Dear Tom: A Plea

(in form of a poem)

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Dear Tom,

I couldn't sleep after I wrote my last

mad-scripted letter, curling in my thin bed

and hugging myself as I huddled.  It was so

silly of me, even entertaining the silent fear

you would somehow answer – you always

did, Tom, even those times I could sense

anger in your careful, charming words –

passing through death and filtering into

my life.

I remembered, crying for fear of you under

the slim protection of my sheets, the feel of

blood on my fingers and when, finally, I

knew the blood was because of you.  It took

all my soul last night to keep from imagining what

could happen – would happen to me.  If you

were free to read and respond, piercing

death in favor of tangible life,

what could you then do to me?

You nearly killed me once and I knew, through

my insanity – have I gone insane, Tom? – and

with my terror, salt and tears and sweat, if

you could, you would kill me now.  You must

hate me for everything.  Being a fool, being

weak.  Whining to you, boring the

darkness of your mind.  Loving Harry with all

that held me clasped together.

But I made it through the night,

sanity anchoring itself firmly in my being to

assist the morning dawn – warm, golden, and soft

as it brushed through the window over me – in

its saving chore.  Relief at knowing you are

still locked deep in death's embrace and I am safe

from you, wrapped in gilded sheaths of life.

I live while you cease.

Do you hate me for this, Tom?  Do you seethe

in whatever hell you created, waiting and

biding the burning, the humiliation, and the eternity

granted you in justice's name for those

dead by your hands?  Do you think on me with

disgust and hate for daring, even once, to

defy your horrible power?  Yet I still live.

I hate you, Tom!  I want you

to know I will never let my walls fade long enough,

far enough, for me to ever think of you as friend,

confidante, enigmatic pen-pal, and most certainly,

with all my revulsion and hatred, I don't want that

ghostly trace of you coming to me at

night when I work.

I do not allow you the right to seduce me, no

matter how I once cared, no matter how your spectral

fingers tease at my hair or your handsome

choir-boy's voice speaks gently,

charmingly, lovingly to me.  I cannot let in the

shard of your soul that replaced my own ragged, twisted

piece, must not acknowledge part

of you remains in me: you beat in my heart,

pulse in liquid warmth with the flow of my tidal blood,

render me voiceless when I see Harry.

I scrounge together the unwinding threads of my

courage and hurriedly weave them into a scrap

of cloth to preserve my bravery and intentions, bearing

it as I move to draw his attention.  I think,

maybe, if only those green eyes would fall on me and

still, trembling with surprise to see how – but I never

get that far.  I see brown eyes in my mind,

powerful and condescending, red flickers in the centre

that grow in malevolence when your voice

grows enchanting.

You used me and ruined me, Tom,

reshaped the part of me that trusts and loves so I

can't give as freely as I should.  I'm a Weasley!

I'm supposed to love and spread my heart

thin with affection and joy, not spy shadows in moments of

brilliant light where shadows are not meant to exist.

I want to tell Harry I love him – I do, don't I,

I always have, Tom, it isn't something I can control –

but that sliver of me that is you screams for me

to step back, close my eyes, stay away from him.

Even in death you have to control at least one

person, don't you, no matter if it is a small woman of

twenty years with freckles and

strawberry hair that frizzes when storms break.  You

won't let me love him, Tom, and I hate you for

that, so much it hurts my soul sometimes.

And when I stumble out of the room, tears

stinging my face and shame at my failing strength

spearing my heart, it isn't Harry who follows

to comfort.  Is that why you stuck that insidious

piece in my soul?  To sabotage my emotions and soothe

me in the frail moments with the dark, ghostly

magic that brings you to play with me cruelly when you wish?

I can't be alone because of you, I can

never truly be alone; you fill me, reminding me of what I

think – oh God I hope I'm just mad or daft or insane and

that you never had that power – is the resurrecting tendril left

this time.  Death did not come easily to you, and you've

come back from hell's threshold one – two –

over and again.

Don't use me anymore.  If you did quilt your soul to

mine, I can't let you use me to flow once more

from death to life.  I can't let you kill Harry!

And now sunlight is fading to twilight, shafts

of gold into shafts of violent.  My fingers

are going numb again, and my knuckles are tightening.

Are you here, Tom?  Are you reading what I'm scripting as

you dredge out of my soul?  I can feel a fingertip under my ear,

a careful touch of chilled spectre flesh to molten human's,

as if – maybe – you are draining a little of my soul each

time, as once you did.  Where do you come from, why

don't you come every night, does simply coming

to touch the living tire you?

Go away.  Go back to your

hell and stop tormenting me.  I'm still living, and I'm

afraid if I should die – my hands, your hands,

God's, whoever finds the time right – I will be

trapped in death with you.

The sun is going and I'll be alone in moment, alone

but frozen in fear and old caring with this darkness of you.  Tom,

I'm scared.

Ginny.

-

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Many thanks to MysticSorceror, Diamond Absinthe, and SibilantSybil.  Very appreciated, all.  ^^