Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.
Written for; Stickers; Magical Being; Mermaid - Write about someone antisocial.
Word count Without An - 587
Warning for grief and suicidal thoughts.
No Longer
She can no longer deal with small talk. She doesn't care about the weather, or which person got sacked from the Ministry, or who is dating who. She has no time to think about people's sad little problems that matter nothing in the long run.
"Andromeda! How are you?"
Andromeda curses her luck. She'd hoped not to run into anyone she knew while she completed her shopping.
"Fine. You?" she asks, though she doesn't care in the least. She just wants to leave.
"Oh, I'm grand. Did you hear about…"
Andromeda tunes her out. It doesn't take long until she can no longer stand the inane chatter, and she rudely interrupts.
"I'm actually in a rush. It was good to see you."
Without waiting for a reply, she walks away. She is sure that news of her rudeness will spread, but she honestly couldn't care less.
She can no longer deal with her grandson, wonderful though he is, because he brings about memories of things she cannot cope to remember.
Teddy plays quietly on the rug, his hair flashing different colours as he tries to slot shapes through their corresponding holes.
It brings about memories long gone of her beautiful daughter doing the same thing. She wants to scream at him to stop, but she manages to hold herself back.
He is a child and he is not at fault. But she doesn't know how long she will be able to care for him, all the while wishing he was someone else.
She can no longer deal with the pitying eyes of Harry, when he attempts to visit her with Teddy, in an effort to bring her out of the bubble of grief she is surrounded in.
Harry drops by unexpectedly occasionally. He has taken on primary care of Teddy, but he wants Andromeda to be in her Grandson's life.
A respectable wish, if only she could grant it for him.
She tries, the first few times, she really does. But there is only so many times she can see the bright green eyes watching her with pity before she blocks the floo and wards the door.
She doesn't need his pity.
She needs her family back.
She can no longer deal with the photos on the wall, with the letters in the drawer, with the clothes in the closet, because she can no longer deal with the absence of the man she loved with her entire being.
Glass is all over the floor, mixed up with ripped up piece of photographs that were once proudly displayed on the walls.
She sits amongst it, blood pouring from tiny cuts and tears falling from her eyes. Scraps of letters long since read lie around her, unable to withstand the fury of her pain.
She just wants it to be over.
She can no longer deal with the grief that fills her, the grief that threatens to overwhelm her completely, the grief that is drowning her slowly and painfully with every breath she tried to gasp.
It is a constant, the grief, but occasionally, it will be that much sharper, that much bitterer, that much more painful.
It is in those moments that she feels the weakness of her will.
She feels the tenuous bond to life giving up, offering her the eternal solitude that she craves. She doesn't want to deal with people or pictures, or pity or anything else that comes with continued living.
She doesn't want to keep breathing.
She can no longer deal with life.