❛ le survivant et le deuil ❜
❪ the survivor and the grieving. ❫

                     IT NEVER REALLY FLOWED INTO BOLD CURSIVE LETTERS, NOT WITH A ONCE UPON A TIME ATLEAST. Unlike how the world painted a world of overly saturated deceit seeped into sickly saccharine train of words of fabrication scribbled and jolted down as a tale of enchantation that started off with a once upon a time; words abound itself behind skimmed lines of deception.

            It was a silent agreement, between whispers by the crevices as it lingered and rested with the shadows. It was suble at first ― abrupt but subtle, the way their lips expressed and stretched into a thin, stiff and artificial line.

      ( the calm before the storm. )

      Then the subtleness did no longer prolong itself, as the awareness surfaced as it became more vivid by the weeks passed. Behind the cracks on their eyes which were overcasted with murky shadow silhouettes, despite the lack of  life within; it expressed beyond one's mouth limitation. The night terrors that would resurfaces ones they even had the chance to express relief from your thoughts, leading them to insanity to isolate themselves and to segregate from other people ― then it was the person in front of the mirror. A distorted depictment of who they used to be, the dilution of datums into a plague of mendacious dishonestly. It was those little things they used to look pass on until it became too much too handle ― and after all this, it was just then they managed to grasp the situation.

      It was different ― they were different, everything was different; the skies sulked more often than before, carrying it's burden behind it's greying and clouded façade; the faces, they were more than monotonous, but less than a face masked with glee ― well, but of course you wouldn't expect people too move on that fast, but as time passes by, everyone seemed to bring themselves up and try again; but you. As if, everyone moved on ― too slowly or too quickly, no one really knew the concept of time really. And then before you know it, unbeknownst to you, that you're the only one left behind to fall. Fall apart, for you to lonesomely and pathetically pick yourself up again just for you to break down again by just one simple pebble thrown to your paper strengthed walls you isolate yourself behind it, just for you to fall back apart again ― until you'll get sick of it and well, make decisions based off the emotions you've dwelled in for too long, that nothing matters anymore.

      ( ― because you'e put everyone first before yourself and now, now's the time you can finally put yourself first. )

      ( perhaps just this once? )

      And to you, to the stars, that once gave hope, anticipation ― that just turned out to drown you in expectation that you've lost yourself trying to find something that wasn't even yours to find. Now, hid and concealed behind the clouds, dimmed. To you, the caliginous magestic role model that aspired one too many people just for them to be torn apart after realizing that no one was going to come in and be their prince hooked onto a horse basked from purity itself and save them.

      ( ― or just maybe ― )

      ( ― they'll exist. )

      ( in a tale of once upon a time. )

      For everyone, there was something, someone, that would bring out the remains of the pillars ― the foundation, of the person before the war; the person that most haven't seen in a while. For Fred Weasley, it was the savory fragancy of the spice fueled cinnamon pie that his mother baked, brought forth different stages and memories between the untouched and forgotten folds between his minds. The overwhelming wistful yearning of the past, of a time ― of a home to return, the aroma blessed with serenity induced scent in the midst of a seemingly never-ending war, of back and forth arguments and scribbles in his head ― of a world he was isolated in, as he grieved as he tangled himself in his own desolated armageddon, in his own state of destruction and ruination.

      Bolts of blinding illumination reflected onto the stained glass window, as not long after, a clangorous disruption errupted into the somber atmosphere. With the touch of catastrophy remained and resided outside, the aftermath of the war fucked him up ― inside and out, the sensitivity from reverberating plangent noises, the sudden jolting or movement of his hands to signify recreation as if he was guarded with a wand as a stance of vulnerability and stone lingered around him.

      With a wift of the congenial alluring lullaby of the cinnamon's scent; it tied him hard to focus on the aroma, entrancing him as if, to direct his way onto the kitchen where freshly baked minature cinnamon ― not to mention scrumptious ― pies were located at, by the accompany by his exhausted and worn-out mother smiling proudly at him while signaling to the delicacy placed onto the wooden table.

      "It's been a while isn't it?" The ginger locked woman wiped the remaining flour onto her apron, before taking it off as she hung it loosely onto the hook near the pantry.

      "Haven't baked this for awhile, it's your favourite right? While George's favourite was the blueberry one."

      Fred smiled gently. "Yeah,"

      "Feel free to take as many, seeing that everyone's not here yet and it's just you and I."

       The red head took it as an opportunity to attemptingly scrape a taste from one of the pies in front of him, but before he could, his hands were slapped away from the pie by his mother.

      "Wash your hands first, dear."

      "Yeah, um, I was supposed to do that ― " he muttered as he went straight to the sink, before sitting on one of the wooden chairs with a smell resembling of  sandalwood, after drying his hands off with a flick of his wand.

      Nonchalantly eating, with the first bite was something unforsaken and divine and before he knew it, he was half way finished. But also unbeknownst to him, that a pair of deary and tender eyes laced upon him as Molly observed him, his every move and every freckle ― and questioning reality, if he was truely alive, pulsating, breathing ― existing.

      Catching her gentle gaze, his curiosity  perked up. "Is there anything on my face?"

      "No, no. Nothing's wrong dear."

      "Mum . ." As Fred dared to look at her in reluctancy, she no longer remained strained in eye contact as her wrinkled eyes wondered off.

