A/N: Part of my inspiration for this story is from the musical Rent, which I'll get into later. This idea has been in my head since I first read that Fred died. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Honestly, if I wrote Harry Potter, do you think I'd be writing on here?!
A Bad Dream
George continued to stare at himself in the mirror. Despite all the tears of hopelessness, he continued on. His mother once told him that if you set your mind to something, anything could happen. George thought that if he stared at himself long enough, the identical twin of his would come back to life.
It's useless George thought to himself. Fred's gone…nothing can bring him back…
As he said this, George got up and shattered the mirror with his fist. He didn't care that he was bleeding, the pain felt good. In fact, the pain felt…heavenly…
George was bawling now. He felt worse than he'd ever felt in his life. He hadn't eaten in days, he hadn't been able to sleep since Fred's death, only a few days ago. Losing Fred was like losing half of himself, the half that was always making silly jokes, always happy, the optimist. All that was left was the depressed child who repressed all memories of happiness. Happiness was an emotion that seemed to far away to ever bring back.
George peered at the shattered glass that now covered the floor of his bedroom. That pain of the glass breaking in his fist felt better than anything in months. George picked up a large piece of the glass and held it in his hands. He began to sob.
"God, I'm just so tired."
He held the glass in his right hand and brought it to his wrist.
"I'm so sorry, Fred."
Slowly he ran the jagged shard of glass across his wrist. The pain was relaxing. The adrenaline pumped through his veins. Blood began to seep through the skin, gliding slowly into his palm. He cut himself again, and with more blood came more adrenaline.
"Here I come, brother."
His arm was torn apart. Blood dripped from George's fingertips and slowly fell to the floor of his room. He was fading away. He could begin to feel himself leave his body. His breath was becoming shorter. He quickly grabbed a quill with ink and scribbled a message on the parchment before collapsing onto the floor and into the glass.
"This is just a bad dream."
A/N: Please R&R. Please no flaming, though I would love some constructive criticism. Not sure if I'll continue this, please let me know if I should.