This feels like the last time I'll wake up.

The last time I'll breathe in.

The last moment that I continue to care anymore.

But it's not. And I hate myself for it.

I woke up again this morning with a weight on my chest and a headache. It's always these two things in the mornings, but every dawn feels like I've never had them before. I swing my feet over the bed and will myself to stand up. Go through the routine, again, again. Go through the morning routine.

Shower

Towel

Muss up hair.

Arm

Arm

Head through hole.

Brush

Rinse

Apple? Pear?

(Usually pear, the apple is too common.) Blindly I stumble through the mornings, mindlessly, thoughtlessly tripping my way through the mornings.

I realize that if I think, the only thing that comes to mind is you.

See, see! There I am, narrating my life—there you slip your way back into my thoughts. I mustn't think about you. Yes, yes, the healer says obsession is why I was trapped in St. Mungo's in the first place—

"Mr. Weasley! Mr. Weasley! This customer wants to know about this product." Verity's voice tinkled. "Mr. Weasley! Mr. Weasley! Bill has come to visit!"

"Right there, Verity." I would mutter, follow blankly. A shell, a marvelous shell to go assist customers. To go withstand the chastising of my family. "Thank you, come again. I'm alright Bill, honest." Lies I would tell. So many lies. So much pain.

"Ron and Hermione are getting married." Bill said to me one afternoon. "They want you to come."

"Yes, I'll be there." I muttered.

"Just like you were there for my daughter's birth." Bill hissed, the ounce of wolf shining through. "Mum cried for a week after that, you're making her very worried.

"I'm sorry about that. I'll have to apologize to mum as well." I said, organizing the puking pastilles. Organizing arranging. Re-organizing. Refusing to get frustrated. Bill looked as though he wanted to say something to me. Something very harsh and bossy, but he held his tongue, shook his head, and left the Joke shop.

I remember, remember, remember that day. Mum shipped me off—sent me away. It was at your funeral. I didn't shed a tear. Not one. In fact, the exact opposite really. It was very hot that day—I remember being so annoyed at having to wear my suit, whining to mum about even attending. I didn't cry. I just whined. People around me were crying. They were all crying—teardrops were consuming me in oceans of grief, until I found that little chuckle.

The little chuckle dried the seas of sorrow, until it turned into a chortle. The chortle cracked the ground dry, and I was all-out laughing now, falling through the cracks of my mental ground. I can remember a fuss around me, people yelling at me, calling me immature. I remember Harry casting spells on me—slapping me. My eyes bulged and drool ran down my chin. My insides were burning with laugher, plaguing me like a torture. I couldn't stop laughing and it hurt. I couldn't breathe from stitches, I couldn't see from the white spots bursting in my sight. And I remember seeing your face there, when I had stopped laughing, hours and hours later in St. Mungo's. You were lying next to me, staring into my eyes speaking Gobledegok and Mermish and whispering tales of youthful mischief.

Those were beautiful times, those of my insanity.

Talking me down from such a perfect pedestal to reality took a while, though, as you might've seen. Nearly 6 months had passed before I snapped again. Quite opposite from what had happened at your funeral, though. You weren't lying next to me, I realized. It was a mirror that I stared into confessing secrets and fears. I slammed myself into the mirror until it shattered. Even after, I slammed myself into the wall until I shattered. I never seemed to, though. I would never shatter. It hurt to breathe ever since. Ever since I had realized that I can not get you back, no matter how much denial my mind goes through. Eight months from that denial, now, I see the year that has passed without you as a test. Would I wake up? Would you be proud of my survival, how I have not yet managed to kill myself? Or are you angry? Angry that I didn't come to you immediately—is it truly heaven if you're feeling how I'm feeling now?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
So sad, don't you think? I always like Fred and George stories, I really do. This is from his perspective, (If you can't tell) but I think that this one is a different style than what I'm used to. It's a completely different style from what I've seen, anyway. Please, review!

And I know, I know… George is Emo. Well—sue me, what would you be like if your brother had died?

Reviews ploz