Happy Birthday
His room is dark, but the moonlight casts a faint, sombre glow, illuminating the room with soft shades of silver. He hides beneath the covers of his bed looking at old albums and scraps of parchment. He's reminiscing, lamenting over old memories and drowning in the knowledge that there will never be any more. He's atop his bed now, staring up at the ceiling. His chest rises and falls ever so slowly as he takes lengthy breaths. His face is streaked with tears; hot and angry they fall, scalding his cheeks. He stuffs a fist into his mouth, pinches his nose- he tries anything to keep himself from screaming.
He bites his pillow; his tears are still playing connect the dots with his freckles. His face is all wet; he refuses to dry it. He sits up and stares into the nothingness on the bed next to his, the emptiness that fails to make even a crease on the bed sheet. In the moonlight his blue eyes appear dull and vacant, wet from the onslaught of tears. The anguish in them is unbearable. Fat salty droplets linger on his lips; they tremor as he tries to stifle his cries.
After a while he begins to speak, lips barely parting.
"First time ever… year older than… spend alone." His broken murmuring is barely understandable. He falls silent.
He has stopped crying; his tears dry sticky on his cheeks. He checks his wristwatch: 11:57 PM.
There is no movement. His hands are clasped together tightly, the skin over his knuckles taut and white. He does not relax.
He checks his watch again: 11:59.
Stiffly, he rises from his bed and floats ghostlike to a mirror that hung over a desk. He does not look into it; he keeps his eyes downcast, placing his palms flat on the desk, letting it carry his weight and his agony.
He hates mirrors now. He never looks in them unless he has to. They are painful, mocking objects that tear him inside. And yet…
And yet he can't hate them, not when they are the only windows he has to him. He especially can't hate this one, the mirror that now hung in front of him. He could never hate this one, not when it was a gift from long ago, from that someone that he loved- that he still loves. It had been a joke to make him laugh, it had been, way back when it was given. He had laughed so hard. The sanguine voice which sometimes haunts him suddenly echoes in his head: This year, you need to look at yourself more often because Merlin! It's like you've never looked in a mirror. Blimey, have you ever seen your reflection? He chokes back a hollow laugh, choosing instead, to smile bleakly.
His face contorts to a bitter grimace as a shrill beep sounds. Midnight.
His head whips up and his eyes lock with his reflection, his twin. With a strangled sob, he whispers hoarsely, "H-happy birthday,Gred."
And for the first birthday ever, he is met with silence. Fred's merry voice saying, 'Happy birthday, Forge,' will never again ring through his ear. Only in his mind does George hear Fred's distant voice calling: happy birthday.