over time, hope dies
over time, hope dies
there's that absolute determination to fill emptiness.
harry potter. hermione. deathly hollows. 195 words. pg.
There’s that absolute determination to fill emptiness, the silence of sundays being nothing but a gap, an abyss with sides ever-crumbling, the black stretching out further and further until you’re sure you’re dreaming or dead, nothing beneath your feet yet no rush of air, still only silence as your company.
Hermione fills it by thinking - an easy guess, something of a joke, how unexpected of you, muttered all-too loudly by Ron. She counts the steps and incantations, the rhyme of words, in spells, to perfection until she’s quite sure that she, in the context of tests and exams and extra-credits, can perform with exemplary grace. Bring about the loud splatter of blood and the echoes of distant deaths and she’s struggling on steady ground, begging for the silence again, for moment where she can gather clarity enough to find answers. Because when she runs, breath short, hands stained crimson, tears burning streaks down her cheek and the bushes tearing at her robes, ripping away cloth and resolve, there are no answers. Only why’s, what’s, where-to’s and for how long’s.
She can’t answer, can’t stop and think, so she simply keeps running.
.
there's that absolute determination to fill emptiness.
harry potter. hermione. deathly hollows. 195 words. pg.
There’s that absolute determination to fill emptiness, the silence of sundays being nothing but a gap, an abyss with sides ever-crumbling, the black stretching out further and further until you’re sure you’re dreaming or dead, nothing beneath your feet yet no rush of air, still only silence as your company.
Hermione fills it by thinking - an easy guess, something of a joke, how unexpected of you, muttered all-too loudly by Ron. She counts the steps and incantations, the rhyme of words, in spells, to perfection until she’s quite sure that she, in the context of tests and exams and extra-credits, can perform with exemplary grace. Bring about the loud splatter of blood and the echoes of distant deaths and she’s struggling on steady ground, begging for the silence again, for moment where she can gather clarity enough to find answers. Because when she runs, breath short, hands stained crimson, tears burning streaks down her cheek and the bushes tearing at her robes, ripping away cloth and resolve, there are no answers. Only why’s, what’s, where-to’s and for how long’s.
She can’t answer, can’t stop and think, so she simply keeps running.
.