DISCLAIMER: I wrote this fic in memory of Marc, my best friend, deceased a few days ago by doing his work. He was a police officer. Since he adored TW, I included him in. The song of John Lennon, Imagine, was his preferred... Just for saying to Marc that I would always think to him. Always.
(Events described in this fic are those which really occurred.)
Thanks to Ashley for correct my mistakes.
~*MEMORY*~
People are born; they grow, and move, then die. But some of these deaths are not natural. They should not arrive.
Never.
How to accept that he must bury his child, to see his skin, to give him up to the deep, dark earth. How can you support that?
How to agree to see a friend dying under his very eyes, without being able to do anything to make it if is not to comfort it. I didn't sign for that, nobody signed for that.
And yet...
... The fact is there I am; that we all are there... Me, them, the family, friends... The tears run, the flags are given, the signal is launched, the ground setting is announced. I always hated this feeling, that of impotence, I cannot do anything, to support a lose of this altitude. They have mines of defeat.
One as of ours has left us.
Each day we must face dangerous situations; armed men, younger people who want to play it large. Each day we risk our lives to save that of the others. But who can save us? Paramedics, firemen, police officers, we make the party of the "acceptable losses" as they call it up there. It is easy to make the statistics in high places, but nobody knows themselves better than us, we are a great family. It is easy to put figures on a bit of paper, but they do not know those which increase them. They do not know the work that we make; they do not know what we carry out. They know only those whom we have lost. Everyone knows itself, everyone is carted, but everyone is appreciated.
I was there; I looked at him dying under my eyes, in my arms. Why him, why so young? Nobody can say it. Christopher had called me, for a reason I don't know, this imbecile thought is no better than nails. I was spirited to talk with him when the shot resounded. I was turned over to look at him; he fell to ground, holding his stomach. Blood slipped between his fingers, the life fled him. I approached, without the thought to know if the murderer was still out there, around the corner and waiting to fire again.
Christopher didn't move, his hand only succeeded in reaching his radio to call an ambulance when I gave him the order of it. I held him in my arms, making sure at the same time to put pressure on his wound. He suffered, he beseeched me. I don't know what I would have been able to do, which choice I would have had to make. But can one really do something in this situation? At this moment? I spoke to him, I comforted him, and he looked at me, smiled, and then left. I find myself here today, still believing to re-examine his blood on my hands, under my nails...still able to hear his complaints of pain.
Each one moves towards his coffin, the photograph which represents him is a photograph of his exit of promotion, in uniform. He seems so happy, so peaceful, so young... so naive.
And yet...
Each person on their turn will deposit a flower on his coffin, the family initially. Sully, first of all, the veteran, the wise one, a reliable friend; as followed by Ty. He's young too, I hope he will die old, a cigar in his hand. I wish that for him. I don't want him to die like his father. Then Faith, so soft, the mother, I would always wonder how she manages to reconcile her job and separate it with her private life. She's strong, but I see her crying. She lost a member of her family, a different type, ours.
Marc Antonio, Sanchez, everyone's there. The tears fall but nobody retains themselves, even me. I can't do it. One rests to pass.
Bosco.
Since he's been there I never saw him cry, not once. His eyes express at the same time pain and anger, injustice and incomprehension. Tears threaten to run, however he manages to hold them back. He wants to be strong, as he approaches the side of the coffin, but I know that inside of him, he explodes. I find myself in him; he's exactly me when I was his age.
All my men are there, except one, him. Everyone comes to see me, like if, because I am their Captain, I know all. But they are wrong, I don't know what to do, I never know how I should react at a funeral service such as this. .. I can give the orders, but I am unable to pronounce a comforting word. And yet... Everyone needs comfort.
I can't seem to bring it to them.
I approach on my turn, to the place where the coffin will be put in the ground, the commemorative plate will certainly indicate: Marc Calvachini, big brother and best friend.
We love you.
All this becomes so ordinary that it is almost a part of you. Perhaps I did attend too many of these burials, perhaps I buried too many of my men?
But for nothing in the world, will I give up this trade, so dangerous is it, it is enthralling. It is a vocation and not spite, a pleasure and not martyrdom. The life of my men taken from them hurts me beyond words, but like Marc had said all so well:
"I signed not to die, but to live."
THE END
Dedication: With you Marc, my best friend and my angel! Rest well up there!
Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today
Imagine there's no country
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Leaving life in peace
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
