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[> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> Completely incomplete -- Harry Potter, 11:34:55 03/29/02 Fri

Something's missing. Someone, rather. The devestation it causes when all the comforting lies one tells themself all fall apart in a display of epic misfortune, the sheer overwhelming inward anguish of loss, has corroded the angsty male's logic to the point of irrationality. The lies hurt more than the truth. The lethargic loner's deaden emerald orbs have failed to retain their brilliant luster upon this ethereal eve of unspeakable pain. A churning feeling in the pits of his disheveledstomach tell of an unpleasant night to follow this wretched ceremony, one with sickness and with tasteless tears. Nothing had taste anymore to him. Someone did have taste. One he craved. Needed, even. But they were gone. Life didn't have a purpose without the one that he had stared at, enamored like a toddler with a rare and precious trinket. Life didn't mean anything without the cherished constant. It just did not matter anymore. Without her, half of him was irreplacably missing. The dovetail that formed the Boy Who Lived was feckless without its other half. Language failed to describe his ineffable sense of despondent ruin. He begins just barely tremoring, abruptly feeling oddly cold when the room is of such a moderate temperature. He distinctly resembled a dog struck too many times.

A mere ghost of what he once was, the disconcerted vagabond wanders aimlessly behind Ron, not seeming to notice anything around him; seeing, but not comprehending. He gawks about with peridot flecked, jade eyes, appearing as lost and confused as he must have the ill fated, sable vested night of his parents' preventable demise. Unconsciously stumbling at sporadic intervals as he treads along, he eventually tumbles, lacking gracile movement, into the crimson crowned confidant in front of him. The velocity in which he collides into the red head is far from enough to result in a catastrophic domino effect or fall - perchance a stagger, but not a fall. However, if only as an excuse, it's enough for the tousel, onyx tressed, wiry and fatigued figure to collapse and land in an animalistic position on his hands and knees. A countenance of veritable, nonplussed bewilderment expresses itself upon his troubled visage. The dark lime colored, orphic and unspeakably empty eyes of the devoid boy seep close and everything, from his aspect, suddenly seems to be in slow motion. He is vacant. There is nothing left. He shudders in abject distress and indignation, slowly clambering to his feet. A thin layer of frigid perspiration very lightly and practically unnoticably lathers his cadaverously blanched skin, and he emits a barely audible whimper as he continues to walk without purpose behind Ron. He felt eerily clamy and reliant on someone who wasn't there. The woe that had betided him bruised him and made him ache like no other pain he'd ever felt before.

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