Post by EloquentPhoenix on Nov 10, 2006 18:22:04 GMT -5
A/N: Prompt #30. Death. I don’t do angst. If I can help it. So I thought I’d do this one as it inevitably means HBP for me, and get it out of the way so that I might move past it. And I just had to read the funeral for some facts, so at least I’m already crying. My first post-HBP fic, are you proud of me?
Disclaimer: I wish.
The white rose reflected everything she was feeling.
The usually beautiful soft white petals only served as a harsh reminder to cold, white marble that now separated her from Albus. She smiled softly at her own futile insistence that something physical was causing her this problem, nothing more.
The shrivelled leaves, the withered petals only reminded her of death. His death. The feeling that life was so brief, so not long enough, so heartbreakingly unfair. She furiously held back more tears. She could not deny it, she was no longer angry, much less afraid, she felt no guilt. She only missed him.
The lonely flower only showed herself, alone, no one to turn to. No one to hold her, no to stand with, together. He had left her. It had been inevitable, it was only now that she regretted how they would act like nothing was wrong. Because she would ask him to stay, he couldn’t, they both knew it.
The thorns felt like physical blows, cutting into her every time she looked around, opened her eyes; saw something of his, something of theirs. They represented all the hurt she felt. All the blame she wanted to place, all the hurt she wanted to cause, if only as some kind of emotional outlet.
It had been nine days since he’d left her. Left her with this rose on his pillow, that had slowly withered away and died, just like him. Left her with memories, heartache and love she wanted to give to him, but couldn’t. Left her with a note as a bookmark on the page he had been reading of a muggle book.
To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Death
The white rose reflected everything she was feeling.
The usually beautiful soft white petals only served as a harsh reminder to cold, white marble that now separated her from Albus. She smiled softly at her own futile insistence that something physical was causing her this problem, nothing more.
The shrivelled leaves, the withered petals only reminded her of death. His death. The feeling that life was so brief, so not long enough, so heartbreakingly unfair. She furiously held back more tears. She could not deny it, she was no longer angry, much less afraid, she felt no guilt. She only missed him.
The lonely flower only showed herself, alone, no one to turn to. No one to hold her, no to stand with, together. He had left her. It had been inevitable, it was only now that she regretted how they would act like nothing was wrong. Because she would ask him to stay, he couldn’t, they both knew it.
The thorns felt like physical blows, cutting into her every time she looked around, opened her eyes; saw something of his, something of theirs. They represented all the hurt she felt. All the blame she wanted to place, all the hurt she wanted to cause, if only as some kind of emotional outlet.
It had been nine days since he’d left her. Left her with this rose on his pillow, that had slowly withered away and died, just like him. Left her with memories, heartache and love she wanted to give to him, but couldn’t. Left her with a note as a bookmark on the page he had been reading of a muggle book.
To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.
