Through the Senses: Rose Weasely
I wrote this piece for a short writing exercise called "Through the Senses". I didn't intend to publish it, but I found it very moving and powerful when I wrote it, and I wanted to see it go out to people to read. If you want, please review. This has nothing to do with any stories I am writing, but was a spur-of-the-moment work. Please, no flames, I am posting this because it meant something to me in relation to how I think of Rose.
I do not own any recognizable characters. They belong to the amazing JK Rowling
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I jerked up. Light flowed in through the window, but it was the orange-tinged color of a street-lamp, not sunlight. I was upset, but hardly knew why. My senses were on fire, everything around me seeming on edge. Looking around, I could see the refrigerator through the kitchen door, humming. The living room was bland, having nothing but bookshelves, books stacked neatly as always. Photos of my family were scattered through the room, happy faces moving, laughing silently. My couch was hard and uncomfortable, a terrible place to have slept.
Suddenly, one of the pictures caught my eye. It sat alone, isolated from the others. I rose, and walked over to look at it, and picked it up. In it, Albus is laughing, with Hogwarts in the back ground. Suddenly, Scorpius ran to him, pushing him down to the ground, just avoiding me dive-bombing them on my broom. One of our summer days in sixth year. The rough frame scratched my fingers, and sharp corners bit into my hand.
As I watched, Scorpius stood and grabbed the handle of my broom and pulled me downwards. Shrieking laughter makes my face scrunch, while Al pulled me off the broom. However, in the second before he dislodged me, I see my eyes meet Scorpius'. The look he gives me is blazing, and I crave to reach into the frame and receive the look.
As my hand catches again on the frame, I suddenly remember what happened that night, after Scorpius' smoldering look. The way he needed to shave, and his rough stubble scrapped against my cheeks as we kissed, hurried, secret kisses late during patrol.
I reached up and held the frame to my cheek, rubbing gently in order to better remember.
However, the feeling is wrong. Somehow, the roughness does not match his. In my hands, I notice how cold the frame is. So unlike his warmth, always sending chills through me.
Suddenly, I fall. A great sob escapes me, and I hurl the frame across the room. As I hear a satisfying shatter of glass, I moan, sides heaving. It was too much, remembering him hurt me too much. Each day, I felt the hollow in my heart grow, not shrink. Memories of stolen moments together fill my mind. Rising, still crying, I grab quill and parchment, and begin to write.
