Hullo. Miss me?
This was bugging me. Recently, my Grandmother passed away. Thanks to modern society and technology, instead of writing letters to her, my family message her on her Facebook. Whenever we have something to tell her, or a particularly long day, we post on her Wall, or if it's private, send her a message. A bit odd, yes, but it works. I could see George writing to Fred after he died, just to hold on a bit longer.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, if I had, things would be much different. Instead, this genius belongs to J.K. Rowling.
Dear Fred,
It's been a month since the Battle of Hogwarts. It's been a month, and I don't know if I can take it anymore.
I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do? I just don't understand, and nobody else does either. I lost my other half. I lost you. Shit. I can't do this anymore.
Fuck, I wish you would come home.
-George
OoOo
Fred-
You son of a bitch. What the hell were you thinking, getting yourself killed, leaving me here all alone. You bloody- you stupid selfish fucker. It's been long enough goddamn it! How am I supposed to live for the rest of my life when I can't even handle three months? I can't take it! Mum cries everyday. Every-buggering-day. She can't even look at me, did you know that? Our own fucking mother can't stand to look me in the eye because of you, you-you- fuck. Neither can Dad. No one can look at me without crying. They won't look at me. I'm so fucking alone.
I miss you so much.
OoOo
Dear Fred,
I can't stand to look in the mirror. I understand why nobody can look at me anymore. It's just too fucking painful. I end up talking to myself because now I'm the only one who knows what I'm going to say next. Sometimes I pretend you answer, and then it doesn't feel so lonely.
Love, George
OoOo
How could you? How could you leave me? Did you not even—even think? You left, you left me! How could you do that? How could you fucking leave me? I hate you! I hate you, I hate you so much it hurts. I hate that you're gone, I hate that you left, I miss you, I can't stand it. I wasn't even there when it happened, and I still dream about it, and I hate myself because I imagine it was Percy instead and I fucking hate you because it should've been neither of you. I hate you, Merlin, I hate you. Please, please. Please. God. Fuck.
OoOo
Dear Fred,
Hogwarts is finished. Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione are returning in September.
How can they just go on living?
OoOo
Dear Fred,
Four months. They left on the train yesterday. I didn't go to see them off, I don't think Ginny could handle it.
I've locked myself in the flat above the shop. I don't remember the last time I left. I don't remember the last time anyone came over. I think it was at your funer—fuck.
The days are long, and every minute hurts.
Love, George
OoOo
Dear Fred,
I'm in St. Mungo's. Not too sure how I got here, but then again, I couldn't tell you what day it is if you threatened to crucio me. Supposedly, I've gotten myself even more smashed than I have been the past couple months, and tried to off myself in the loo at the Hog's Head, went out cause I needed more Firewhisky. Not one of my smarter moments, I should've done it at the flat.
Now I'm stuck here regrowing one of my kidneys, and a damaged chest wall. I've been here two days, and all there is to occupy me is to trace the different shapes on the ceiling, and listen to visiting families coo and soothe. It's fucking disgusting, and I want to get out of this place.
OoOo
Supposedly, it's October. One of the nurses was talking to me, even though I couldn't give a shit, and mentioned it. Five months, and I still dream like it was yesterday and you were there. I'd rather be in the Hog's Head drowning in Firewhisky.
OoOo
Dear Fred,
It's my fault, isn't it? That you die—that you're gone. I should've done something. I should've been there. I was the one who pointed Percy out to you. I'm so fucking stupid. I got you kille—it's my fault. I'm so sorry.
OoOo
Sometimes I think I'm mad. Why else would I be writing these things? You're gone. No fucking letter can get to you. I got out of Mungo's yesterday, came to the flat above the shop. Broke that vase you were going to give to Mum for her birthday by accident. Sat down with the pieces and cried. I haven't spoken to anyone besides the nurses and healers at St. Mungo's. Everyone I know knew you, and can't stand to look at me. I don't blame them.
OoOo
Dear Fred,
I wish a day went by where something I saw didn't reflect back on you, when you were still here. A reflection is another memory, and just another painful reminder that you're gone and you're never coming back. It hurts to be reminded of you. I just don't want to remember anymore. It's suffocating. Every-single-thing in the flat was boxed up. It looks the same as when we bought it.
I spend most moments lying on the bare floor drinking fire whisky and trying not to remember.
