Disclaimer: Marvel's, not mine. Not making money off it, either. This is set... somewhere in the future, loosely following canon. Thanks to Lyss for the beta, and everyone else for... stuff. I'm feeling generous tonight.
Rainstorms Remember
by Timesprite
Friday, June 8th
I dreamt of you last night, not of the dark like I usually do. We were sitting in that little cafe near your parents' place... you remember, I'm sure. There was snow falling outside the window--funny, because it's not winter now--the world was white. You met my eyes; you thanked me, then walked away. When I woke up I felt like crying, and I'm not sure why.
I threw open all the windows and turned up the fan. It's warm in an early summer sort of way--warm for the first time after weeks of rain.
I think I liked the rain better.
There are fewer voices when it rains. No, I'm not cracking up, old man. You know what I mean--when it's raining, when it's dark like that, people are quiet. The weather seems to stop up their voices; or else they just don't carry well. But when it's warm and the windows are thrown open, it seems the entire world is shouting, the world is happy. And I'm not, so I turn up the fan a notch and crawl back into bed with my hair still damp from the shower and my cup of coffee going cold on the nightstand.
Sunday, June 10th
Been thinking a lot about life lately--I suppose that happens when you come so close to dying. I'm not talking about staring down the barrel of a loaded gun or anything; we did that often enough. It's one thing to walk through the door, staring your mortality in the eye. To know you might not be alive come the next sunrise. It's another to have your death come from out of the blue, I think. Maybe. I'm not sure, I guess. You'd have to know what living really was to fear its loss.There's a park not far from here. I went out the other day and just sat there, 'people watching' I suppose--it struck me that, for the most part, I don't know how the world lives. Strange thought, that. But my life has never been close to normal; no one I've ever known could make that claim, either. Some try, but let's face it, in the circles you and I ran in, 'normality' was never an option. Funny thing is, I don't think I'm really that curious--the world of white picket fences is like a phantom to me. I just sort of sat and watched until the sky went grey with clouds and it started to rain. Made it home drenched to the skin and turned on the kettle. I ended up falling asleep; the whistling didn't wake me until the kettle had almost boiled dry.
Thursday, June 14th
Haven't written in a few days. Been sleeping, mostly. Had a migraine that half a bottle of tequila and a couple Excedrin couldn't kill, so I crawled into bed with all those windows still open and the sounds of the city drifting in. I slept a long time, if not well. Haven't had a headache like that in years... maybe I'm slipping.
I bet you didn't know I've always kept journals like this. I thought about it today, when I finally got up and remembered to eat. I thought about going around and collecting them from all the places I've left them. They're the only real record of my life; I don't like the thought of someone finding them once I'm gone. I'd gather them all up and burn them... I don't think I could ever bring myself to read them again. More for the things that they don't say, really. It's sad when there are some things you can't even admit to yourself on paper. Makes them too real, I guess.
There's laundry and dishes to do, garbage I should take care of. Maybe I should get a dog or something... y'know, unconditional love? But then, can love ever be?
Friday, June 15th
Took a while, but the housework, such as it was, is done. There are other things to do--the place could be swept and dusted, but it's just me here and I guess I don't care that much. Felt like stopping half way through, letting things drop and closing myself in the bedroom. Draw the blinds, put the fan on high... just lay there in that half-lit sanctuary with the warm muggy air and the fan whirring like the buzzing of flies. Promised myself I wouldn't though.
Packed up the laundry and drove to the place down the block--the machines downstairs are out of order--anyway. Got it all done. Felt strange to be doing something so very... mundane. Even stopped off to buy something for dinner--you know how I hate to cook. It's too hot to run the oven anyway. The high was in the upper nineties, and there were reports of the elderly and infirm dying from the heat. I just ran the shower on cold for awhile, until my teeth were chattering.
Sunday, June 17
I should really be sleeping instead of writing this--it's four in the morning. But lately--it's hard to sleep at night. I'll just leave it at that. Just got done cleaning my Glock, actually. I'd been neglecting it--don't give me that look. I know, messed up. Me neglecting my baby like that. But I did. It'd been on the nightstand for weeks, and I hadn't touched it. Funny, something that represents all I've ever been, and I almost couldn't pick it up. But I did. Noticed something, too. My hands were shaking.
Wonder if that means something.
Wednesday, June 20th
Storms, this week. I stayed up all night watching the lightning outside my window, then slept during the day, the rain masking the sounds of the world outside the confines of my darkened bedroom. It was a transient sleep, drifting in and out and of consciousness. One moment staring at the wall and the blankets on the bed, the next drifting in a silent dream of falling rain.
It was grey all around and I was soaked to the bone. I couldn't see through the sheets of water that poured down all around me and the only light seemed weak and far away. I had the strangest feeling that I'd lost you, then. You'd slipped forever out of my reach. Then I'd wake again, wondering if it was really just a dream after all.
