Disclaimer: I don't own McLeod's Daughters, and this fanfic was written just for fun, not for profit. It's entirely fictitious.
The song 'Hallelujah' was written by Leonard Cohen, so the lyrics don't belong to me, either. Just to clarify it, there is more than one version of this song, and the words vary, I'm using the beautiful cover by Rufus Wainwright.
Author's Comment: I know it's a bit weird and not quite my style, but I couldn't write it differently. Words often don't come in neat sentences in your mind, and I decided I'd give this a bash.
Hallelujah
I have been here before
The air was musty, stifling, filled with the heat of a room which had gone without venting for too long. Still. The smell: something indiscernible made up of wood, dryness, fabric, and that additional element that was Drover's Run. And her. Had been.
It was the familiar smell, of all things, that struck him first, like a full-force punch in the gut. He had been prepared, prepared for something bad, some indefinable feeling, his heart racing with anticipation as if he were entering a mortuary…and yet it was different now. For a moment, there had been a sudden emptiness, relief, even. Everything was as usual. He couldn't have expected otherwise, of course, but still, it was comforting to see that things were as they used to be, in the same place, untouched.
But there was something about that smell, something reminiscent that took his breath away. He pressed one palm to his chest, trying to get rid of the tight feeling, that iron fist.
I know this room, I've walked this floor
It was not the same, but off, wrong now. Incomplete, from another time, ancient. Too many months had passed, and that wasn't making it any easier. It was strange, so surreal to be there again, like finding a box of old toys. Not toys. This had nothing in common with toys. But he was over it, wasn't he? Living and alive. Alive and living. One of the two. Wasn't he?
Love is
not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
It just wasn't fair. Yes, he was happy for them, Nick was his brother, after all, he loved his brother, Tess was great and they deserved each other. That's what he kept telling himself, anyway. But why, why them and not Claire and him, and Charlotte? Seeing Nick and Tess move into this room, which should have been their room…
Screw the good times. Screw the luck they had had, screw the bloody smile you were supposed to have on your lips one day when remembering the happy days with gratitude and forgetting the pain. Something was wrong here.
All
I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew
you
An old box of toys. He wasn't sure if he had wanted it open to begin with.
And it's not a cry you can hear at night
His gaze fell on a photograph, that picture, the one of himself, Claire and Charlotte in the park. Happiness. On that day, they had felt that this had to be the beginning of something huge and wonderful, a future. Not the end.
Fuck the good times. He was pissed off.
He wasn't. He missed her. Looking at that picture…it hurt. In spite of all the unfairness in the world, he wasn't angry anymore. It was just too real now, the fact that it was all over, too close to be ignored. If only he could hear her voice again, her dry sort of laughter, her smell, her warm touch.
The photograph started to blur in front of his eyes until it was just a mess of colours. He thought he'd been over this, had moved on. To be over it, what did "over" even mean in that sentence? To be on top of it, to be in control, to make new experiences, to bury the pain in a place far down, locked away. To ignore it.
It's not somebody who's seen the light
To celebrate the good times. He didn't exactly feel like throwing a party over them, still, not yet. Did there ever come a point when you knew you were "over" something? This room, this smell, he wanted to hold on to it. You need to let her go, Alex. He didn't remember who had told him that, and it didn't really matter. They were going to refurnish, change everything. He understood it now, sort of, at least. They wanted to let go. Choose life.
It was a promise, the promise of a little less. The problem was that he didn't know if he wanted it to come true – which it would, undoubtedly. Already, she was fading, it hurt a little less.
And a little less the next month.
And a little less.
Less.
They were right, but he couldn't do it, couldn't bear to touch one thing in this room. He wouldn't. Instead, he stood up, taking a deep breath, taking in the details with his eyes.
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
He buried them. He left.
Hallelujah