      "You know, I wouldn't really know what to do if you died along with the war." It was her bluntness are one of the quirks his mother has that he adored ― but this, his mother never really mentioned anything about the war for a while, let alone the situation that caused him excessive burden and self destruction. It doesn't settle down with him properly.

      "Mum . ."

      "It's just, I really wouldn't have forgive myself if anything happened to you."

      "But mum, it's alright, I'm here ―"

      " ― and to think that the last thing that we talked was when we fought before the war, I really couldn't ―" she rambled unconciously, coming into terms with different other outcomes.

      "M ― "

      " ― I just couldn't understand how you are still alive, here ― "

      " ― Mum!" The clamorous sound of the thunder outside spoke harmonously in his stentorian woes as he stood up in such a force that it shook the table, the sudden rose of dominance and halfly strident pitch caught the pudgy woman off guard.

      Although the lack of indignation present in his coherent voice, and weaved over the vibrations were veracious transparency, raw and unfabricated; Molly was reluctant to speak further more, the shattered cracks shone behind an illustration of a mother worned out and caught in fatigue, still stuck marinating herself in the past that she overlooked, and neglect the present before ― perhaps, just like everyone else.
 
      "But, but I am alive; you see,"  the warmth of his hands ablazed by the contact of it along with her, bleak ones ― the melancholy ambience tension seemed to have lessen the friction.

      But perhaps the sanity corrupting friction started ― like how in books anologically speaking, would begin in glamorized and romantisized otiose, idyllic insignificant pompous, and midsummer daydream words to place a reader into the words and into different ones behind different words to poetically show judgement towards the reader for not having a reality of fantasies behind the book's flowery yet acidic words; the friction was never known when it was caused but many theories speculating that it started by the time the mayhem ended with a fine line ― a thin one, between the survivors and the grieving, one of them was too caught of behind the war's mazes that he too has forgotten to grieve and remained placed and dwelling in his golden yet rustened glory; whearas the other one, with blood on their tips and apologies and desperation by the tip of their toungue ― they, being too caught up with the things ― the people they have lost that, they seemed to put into oblivion their bittersweet victory, not only in war but also from the clutching hands of death.

      ( the question is, will they remain in their own ephemeral illusion? or to be broken from their phantasm that they finally take note of the perpetual reality they try so hard to look back from. )

      Stuck in the abysmal pit of quick remorse, he attemptively swiftly ― in a haste yet clumsingly pulled himself down to sit back and crumple up into a sullen hallowed void of regret.

      "You know, " his attempts in masking his brooding apprehensive thoughts of endless lines of solicitous, by the passive-agressive rhythmic tapping of his anxious fingers in the smooth wooden surface; faltered, as his vagrant eyes followed the rapid motion of his fingers.

      "It wasn't really my doing to be the reason why I'm ― " he came into an abrupt halt in hesitation, yet continued with a uncomfortable clearance of his voice. "still alive."

      The aftertaste still in the back of his throat, the obvious animosity and regret by the tip of his words ― nothing could prepare him for this time, moment, the second he left an inconsiderate amount of chipped and damaged pieces of his reckless façade in the past, it all slowly yet surely and almost as if mockingly, came back to him; piece by piece. All the efforts to repress the vainful, inefficacious emotions was no longer with worth and used as it came tumbling down along with the words of surpressed feelings and the dolefullness deprevation from hobbies and the little but also largely impacted situations effecting his level of sensitivity from his traumas.

      ( this was it, stay calm. )

      "Her name is Effie, Effie Coven."

      And he did not look back.

      By the time his words left him a tingled of nostalgia, it never really came across him that those words were more than just a mere once upon a time ― because it started and brought forth a whole new tale behind and in the midst of a sonorous commotion.

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words from the author.

it's finally here !! i've never been writing while being sleep deprived ever since last year ( i think? ) and now i'm trying to get used to it again for the summer. speaking of summer, bruh school just got cancelled in our final exams and idk if i should be ecstatic or depressed because the aroma of summer keeps getting farther away from me ― and i am not here for it :(

starting to get obsessed over manga again for some reason while i was gone because not only was i sleep deprived, but also affection deprived so i turn to reading romantic-comedy mangas for inspo to keep on writing girl, almighty! ( like expect new and refreshing scenes, don't worry, hopefully i can link the manga inspired by it. ) but like ,, i've been reaing this manga last, last, last, summer or so? but then my ipad broke and i forgot about it then it was fixed last year so um ,, then i discovered the mangas and just everything that i've invested my time on a few years back and i couldn't get myself out.

( also a good manga i recommend is 'namaikizakari' like God forbid me to have a life like that ,,, )

( like the awkward scenes for fred and effie are going to be inspired by some of the scenes from the manga. )

anyways, i really apologize for the longlonglong wait for this chapter and it may not come to your standards but i had to make this just to establish what fred's life has been along with his mother and after this some juicey things going to happen and i kinda left it on a cliff hanger i'm sorry but not really AHHAHAH.

tell me what's your favourite scene ( or paragraph here. ) and how's ur day? maybe u wanted to tell someone how's ur day but u don't wanna burden them, so i'm here for u to spill everything that has happened today ( or even the past week. ) keep safe guys, i love and appreciate you all; until next time my beautiful best friends.