Author's Note: Hello, everyone! This is a one shot my wandering mind concocted in between classes. It's super-d-duper angsty.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warning: Character death.
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Rain.
It's such a peculiar phenomenon. Each dainty drop has a mind of its own. Some drizzle and sway in the blustery wind, opting to take their time falling to the ground. Others pummel at full force; the drops, beady and plump, splatter on the pavement with a smack. A few descend vertically, like soldiers marching in parallel lines, and land in tidy puddles pooling in ruts along the roads.
But a rain drop's life is short-lived. Sure, dark splotches mar a memory to the slick pavement, but eventually, the clouds, once pregnant with tears, clear, and the sun spills its rays along the horizon. The rain flees to the sun's warmth like moths to light bulbs, and people forget about its power until the next storm threatens to spill.
But I won't forget.
The storm clouds loom above me, and the first crack of lightening sets the sky ablaze. The clouds break. The sound of vengeful rain fills my ears, muddling my thoughts and bundling my nerves. The angry drops cling to my hair, and the dark strands glue like spaghetti to my face. My sopping clothes stick to my slick skin. I stay motionless, kneeling in the mud, gazing up at gloomy jungle raging overhead.
I used to claim he was crazy. He'd insist that you weren't just some imaginary figment of his imagination, and I would to rebut his beliefs, branding them to be ludicrous and outlandish. But perhaps he wasn't crazy. Maybe he simply wanted to believe that someone like you could save him. I'll never know his motives.
People, like rain, don't live for very long. Once we escape the clouds of our mother's womb, we dance to the ground. Sometimes we drizzle happily. Sometimes, we're angry with the world, and we waste no time finding a puddle in which to die. Some scuttle in a routinely fashion, going through the motions of things, ignoring the joys life has to offer. In the blink of any eye, we're gone. But unlike rain, we don't get a second chance. The sun doesn't suck us up and fling us free. Once we drop, we drop. Bargaining gets us nowhere. Our shallow puddle is our frigid grave.
He'd want me to move on. I know that. Perhaps I should. But I can't, especially knowing he's trapped in his puddle. He used to argue you were a compassionate God, a God that helped people and saved lives. But you forgot to save his.
The bullet sprung from the air like lightening. He tried to save me, and he succeeded. But nothing comes free. I cost him his life.
I wore black to his funeral. My face betrayed no emotion. I fiddled with my fingers, and tried to focus on the trees swaying or the birds chirping or the clouds drifting. I couldn't bear to watch his casket lower. I didn't cry. I doubt I'll ever find the courage to weep for his life. It hurts too much.
His grave is smooth and stony. Pearls of rain drip from the curved arch and settle in the hollows of the letters. I trace my fingers along the words, drops of water gathering at the pads of my fingers.
Seeley Booth
1972 – 2007
A good father.
A trusted friend.
A beloved partner.
Why did you let him leave me? He didn't deserve his fate. I don't deserve his fate. No one deserves his fate.
Let him know I'll watch the rain. And let him know I'll be thinking of him.
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Author's Note #2: Told ya it was angsty! Reviews make me disgustingly happy!