𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 | g. w

41. 193 days

It's been six months since I last saw any of my friends.

193 days to be exact.

I don't know exactly what it was that became the tipping point for me, but I eventually decided I had had enough misery to last a hundred lifetimes.

I wanted to start fresh. To leave it all behind, and in order for that to happen; I had to become someone new. Someone who wasn't completely broken by the events of the past, and someone who could find the way to move on from it all.

May 3rd 1998. That was the last time I saw any of them. The last time I held them or spoke to them. The last time I gave myself the permission to mourn my life as I used to know it.

It had been less than 24 hours since the war ended and Voldemort was defeated, along with hundreds of his followers, and I was tired. So fucking tired, and I knew it was finally over, but I couldn't see myself moving on from what happened. Not completely. Not in a way that would grant me the possibility of having a normal, happy life moving forward.

So I ran.

I didn't even say a proper goodbye.

Not to Luna.

Not to Fred.

And not to George.

I was too much of a coward to face the reality of my choice, and so I snuck out in the middle of the night, while they were all still asleep, leaving the most important people to me behind.

Leaving my family behind.

I knew, if I told them what I had decided I was going to do, if I faced any of them, that I wouldn't be able to go. I'd cave, I'd stay, and I needed to bring some semblance of myself back before I could even start to think about living my life the way I always thought I would.

I needed time, and I realised I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I brought any of them down with me to that dark pit of grief and despair I had found myself attempting to crawl out of but failed.

I just couldn't.

It needed to be on my own terms.

Even if it kills me to be apart from them.

Even if I don't see the point of anything anymore.

(...)

"You know we appreciate all you've done for us, dear. The store wouldn't be the same without you. But you're here nearly every day of the week, and you look exhausted. We're worried for you, you're young, and you should be out there, loving your life. Meeting people your own age, not hanging around us folk, watching reruns of soap operas and smiling at rude customers who have no business stepping foot in here. You've been with us nearly six months now, and maybe it's time you figured out how you fit into the world."

I can't really describe the mixture of feelings I'm experiencing in this moment. I can barely hear what they're saying at all, and yet, I know exactly what they're talking about.

Mr and Mrs Monroe were kind enough to hire me as a waitress at their book cafe in the older part of town. I guess they took a pity to me, after having seen me make a bloody fool of myself, breaking down in the middle of the street one day all those months ago. I hadn't been sleeping (I often suffer through nightmares, keeping me up for hours on end) and I was spiralling, to put it lightly. All my thoughts kept drifting to the people I'd lost, and I just couldn't keep it in anymore.

Anyway, the old irish couple were kind enough to give me a job, and even let me stay in their spare room while I figure myself out.

I guess you could say I owe them a lot.

And I know they mean well. That they're worried about me. I just don't know how to move on fully. Because no matter how hard I've tried to put the past in the past, I still wake up screaming most nights, covered in chills and drenched in my own sweat. I still flinch whenever someone comes up to me and I didn't hear them. I still get flashbacks from the War.

I'm still fucking messed up.

"I—I'm sorry", I finally manage to croak out, attempting to but failing miserable at keeping the tears at bay. They fall as if they possess a mind of their own.

"Oh, there's no need to apologize love." Mr Monroe smiles at me, realising I don't like physical contact and stepping away just as he's about to place a comforting hand on my shoulder. "We are just looking out for you. You know, since the moment we first met you, we've known you've lived a hard life. You can see it all in those sad eyes of yours."

"You know you can always come to us, should you feel the need to talk to somebody. Our door's always open, honey, and no matter how you may be feeling, you're not alone." Mrs Monroe eyes me with a sad smile across her lips, her eyes glistening with care and worry. "We may not have known you that long, but you should now by mow, that we consider you an honorary grandchild."

I sniffle, wanting so badly for them to know just how grateful I am for the way they've been taking care of me these last few months. My heart aches for the way they take pity on me, and though I know it's irrational, I can't help but to have a guilty conscience over it. They're so sweet, and I'm just unable to wholeheartedly accept the help I know they are willing to give me.

(...)

I wake up at the same time I do every night, with a raised pulse and shaky limbs that cause me to nearly fall off my bed. At first, I can't seem to figure out where exactly I am, and for a fraction of a second, it feels as if I'm back there.

I blame myself for his death. I've come to realise I look for every reason for why it was all my fault that he was even there. I know, that if I were to express these thoughts and feelings to anyone else who was there at that specific time, that they would tell me I'm wrong. That it wasn't in fact my fault that he got hit.

But I can't help it.

It was all my fault.

I don't care how it happened. I just know it in my heart I am to blame.

It'a my fault Alfie's dead.

It's my fault he's never coming back.