kasche

Ooo-kay. The connection comes and goes - as to say it'll be quite hard to do anything constructive (yeah, as if I would have anyway), some parts of my anatomy declared war and are trying to mutiny, so the only things I'm able to think of right now are all the ways I could cut said parts off, plus I stumbled on a couple of txt files, so this is the story of why these are here.

Honestly, I'm just trying to keep myself busy somehow, so you can be sure that I won't be hurt at all if you'll just skip it altogether. ;P

Remus likes to think that he'd seen it coming. That he knew it was going to come down to this, that there was only one route out of that vague dream the Marauders were. Him and Sirius were. But when reality's weight is too much, pressing him down, when the pain is too raw, when no matter how much he arches his back he still can't breathe, then he's able to admit to himself that no, that until the very end he had thought there was some way out of all the mess. That he had done the most stupid thing of all, that he had got used to his friends, not taking them for granted, no, he had not been that stupid, but thinking they would have been still around at the end, after the end, like after the many rows they've had over the years, yes, that he did think.

And he's gripping at the tissue of his trousers, and he's coughing, deep, rough, as if somethings going to get riped off his throat.

He's shivering. He's cold. So cold. His forehead touches the windowsill. Marble. He doesn't feel anything, apart from its edge, pressed against his skin.

Then, and only then, he lets himself cry.

The first year, you were baffled. The second, amazed. But by the seventh, you had had enough time to grow used to it, and were ready to cling to what you had found with all your might, if needed be.

Still, you had wondered what would have happened, what your life would have become, had you lost them. In your mind it was always sudden and unexpected. It was hard to associate something different to the Marauders. All your considerations, though, had been done in front of the fire, a cup of something in your hands, warm and cozy and their voices just barely out of earshot. You only let your mind wander in that direction when you felt safe enough to risk it.

This last couple of years, this in-between moment you think of as closed, ended, over now, you haven't thought of much at all. You could repeat, now, all the excuses you told yourself and the others then. Only, hiding doesn't seem to make much sense, not anymore, not now you haven't anyone to be hiding from.

You had thought it would hurt more. You expected it to be consuming, raw like rancor, harsh, and angry, and desperate.

You weren't expecting this numbness.

In some corner of your mind, you are still bracing yourself for the blow to come.

And yet, when it does, you are still taken by surprise, you find yourself shouting all your desperation and anger and pure simple pain with an unbidden force, at the newspaper you have just thrown against the wall.

Your throat hurts.

Out of corner of your eye, you can see the yellowish sheets of paper unfurling slowly, on the floor, showing the ceiling an equally shouting, desperate, crazy man.

I didn't mention it before, but they're totally unrelated. And no, I don't realize what I may have just subjected you to. I only read enough to remember what they were about. Knowing me, though, the thinking involved did not take more than a couple of minutes.

You know, I'd really like to cut off the aforementioned anatomy parts. These are the rare moments when I really don't like at all (read: just plain hate) being a woman.

And you know, this going on and off of the connection is another quite "upsetting" thing.