noticed ⇀ fred weasley

prologue

Death. What is death to me?

I ponder the existence of it sometimes. It's a state where there is nothing in the world other than that endless abyss of darkness, where there is no one to call for, nothing to grab onto, nothing to exist with other than your own thoughts. Why must every human go through such a thing?

We live in a world where the idea of death is not as big of a deal as it used to be. Why is it that people are only upset about death when it occurs to someone they know? And then they realize all that is ever spoken to them is, "I'm sorry for your loss." Nothing but hollow words, no true sorrow behind them. And yet it is more than just a loss, Death is more than just a loss. It's a destruction, an earth-shattering occurrence. It can ruin lives in mere seconds - just like it ruined mine.

I have never been the same since I saw my own mother dead in front of me. I can't even describe the feeling that overtook me when I saw that ray of green light strike her in the heart. I cannot stand anyone who tries to comfort me, they all say the same thing.

"I'm sorry for your loss," or "she's in a better place now." The only place I wanted for her to be was in my arms. Alive.

None of my acquaintances understood the pain. They all pretended to care about me and then went back to their daily lives as if nothing happened. They may have seemed sympathetic around me, but at the end of the day they got to go home to their mothers... while I had nobody except my father.

But with the tragedy of my mom's death, he changed. I watched over time as the life drained out of him, and soon he had transformed into an empty shell with no soul, just a vacant body. He was not the best father as he neglected me at times, but I knew deep down he was missing our mother, as was I. I longed for an escape from my desolate home; all I ever craved was freedom - freedom from this spiraling life.  Was that too much to ask for? It seemed like such a simple desire, yet so hard to obtain in actuality.

I've learned that those who chase after freedom are left in shambles. It's a never-ending search, a constant hunt for happiness. Why is it that the ones who are blind to reality are the ones with such peaceful lives? Why do they get to survive so easily?

Why is life cruel to those who deserve the most?

-

I was snapped from my brooding by the delectable smell of pastries and pumpkin. I rose from my bed and descended the stairs to see my father in the kitchen, mixing a concoction in a bowl. The drab colors that engulfed the kitchen just seemed to emphasize how dull of a personality my father had, as he didn't care to decorate anymore. I looked at the beige wallpaper to the wooden floors, and thought about how our house lost all of the color it held once Mom had died. I entered the kitchen quietly, but he heard the creak from my footsteps and whipped around.

"Good morning, Willow," he said dryly, turning back to his cooking.

"Good morning," I sighed, and asked, "What are you making? I just smelled it from my room and I was wondering if you would like any help." I nervously fidgeted as I watched the features on his face scrunch up in confusion.

"This is for my date tonight, not for you," he grumbled, "so just go back up to your room sweetie, I'll heat up something for you."

I let a defeated sigh out and trudged back upstairs, quietly apologizing. My father was always picky when it came to me in the kitchen, as he had become overly cautious.

Once I reached my door, his words registered in my mind. A date? He hadn't been on one in years, so the idea of it was strange to me. Although I was against it for a moment, I hoped that maybe she would be the light my dad needed in his dark life. But it was useless to dwell on such things when it was out of my control.