Thursday, June 21st
Layers. I've started to think that we're all just layers. And the way you know people, how well you know them, is all a function of what layer you're at. I think very few people ever see what's at the core, even in themselves. Why am I thinking this? I'm thinking it because I've come to the realization that I'm very much alone here. I say 'realization' because knowing you're by yourself is different, somehow. 'Alone' doesn't truly happen until you can no longer recall the last person you exchanged words with, outside, perhaps, the pizza delivery boy, who calls you ma'am when you wish he wouldn't. Alone doesn't happen until you're wondering just how long it would take someone to find your body if you suddenly died.
Right, so on the topic of being alone. It was an odd realization for me, mostly because I realized that I cared that I was alone. For the longest time, I actually preferred it that way. I'd learned the hard way that depending on other people just got you hurt in the end, and when you're on your own, you never have to worry about what happens. Even if you mess up, it's only your butt that's on the line.
You helped change that, I think. Not so much by being there--don't go letting your ego get inflated--but by showing me how it could be different. And over that layer of hurt and betrayal, I began to grow a new skin, one that was capable, to an extent, of trust. It was a very thin boundary, but so was your own. Maybe that was part of our problem. We constantly tore holes in each other's ability to trust. Well, maybe I shouldn't have gone there. It's much too late to be wondering why now.
Back to the layers, then. Like I said, I started to build up other ones over that scarred core. And somewhere along the way, 'alone' went from something that was preferred, to something to be feared. Right, I admit it, I was afraid. Don't go saying 'I told you so.' You'd never admit the things you feared to me, either. Doesn't mean I didn't know what they were.
Anyway, the point is, I got comfortable. I liked where I was--God, I was even happy for awhile there. We were happy, I'd like to think. Life was good. That changed, and we should have known it would, we're no strangers to disaster. I guess neither of us ever thought they'd be such personal losses. What happened to me--it wasn't a lost battle. It was a violation of the worst sort, vengeance in its full glory. Part of me shattered. I was in pieces, and I realized I just couldn't stand to have others see that, not while I wasn't even sure what was going on in my own head. Maybe it was the wrong decision to make, but it hardly matters now.
The layers I'd managed to build were shredded, but they were still there, and damnit, I was going to repair them. I didn't do that well, I know, but I tried. In my own defense, I could claim I was never given a proper chance. Without much warning, everything that gave me reason to fight was taken away. It was then the layers began to drop. They ran like rainwater, leaving no trace that they'd been there. It left me feeling like a shadow that sunlight had destroyed.
Saturday, June 30th
Been awhile. Won't apologize, since I know how much you hate it. And it's not as if you can really tell, after all. I was working a job, actually. Simple little hit in Chicago, but it paid well. Very well, actually. The perks of being one of the best in the business I guess, even if I have been on hiatus awhile. Been thinking about that, too. Maybe... Y'know what, never mind. I don't think I want to know what it means. There's a world of possibilities there, not the least of which is that I'm simply losing my marbles. Well, okay I said it. And yeah, I've thought a bit about that too... I don't know. I don't know much of anything these days, really.
I guess in a sort of detached way, I'm a little worried. I know I'm not really doing well here. I mean sleeping until three in the afternoon isn't healthy, is it? Did that today, though I didn't really mean to. I guess the insomnia just takes its toll. I sleep so much better during the day, anyway. Then the only shadows are the ones in my head.
It's dark out now, but I've got the hum of my fan and the lights from the city to keep me company. In a little while I'll crawl back in my bed and wrap the sheets around me, bury my head in the pillows and try not to dream. Ignore the echo of that emptiness in my head.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep writing this to you, knowing you'll never read it. Half of me is certain I'll burn it, and the other half believes that when I wake tomorrow, I'll discover you're dead, and I've been talking to ghosts.
Monday, July 2nd
I went out today to prove I could. To say to myself: "I'm more than death and these four walls." I got in the car and drove. Drove out past the city, past the suburbs, out until it was green all around me and the black pavement stretched out long and far ahead like some great serpent coiled on the grass. I drove, windows down and wind in my hair, my skin getting sun burnt and just not giving a damn.
I drove until I hit the crest of one gigantic hill that seemed to drop so sharply into a green oblivion below. I felt as if my heart had stopped. As if I were suddenly blind. I felt, for the first time, the ache in my bones that came from holding so tightly to things that were, in the end, only smoke and mirrors. In that single instant, I felt as if I could throw my arms out and let go of the world. I threw the car into a reckless u-turn instead, and sped all the way home.
Saturday, July 7th
I was lying awake last night, watching the shadows on the ceiling and thinking, oddly enough, of that mission in Brazil five years ago. More specifically the night we found that clearing and decided we'd abused our bodies enough trudging through the jungle, and set up camp. I remember laying on my back and staring up through the space between the trees, not really star gazing--that's a little bit fanciful for me--but just watching. For a second I could almost forget about the gun that was only inches away, forget why we were there in the first place. I could lay there stretched out on the grass and just forget all of the destruction and pain. I've never been able to catch hold of that feeling again. Maybe it's because things went to hell so soon afterward. Maybe I caught a glimpse of a heaven I was never meant to have.
