Buio.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   
Buio.                                                                                                                                                                                                             
Silenzio.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              
Buio e Silenzio, Silenzio e Buio.                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
Non c’è nulla, solo tu.                                                                                                                                                                                              
Tu e il Silenzio, tu e il Buio.                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
George, Silenzio e Buio.                                                                                                                                                                                    
Poi, eccolo.                                                                                                                                                                                          
Arriva piano, coperto dal Silenzio e dal Buio.                                                                                                                                          
Ti prende, ti colpisce, ti ferisce, poi ti lascia, per prenderti di nuovo.                                                                                                                                                                                       
Sai cos’è George?                                                                                                                                                                  
Qualcuno lo chiama Dolore.                                                                                                                                                                                  
Qualcuno la chiama Depressione.                                                                                                                                                                                                      
Qualcuno  la chiama Tristezza.                                                                                                                                                                 
Qualcuno la chiama Disperazione.                                                                                                                                
Dolore, Depressione, Tristezza, Disperazione.                                                                                                                                                                               
Tu hai una parola migliore per definirlo, vero George?                                                                                                            
Paura.                                                                                                                                                                                                  
Paura.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            
Paura, Paura, Paura.                                                                                                                                                                              
Lui ti manca.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
Ogni giorno, ogni ora, ogni minuto.                                                                                                                                                                                                                 
La sua assenza è un grido muto, un pugno contro il vento,  una rosa sbocciata nel
mezzo di una tempesta.   Tu piangi, George.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            
La notte, nella tua stanza. La sua stanza.                                                                                                                                                  
La vostra stanza.                                                                                                                                                                           
Dormi nel suo letto, affondi la testa nel suo cuscino, vuoi un segno, un segno che lui
sia lì, lì con te, che non ti abbia mai lasciato.                                                                                                                                                                                        
Non sopporti chi non vuole ammetterlo.                                                                                                                                                                              
È mancato, se n’è andato, ci ha lasciato.                                                                                                                                               
Poche Storie!                                                                                                                                                                              
Lui è morto. Morto. Morto.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  
E con lui, tu.                                                                                                                                                                                              
Gli hai promesso di vivere per lui.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
Ma per lui non è con lui, né assieme a lui.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             
Vorresti morire, ma poi come manterresti la tua promessa?                                                                                                                                                                                              
Che pasticcio Georgie.                                                                                                                                                                                    
Lo vorresti con te, vicino, vorresti toccarlo, abbracciarlo, vedere le vostre teste rosse
una accanto all’altra, far arrabbiare vostra mamma con i vostri scherzi, far
spaventare Ron…                                                                                                                                                 
Ti aveva promesso che sareste rimasti sempre insieme, sempre voi due, i Gemelli,
Fred e George, George e Fred.                                                                                                                                                                                                      
Non siete bravi a mantenere le promesse. Nessuno dei due. Né tu né Fred.                                                                                                                              
Hai tanta paura, Georgie.                                                                                                                                                          
Paura di non essere abbastanza forte per mantenere la promessa.  Devi vivere per
lui, l’hai promesso, ma  a fatica vivi per te.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          
Se solo fossi morto tu!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     
Lui si che ce l’avrebbe fatta, a vivere per due.                                                                                                                                                                           
Lui è così forte. Lui è così.. così.. semplicemente migliore.                                                                                                                                          
Saresti dovuto morire tu.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
Lo urli al vento, agli alberi, alle stelle.                                                                                                                                                      
Io, non lui!                                                                                                                                                                                                                
Tu sei solo una scatola, senza di lui.                                                                                                                            
Non hai mai voluto morire più di così.                                                                                                                                                                           
Uscire da uno stupido corpo che è solo un ingombro.                                                                                                                                                                                 
La tua anima è morta con lui.                                                                                                                                                                                             
E allora a che ti serve uno stupido, stupidissimo corpo?                                                                                                                                                    
Vorresti urlare il suo nome, ma non puoi.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
Il suo nome è un vuoto. Un enorme vuoto.                                                                                                                                                                             
Lo colmerai mai?                                                                                                                                                                                          
Vuoi gridarlo, urlarlo, farlo sentire al mondo.                                                                                                                                                   
Ma come fai?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          
Lui è morto.                                                                                                                                                                                           
Vorrebbe che fossi forte, forte come un leone. Forte come lui.
 
                                                               
Fred.











* Spazio Autrice*



Ciao a tutti! :)
Questa FF è nata dopo un video visto su YouTube: si trattava di una lettera scritta da Geroge a Fred, le cui parole scorrevano sullo schermo.Al vederlo mi sono messa a piangere!
Se ve la sentita, lasciate una recensione: così mi aiuterete a migliorare!
Ciao!