Fire
Synopsis: No amount of time or sleep or bottles upon bottles of vodka can make you forget…A very, very short HP SM
Eh. Wrote it once for a creative writing class. I don't really use hints as to who I am writing about but since I only write about one pair..you can guess.(DM & MK)
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You wanted this.
You've repeated it to yourself, over and over, thousands of times. But not once did you manage to say it aloud. You could never because that would mean these stupid, ridiculous thoughts would become reality and you'd be to blame.
It's better this way. Floating endlessly in your mind, taunting and festering inside of you like a cancerous tumor. No amount of treatment can truly eliminate the hazardous growth, no amount of time or sleep or bottles upon bottles of vodka can make you forget…
You look at the room before you. The walls glare at you with its vast, empty abyss; faded sun spots where posters once hung smirking at you with memory. You remember exactly where the bed used to be, always unkempt, with the violet purple nightstand at her side of the bed. The drawers were always left open; she was forgetful like that.
But they were gone as well, just like…
Your brows lift with surprise as you take note of one particular stain on the bright, lime green carpet. You drop to your knees to take a closer look and recall the apple juice she had spilled from the carton that one night. She had bumped into the open night-stand drawer and dropped it all over the new carpet.
After father had cut you off, you had no money and no one wanted to hire the spawn of a Death Eater. You two had saved a months rent to buy that carpet and she had stained it, like that.
She cried and you just kissed her endlessly till she stopped.
You shake your head, ridding the memory from your thoughts.
You take a deep breath and revel how it still smells of her scent; that incomparable scent of the sun, moon and stars and sheer joy. And yes, joy had a scent.
You look behind you at the hallway. Boxes are stacked where things are supposed to be. And there's apathy where love is supposed to be. And you try and wonder why, why, why did you want this?
You take another breath and the smell of the sun, moon, HER has given way for the dank, sour smell of kerosene.
Freedom is near.
You extract a small, square packet from your pocket. A flick of your wrist and at once the vibrant, lime green carpet lights up a dangerous orange.
The flames dance across the floor of the house and soon up the walls, eagerly feasting on the glaring walls, hollowed carpet indentations and haunting memory. The fire finally turns to you for their victim, consuming you in this excruciating blaze.
And before you are completely gone, you can't help but to take that one, final breath.
And it smells just like the sun, moon and stars and sheer joy. And yes, sheer joy has a scent.
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Idk. Loved it? Hated it?
Review, jackass.
