THE DAY THAT MADE THEM
iii;
With the wind quietly whistling and the sun obscured by clouds, an unsettling aura hung in the air. The damp bouquet of sunflowers - his favourites - rustled slightly in their tall glass stand, the letter 'F' emblazoned in a vivid orange on its front. Stepping away from the graveside, the man who had placed the bright, contradictorily cheery flowers into their ornate vase brought a curled fist to his face, pressing it to his mouth. He inhaled deeply, fingers clenched so tight they almost cut into his clammy palm. Appearing far too old old for a man so young, the redhead's brown eyes pooled with tears as he knelt down, his free hand resting on the rough granite headstone.
"Fred," he whispered, his voice hoarse, choked with repressed sobs. "How're you doing?"
The question felt trivially silly, yet nevertheless perfectly fitting. After pausing for a few seconds, the gentle calls of the wind his only response, George spoke again. "I'm ..."
The words caught in his throat, and he had to let out a quiet wail as he tried to finish the sentence. "I miss you, Freddie! Every day. I feel lost without you. I am lost without you."
Overwhelmed with emotion, his eyes came to rest on the photograph that was framed on the stone before him. It was a repeating snapshot of Fred at age seventeen, winking and raising a tankard of butterbeer to whomever was taking the shot. His carefree expression and his boyish, crooked grin incited so much sadness in his twin brother that George had to tear his gaze away from the tombstone, teeth clenched together tightly.
"It's hard, not being Forge anymore." His lips curled into a sad smile as he remembered the ridiculous nicknames he and Fred had adopted. "Still, I'll chin up, Freddie. Just for you."
Wiping his index finger across the puffy rims of his eyes, George stood up and sniffed, dusting the dirt from his trouser-legs. He looked down at the grave again, his vision almost completely blurred with stinging tears.
"Happy birthday, mate. Here's to us."
i;
The thunderous explosion was still screaming inside his head, dimmed only by the blood which pounded in his ears. He wanted to throw up, to tear out his hair, claw out his eyes. He wanted to throw himself down on the stone around his brother's body and kill himself. It was the only option he could think of as his vision remained stuck on the glazed look of his brother's pupils, staring endlessly into the heavens. Carefully and cautiously, George bent down to lean over his twin, his bloodied hands shaking violently as he slid the corpse's eyelids shut.
Fred. Dead.
It was an impossible truth, a sick joke. It couldn't be right.
Was he dreaming?
He had to be imagining it. It was all in his mind.
He'd been brain-damaged by war, that was it.
That had to be it.
For how was he expected to live without Fred?
ii;
Leaning back against his leather chair, the psychiatrist underlined a word with his quill, add emphasis to the thought. Peering over his round spectacles, he examined the patient before him once more. The boy had stopped wringing his hands and started to rock slowly back and forth instead. His eyes were still as wide and frightful as those of the doctor's pet owl, who - as if reading her owner's mind - gave out a low, eerie hoot that almost sounded concerned. Even at the sudden noise, Dr Hawthorn's patient didn't flinch.
The seconds passed by, each tick of the clock keeping in time with the young man's breaths. After twelve and a half minutes of deafening silence, the doctor decided to try to initiate conversation.
"So, George. This is our fourth appointment now."
Finally, the redhead looked up. He gave a slight nod, confirming the fact. Deciding that this was progress, Hawthorn smiled.
"Tell me, George, are you eating well?"
George nodded again, the small gesture seeming to require every measure of his energy.
"Good," continued the doctor.
"And are you still having the dream, George? The nightmare of the day that caused all of this. Are you still dreaming of the day that made you this way, George?"
Suddenly and unexpectedly, the patient leapt to his feet, kicking over the small coffee table that separated him and the psychiatrist. His face turning beet-red with rage, George bellowed in the man's face.
"STOP - CALLING ME - THAT - NAME!"
He crumbled on the final word and fell to his knees, his head hitting the carpet hard. His body juddering with sobs, he made no effort to get up, to try and resume hiding his emotions.
The doctor sitting in front of him made a solemn expression, pressing his lips into a sorrowful frown. Raising his quill again, he underlined the word once more.
'Fragile.'
a/n: this was written for The Title Challenge by lowi with the prompt 'fragile'. if you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it, please do leave a review. thank you!