiles too false; their laughter too short lived. I have the urge to to run back up to my room like a trapped rabbit. Too late, my brother is here.
"Hey, what happened to my hands?" asks Ron. "Been playing around in your makeup? That's our beauty queen, Ginny!"
"And you're mine," whispers Harry softly to Hermione. She blushes and stares at her feet. I think I'm going to be sick.
"I don't feel too good." I announce. Anymore of this will compromise my health.
I catch snatches of conversation on my way up.
"...something wrong..."
"...still stuck on Harry..."
"...not healthy..."
So they all know. I sit on my bed again. I immediately jump up and yelp. The sheets are like ice. I cannot cry. I have no more tears, no more energy. It takes energy to
cry. I have none left.
I am no more but a lifeless shell; unwanted and unknown. There is only feeling for Harry, that is all that's left.
---finish--
Harry. He is the beggining and end of everything. Harry. And now the complete chain of my life has been splintered, destroyed, broken. Done. Over.
I'm sitting on my bed nursing a drink. It's bitter taste makes me cringe until I finally knock back the whole glass. I usually don't drink. Now I have a reason to.
I know I look like a mess. Bloodshot eyes, half moons, and uncombed hair. I'm wearing red silk dress robes. I pick at the fabric with my fingers. What a waste of money. I pull my makeup off the counter and one by one, destroy the contents. I throw the tubes and bottles into the waste basket. What a waste of time. My hands are greasy and sticky with creams, lipsticks, my fingernails coated in blues, greens, and expensive browns.
I take out a pair of scissors from my drawer. Slowly and diliberately, I hack at my robes. It all makes it look more interesting. Slowly, the silk is ruined and an abstract picture is drawn on it. I admire my handiwork.
I pour myself another glass. This time I don't bother sipping it slowly and just gulp the the whole glass; the amber liquid leaving a burning trail of colour down my throat.
Where did this all begin? Was it the first glimpsse of him? His first visit? His first word? Or is it something more obscure altogether, melting, melding, dripping into a mere memory, a mere thought?
A stream of cold passes through me, it's cold and sweeping, saying nothing of the pristine snow falling onto the grey slush outside. Saying nothing of my ruined robes, ruined makeup and ruined life.
I get up, my steps uncertain, and lean against the door. The warm laughter I hear strikes a chord; didn't I do that once? Enjoy myself, laugh, have fun and party? My ankles are numb, my heels turning into hardened ice. The dull ache brings me to my senses and I place my slippers on my feet. I change into simple black robes and press open the door.
"Ginny!" cries Hermione. "How lovely to see you!" She is hanging of Harry's arm, her cheeks flushed. What contrast to me.
The colours are too bright; their smiles too false; their laughter too short lived. I have the urge to to run back up to my room like a trapped rabbit. Too late, my brother is here.
"Hey, what happened to my hands?" asks Ron. "Been playing around in your makeup? That's our beauty queen, Ginny!"
"And you're mine," whispers Harry softly to Hermione. She blushes and stares at her feet. I think I'm going to be sick.
"I don't feel too good." I announce. Anymore of this will compromise my health.
I catch snatches of conversation on my way up.
"...something wrong..."
"...still stuck on Harry..."
"...not healthy..."
So they all know. I sit on my bed again. I immediately jump up and yelp. The sheets are like ice. I cannot cry. I have no more tears, no more energy. It takes energy to
cry. I have none left.
I am no more but a lifeless shell; unwanted and unknown. There is only feeling for Harry, that is all that's left.
---finish--