At the request of "Dude, write more angst!" and at the haunting and somewhat annoying persistence of these ideas, I present to you, Men Don't Cry. (The thoughts & feelings of Ron Weasley)
Disclaimer: Wish I may, wish I might.
I own Harry Potter...
...HA! Yeah, right!
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Summer has finally come.Time at last for the school to turn out its walls, tear open its gates, and send us back to the place most of us long to return to-home.
Is my life not truly wonderful? Do I not live in a warm and open family setting? Those I call my friends seem to think so. Whenever conversation is forced on this topic, all I seem to hear about is how kind my mother is, and how amazing my house is. Here is my question-has that very house not played home to them for countless summers and winters on end? Has this woman that they speak of been anything short of motherly to any of them? Has she not referred to one of them as "just as good as her own son?" What lead to this injustice? Could it be that they refuse to see past the veil, that outer layer, that is instantly thrown to the ground whenever I am spoken to?
Boys shouldn't cry. One of the only pieces of advice from him that leaves a burning impression in my memory. Seven children later, his memory, along with hers, has dissinigrated. Whenever my name is spoken, half the time it comes out wrong. They treat the eldest like some kind of supreme being; the next one similarly. The third, leaves, breaking every bond of respect, burning the threads of parent-son relations, and yet, receives more attention than the son that is right here, and Has been, all along. The fourth and fifth receive their fair share of yelling, but are loved and worried about to a sickening point. Alas, the seventh would be the one most likely to be ignored, no? Truthfully, they watch over her and seem to love her more than any. Could I, their sixth child, get just a bit of that love, just once? Most children get it so much, they don't even realize what it is that they have. Though, I am not a child. That stage of my life is over now, and there is chance no more to return to it.
Living in this slave-driven madhouse, the voice I have can never be heard. Being ignored...so damn frustrating, so difficult to imagine. Looking for something to hate, just so I might have an opinion, has become my recent way of getting by. Truly, am I a pessimist by nature? No! Years and years of being shoved to the desperate stages of sixth-wheel have got me that way, showing this facade that cannot be destroyed now, for it has become my label.
Time and time again, I am unable to escape the accusation of holding jealousy and resentment. What I truthfully carry is what everyone fails to see-the reaching out, the wanting, Needing, to be understood. And realizing that I may never know what that feels like...slowly kills everything I am; everything I stand for; everything that once was, but never again can be. It never can be, because it is gone, leaving an empty, hollow, spirit in its wake.
Men Don't cry. Boys Shouldn't, but men Don't. The firm words-to-live- by of my twin brothers resound in my head tonight, which is buried in the pillows along with my mournful thoughts. Throughout the school year, I never had the chance to let it out; never could bring myself to in front of those who occupied the room with me. But now, I lie, my two brothers feet away, and decide. I'll show them. I'll show everyone who hardly knew me, yet tried to mold me into their puppet, their ideal boy. Well, they haven't noticed, but if they paid a bit more attention, they'd know that I am no longer a boy. Soon, I'll be a man. A man who won't be surrounded by people that don't even know you're there. A man who can, when he feels like it, cry. That is why, right now, wherever I am in life, I'll do all in my power to shut out these people that could care less about who I am and who I am becoming. That is why, right now, I'll use these summer nights to cry myself to sleep.
A/N. Yeas. I will, at this point, take the liberty of saying, this was written at all-hours of the early morning, so may, insanely enough, not be as "up-to-par" as it could be. Is it a one-shot? Depends. Right now, I'm semi-happy with it, but it seems I'm in this prolonged stage of writer's block. Call it an excuse, call it true, but whatever you do, please just review!
A/N (again) Need proof I live as close to Hick-town as it gets in the 'burbs? Little, mini fruit-fly things keep buzzing on the screen, and it could be partially because I'm a hermit at this hour, but I don't feel like turning on the light, so...they're here. Call that another excuse why my story might suck. Ah well. I know, Ron's vocabulary might not extend to some of these lengths, and I'm pretty darn sure he doesn't talk like this, but, if he did, this might be his story. These were (if you couldn't tell), his reflections on his family life, and what they have silently turned him into...by saying nothing at all. A bit creepy when you think about it, right? I suppose there is a lesson to be learned here...a moral-type of thing...you never know how you are influencing someone by not giving them the attention they deserve. So, score some karma points for the day and get to know someone you don't. ...Or not. I know, that's not the normal thing you see at the end of an "angst" piece. But what the hey. You all oughta' know by now that people appreciate it when you're kind... ...and rewind. Okay, I Really need to go to sleep now. Darn. I want to write more. But, alas, I've nothing to say. Thanks for your time.
...Or not.