They told me to write.
But, it seems that the effort it takes to write about everything that is happening in my head at any given moment in time is far too great to handle. I can tell you honestly that I am currently sitting with the parchment resting against my knee with tear drops splattering the page. Even trying to re-read what I've written is difficult.
They told me to write; write down everything that has happened since you left, as if you're staying in some far off place that I can just send an owl to. But it's really hard to pretend that anyone but myself and my therapist will be seeing these words – especially you. I've already pre-addressed the envelope:
Fred Weasley
93 Heaven rd,
Heaven.
I do hope that's where you found your place. If this ever did reach you, I'd hope you'd be interested in what's been happening with your family. Harry and Ginny finally made it official – again. Hermione and Ron have been in Australia for almost half a year; they've been trying to find her parents. Percy has a new job, Bill and Fleur had a daughter (Victoire, very french), Charlie is now the Head of the Dragon Protection Scheme; everyone has done quite well for themselves – except for me.
They told me to write. How the hell does writing help?! How does this continuous motion of putting down my words make any difference to my mental state? It just seems crazy and… it hurts.
I miss you, Fred. I don't think anyone else understands how much. It's like a part of me left when you did. The part that enjoyed jokes, the part that could laugh. The joke shop has gone to ruins, and I know the other have tried to bring it back, but it's useless – that dream ended with you.
They told me to write and I was sceptical at first, but now I see the use. You were the only person I could open up to – and now you're gone and I'm all alone.
They told me to write to get me to talk, talk about the things that only you could understand, to help me understand.
I hate that you died, and I hate that you've left me alone. I hate that I can't bring you back, and I hate that I can't move on. I hate that I want to talk to you, and I hate the way everyone looks at me like I'm porcelain – but most of all I hate that even the thought of me joining you would do disastrous things to this family. We've barely made it back to 80% of what we used to be, I'm scared that any more death would kill the Weasleys for good.
They told me to write, and now I see that I needed to figure out what I'm living for; my family.
Thank you, Fred, for everything. I'll never forget you.
Your brother and partner in crime,
George.
The Letters From No One - Write about someone who recieves a letter.