A/N: For everyone who cried when Fred Weasley died, and thought that JK did a poor job of conveying everyone's emotions—especially his twin's. For everyone who was disappointed as JK killed people left and right… and none of her characters got torn up about it, because she was too busy on her oh-so-tragic plot.

Disclaimer: I'm sorry, but I didn't like the seventh book so much as to claim it for my own.

We Splinched ourselves once, Fred and I. On purpose. It was when we were in the Great Hall with our mates, practicing Apparation. We just wanted a laugh out of them, so we went ahead and Splinched ourselves, right down the middle. And there we stood, one half in the circle, one half out, both laughing our arses off, and the rest of the Hall laughing with us. Sure, it wasn't comfortable, but it sure as hell was funny. McGonagall didn't find it quite as amusing.

Well, I've been Splinched again. Only in a much more gruesome, terrifying, cruel way.

My twin is dead.

Half of my heart, soul, and mind will never again draw breath.

Why did it have to be Fred? He and I have never lived without each other. We've shared every breath, every heartbeat of our lives. We are Fred and George. Gred and Forge. The Weasley Twins. Founders of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. The Gryffindor Beaters. Never one without the other.

Sitting here, alone, I can still hear his every word. "Give her hell from us, Peeves!"

Every time I look in the mirror, his face looks back at me, mocking my pain. My twin is dead.

I still don't understand how it happened. How'd we get separated? Why wasn't I the one at his back—not Percy? I might not have been able to deflect the curse, but goddammit, I would have jumped in front of it!

And the bastard didn't even have the decency to come back as a ghost. Not that I'd really expect him to, but that would have been considerate, at the least. I can see the years… the months… the days… the hours… the minutes… the seconds left before me, and I know that every second I spend without Fred means acute torture. With every beat of my broken heart, I miss my brother. Every time I inhale, I know that it is a breath Fred will never take.

No one understands. Bill, Percy, and Charlie were alive years before Fred and me. Ginny and Ron were years after us. Even Mum and Dad have spent combined years without us while we were at school. Fred and I have never spent so much as a day apart.

What is there for me to do? Do I go on—go on without the half that made me whole? Do I stop here, give in? What other option is left to me? Could I even set foot inside our shop? The shop born of our sweat, blood, and tears? The shop that would mock me from every angle, because it is filled with his ideas and mine?

It hasn't even truly sunk in yet. Some moments, I'll forget that he isn't here anymore. I'll look up to meet his eyes and grin, and no one will be looking back at me. I'll ask him a question, and get no answer. I'll leave a sentence hanging, and no one will pick it up.

In those moments, I see it on other peoples' faces—pity. Poor George, he's gone loony, after all. I remember that look—I got it when Snape cut off my ear. Poor George, Snape ruined his dashing good looks. Back then, I laughed if off, and Fred helped me. Dashing good looks indeed—that was Bill. But now there's no laughing, and no Fred to laugh with.

I can't explain it to anyone, and every time I point that out, whoever I'm pointing it out to generally says, "Then help me understand!" But the truth is, no one wants to know. I can see it in the way they look at me. They see what I've turned into—the shadow of what I once was. The shadow of what Fred and I were. They don't want to understand what turned me into this.

The thing is, I no longer have claim on who I was. I am no longer part of Fred and George—I'm just George. I can't be Forge, because there is no Gred. I'm not a Weasley Twin, because I have no twin left. I'm not one of the founders of WWW; I'm the only founder left alive. I haven't been a Beater in years, and even then, there can never be just one Beater.

I may be the one left alive, but there is nothing left of me, because I am nothing without Fred.

I've been Splinched, and there's no one left to put me back together.