OoOo
Dear Fred,
Dad came by. It's the first time I've seen him since before Hogwarts was finished. The six month without you was the day before, and he cried when he saw me. Guess he still can't handle it. I wish I'd stop hurting them. I just want to leave so they'd never have to bother, and never have to look at me and feel awful anymore, but I'm a selfish coward. I don't know if I can. I just keep hoping I'll stop feeling lonely.
He stayed for a couple minutes, crying all the while, and trying to pretend he was avoiding looking at me. Brought something, dunno what, I incendio'ed it after he left, and went back to bed. I went down to the joke shop for the first time since—well, before. It's been closed. I'm not ready to open it. Our dream, you're dream, it hurts to much. What's the point in being successful if there's no one to share it with?
I think I'm going to get out of here for a while. Somewhere where no one knew a pair of trouble making twin's and can still look me in the eye.
Love, George.
OoOo
I'm in America. I know, bloody unbelievable, right? Over here with the yanks, and it's not so bad. I know you always wanted to expand the shop over here, and let me tell you, it would've been interesting. They weren't affected by the war, at least, and the best part is, nobody knows me. Pretty great, all in all. I might just stay here, the booze is great, and like I said before, nobody looks at me and sees you. It'd be even better if you were here.
OoOo
Dear Fred,
I'm pathetic. I came back, into the empty flat. It's almost Christmas, and last year we were just getting ready to test our Snogging 'Nog. I got a letter from Bill when I came back. Invited me to spend the Holiday's with him and Fleur. Don't know how he managed to get it in the flat, all the windows are boarded up and the owl repelling wards haven't broken since I put them up in November, right after Dad came to visit. Anyway, I'm not going. Haven't seen him since I took off in May, and with my luck he'd start sobbing in the ham and calling me Fred, and then Fleur would eviscerate me and I'd be just as miserable as I am now. Yeah, no thanks. I'll stay here with my Whisky, boarded up windows, empty rooms, and silencing charms. Maybe I'll sleep through it and the New Year, and not think about that fact that it'll be a year without you, and without a Holiday at the Burrow.
OoOo
Dear Fred.
It's been January for a week. Guess I went a bit overboard. Is it possible to rupture your kidney? I'd rather not go back to St. Mungo's. At least I can still drink, here. I'm so fucking tired. Which is funny, considering I drink myself to sleep, and drink myself awake. I'm just bloody tired. And sorry, fuck am I sorry. Did you know I didn't even go to your funeral? What kind of fucking twin, brother, am I? I don't even know where you're burie—where they put you. I don't think I'd be welcomed, anyway. By you or our family if they so happened to be there. I wonder if they came home for the Holiday? Ron and them, I mean. I don't know. I miss you. And, I miss Mum. Isn't that a kick in the face? I miss the woman who birthed us, who can't even stand to be around me. I'm so tired. Four months until a year.
OoOo
You're dead. Fuck, shit, goddamnit, bloody buggering bollocks. You're dead! Leave me the bloody hell alone! I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, and I'll always be sorry, I'm sorry I'm alive and you're not, I'm sorry I didn't die to, I'm sorry that our family can't look at me, I'm sorry about the shop, I'm sorry I wasn't there with you, I'm sorry I got you killed, I'm sorry you're going to be nineteen forever, I'm sorry you won't get married and pass on all of our tricks to your kids, and that you won't see Ginny graduate and Ron and Hermione finally get married, and that you won't be my best man and vice versa, and I'm sorry for everything, for everything I swear I bloody swear, just leave me alone! I don't want to see you everywhere I go, and I don't want to look at your buggering face in the mirror, and I don't want to dream of you blaming me for what I know is my fault! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.
OoOo
I've set a record, I think. "Loser with Most Pathetic Moments, and who End's Up in St. Mungo's in Regards to Said Moments." I think it was the day before yesterday, maybe, well it was our Birthday. Anyway, a month until the day you died. Purportedly, our parents came to the loft to give me a gift, and try to get me out of the loft—this is just how rumour has it—and found me, once again, not at my best. Face down in my own vomit with alcohol poisoning, hey, least I didn't try to kill myself this time, right? I'm pretty sure I have the same healer as last time too. Only, now when I can break out of here, they won't let me go back to the loft. No, the only way they're letting me out is if I go with Mum and Dad, and stay under their watch, and undergo the therapy every other, let's see how did they say it, "war survivor" had to take. So, not only am I going to be living with our parent's again, I get to spill my guts to a stranger if I want to go back to the loft. Of all the buggering times for them to feel guilty, they had to do it while I was smashed and unconscious in my own puke. Merlin.