What Is Living?

He opened his eyes and looked around the room. What was this place? The room was almost all white, aside from the medical instruments. He moaned in pain, and tried to sit up, but found he couldn't.

As he thought over his most recent memories, he came across some ideas of what could have happened. He remembered locking himself in his old bedroom, and drinking. He had a full case of Firewhiskey. He would drink a bottle, and then he would cut a small gash on his arm.

He remembered the smell of blood and heavy alcohol. He remembered the density of the air, and the way it burnt his lungs. He remembered thinking how that if he drank more Firewhiskey, he could just maybe feel better.

But, what was better? Was numbing himself really for the better? Would the pain of his heart really die down if he drank more? The answers to these questions were still unsure.

He knew he was hurting himself. He knew he was hurting those around him. The look his mum had given him that one morning was proof enough. She was hurting, too.

Trying to remember why he'd locked himself in his room again, he came across the broken memory. It wasn't for pleasure or for numbing, but for something much more serious. The pain he felt now was getting too unbearable. He couldn't handle living, like this, any longer. That night, he'd tried to do the unthinkable. He'd tried to commit suicide.

But, now he was alive. But was this living? What was living?

"I'm alive," He whispered. "But at what cost? Why?" He had meant to die, but here he lay, wherever here was.

How would he move on from here? This too was unsure. He hadn't had thought to think of this far in advance, for he hadn't expected to live this far. What a sad reality it was. He was completely alone, isolated and broken.

He whimpered. "I'm alive."


A/N- This was inspired by one George Weasley. He lost a great twin, his other half; RIP Fred Weasley