In an Instant

One night was all he wanted, just one night. One night to forget about things, one night where nothing mattered, one night where he could pretend life was simple.

Because of course life wasn't simple; life was one ugly son-of-a-bitch that would do its best to screw you over, again and again.

He laughed at how bitter he sounded. Had he always been like that? He didn't think so, but it was hard to remember what life had been like before.

He sighed as he forced himself out of bed; it was five o'clock in the afternoon after all, and who knows, maybe tonight would be that night. Pulling on a pair of jeans and the only clean shirt he could find, he walked over to the mirror and let out a sharp laugh.

"Ron Weasley, you look like shit," he said to his reflection.

His eyes were cloudy and bloodshot from too much alcohol and too much sleep. He hadn't shaved for several days and his hair, his famous red hair, was dry and lifeless.

Dry and lifeless pretty much summed him up these days.

He walked out of his bedroom, kicking aside empty bottles of whiskey and beer, last night's adventure. The sky outside the window was grey; daylight was almost spent. Not that he cared. Daylight becomes a foreign visitor when your average waking time is four in the afternoon.

His flat reeked of stale cigarettes and the intoxicating smell of booze. He decided to do something different. He opened a window. The breeze hit him like a splash of icy water. It had been a while since he had felt fresh air on his skin.

He closed his eyes and let the soft wisps of air kiss his face and his bare arms. It was nice. He could smell the city: the smoke, the bakery down the street. It was nice.

He opened his eyes and looked around. He didn't like where he lived; it was too crowded, there was too much going on. But he supposed it served one purpose. It reminded him that life went on, no matter what. It didn't matter if people you loved were gone, it didn't matter if everything that had ever mattered to you was taken away, life still kept on going. The son-of-a-bitch didn't wait for anyone or anything.

He turned away from the window; there was nothing for him there.

The little red light of his answering machine was flashing with unanswered calls. He found it funny that people still called him, like they actually cared. Some of them did, he supposed. He couldn't understand why, he didn't.

His family tried to coax him out every few days. They'd tried everything: bribes, threats, emotional blackmail. It never worked though. They brought back too many memories. Memories that he wouldn't, couldn't, deal with. So he ignored them, it was the easiest thing to do, easier than having to explain why.

Having nothing else to do, he pushed the play button on the machine and listened. There was a message from a reporter requesting an exclusive interview, which was nothing new, and one from his mother saying how much they all loved him and how much they all missed him. Ron rolled his eyes; he'd heard it everyday for the last two years, ever since he'd left.

The final message made him smile. It was from his sister.

"Fuck you, Ron. If you want to ruin your life, go ahead. But don't fucking drag Mum down with you. She's been so good to you and you owe her something, a phone call at least. I know you're hurting, I know you're screwed up, but we all are and drowning your problems in alcohol isn't going to fix anything. If you don't do something soon, I'm going to come down to that rat's nest you call home and curse you so bad you'll wish you were dead."

That was it, the entire message. He grinned as he imagined Ginny yelling down the phone, pink spots of anger appearing on her cheeks. She always did have a shocking temper. It helped her get through things; she didn't know the meaning of repressed.

And it almost made him want to do something. It almost made him want to pick up the phone and call his mother, who he hadn't spoken to for a year and a half. Almost.

He sighed and went to the fridge. His head was starting to pound as last night's effort caught up with him. There wasn't a whole lot of choice. Two-day-old pizza, a block of cheese, a bottle of wine. It was an easy decision. As Fred had once said to him, "The best cure for a hangover is to stay drunk," and who was he not to honor his brother's advice?

He poured himself a glass, eagerly awaiting the numbing sensation that would take over once the thick red fluid had invaded his body just enough. He sat there, looking at the glass, watching the sharp overhead light of his apartment flicker through the intense red, giving it an appealing two-tone effect. It reminded him of Ginny's hair. Her hair was the reddest of the family, even redder than his father's. His heart tightened in his chest as he thought of his father.

No, he told himself, gripping the glass, you don't care.

He took a sip of the wine, but could not taste a thing. His mouth was dry and he was hit by a sudden wave of sickness. He ran to the bathroom as quickly as he could and threw up.

That had never happened before.

His head spun as he leant against the towel rack, little stars danced at the edges of his vision. He splashed water on his face and looked at his reflection for the second time that morning. It was not a pretty sight. He stared into his hollow eyes (were they his? They didn't look like his) and something inside him broke. He felt it, like a twig being snapped in two. In that tiny instant, some part of him just fell away.

He stood up, his legs shaky and not only because he had just been sick. He walked back out to his front room and picked up the phone. Fingers shaking violently, he punched in the numbers. His heart was beating so loudly that he could barely hear the ringing. Someone picked up and then-

"Hello?"

Ron paused and looked longingly at the glass of wine, still sitting innocently on the coffee table. "Mum," he said after a moment. "It's Ron."

Maybe just one night wasn't all he wanted.