I've decided that I don't believe in fate. That's not to say that we have free wills, exactly, I just think the things that happen to us, that we chalk up to fate, are really just things that other people do to us. And the ways we react to them are what causes the seeming patterns. Do things happen that are out of our control? Fuck yeah, but that's life. I guess I'm just tired of blaming a god I'm not even exists for all the hell in my life. To tell you the truth, I'm just tired, period.
I think I could sleep forever.
Monday, July 9th
Realized the refrigerator was pretty bare, did a little shopping. I didn't really feel up to it, but I guess starving isn't a reasonable alternative. I've been... tired is the wrong word, I guess. I've slept plenty, lately. During the day, anyway. Well, I've always been a bit nocturnal. Not rested, I guess. I sleep, but dreams I can't really remember, or nightmares-- I don't feel rested. I feel worn out, like an old favorite shirt. So threadbare you can see through it. Yeah, that's me. And even when I'm awake, it's like a half-dreamt twilight... my thoughts aren't quite clear.
For awhile, I was sure you'd call. It never mattered how we'd parted last--amicably or more often, yelling at each other--sooner or later, you'd call. It never really mattered why, where I was, or what I was doing. I came. I always came. Did you ever wonder why? I did, for a long while. At some point, I realized that I always answered your calls because you were asking for my help. Coming from you, that was something that I couldn't turn my back on, no matter how much it cost me in the end. I never did manage to do the same. I guess I'm a lot more stubborn than you are.
I have to wonder, if I called, would you come? I guess it doesn't matter, I don't even know where you are. For a long time, I was waiting for that call. In the end though, it's easier to disconnect the phone. There's no use waiting for a call that will never come.
Wednesday, July 11th
It must be in the nineties in here today... I'd go out but I somehow doubt it's any better out there. It's the kind of day that just makes everything heavy, not worth the effort. I've been thinking of packing up and heading someplace more temperate, at least for awhile. Maybe someplace where I could do more with myself than sit in the apartment all day long--yeah, it's okay. You can laugh, I don't mind. I know my position is comical. I'm getting restless again, y'know. Never could sit still. I guess it's the action junkie in me. This place is feeling old--worn out and familiar in a way it shouldn't be. I should have left long ago.
Confession time. Had a nightmare last night--won't get into details, since it's really nothing you need to hear, but when I woke, still confused and disorientated, I found myself reaching for that place where you used to be. And it *hurt* when you weren't there, hurt someplace inside that didn't have a focus to it. It was sudden and suffocating. I flopped back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling until the pain faded and I could breath again.
Thursday, July 12th
I feel like I'm holding my breath, and I'm searching the skies... for what, I'm not sure. Maybe...
I've been building castles in the sand all my life, and every time the waves wash over them, I just rebuild. Never stronger or better, and they never last. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say here, I know I'm sounding just a little insane. I'm wondering where the part of me that always picked herself up again has gone to. It's like the world changed when I wasn't looking.
You want to know something stupid? I'm really pissed at myself. I can't manage to hate much else anymore--maybe God, but he's not returning my calls. I can hate myself, though.
I made it. God knows I shouldn't have, life didn't give me a spare second to catch my breath, but I made it. I lost a lot in the process, pieces of me died, but I managed to ignore the pain and I fought through it. So here I am, standing on the other side of a nightmare, and I think, 'I made it.'
And then I stop, and I stare for a long time until I can see past the darkness, beyond the blood and gore and the times where I pretty much lost my mind, and I see what I had. And then I look at what I have now. I wonder why I fought so hard for an empty life.
I hate myself for thinking that, for believing that just 'alive' isn't good enough. I hate myself for needing something more.
Saturday, July 14th
I want to go... somewhere. I haven't really decided yet. I've been trying to work a little more regularly... just to keep busy. A job is a job, after all, and it demands my full attention, shuts off the part of my mind that's gotten so damned introspective. It shuts out what I tell myself isn't a creeping depression.
I almost did it; almost packed what little stuff I have and ran, just like that, caution to the wind and no destination in mind. It used to be a thrill. I was so free. Now? If I'm brutally honest with myself, I think I'm just falling apart. Not in a professional capability, that'll never happen. Not to me. But in every other way I think I'm slipping, and never more so than when I dream of you.
I'm realistic. I know there's no 'us,' not after all this time. I destroyed it and you destroyed it. It's funny how a few words and a few years can tear two people apart so completely. I've wondered what I'd say to you.
I wonder if there's anything to say.
Wednesday July 18th
Didn't sleep much--maybe I shouldn't have bothered trying. It was humid and I could hear thunder rumbling far off... I could see the lightning but the rain never came. And when I finally drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of the desert, all faded sky and lifelessness. I think I walked for miles before the rain began, straight from the clear sky splashing red with dust onto my skin.
What does it mean when you dream of places you haven't been in years? I'm not talking about reliving memories... it's just the place you revisit. I've been revisiting places I never really wanted to see again. The one thing I've never really been able to run from is my past. The fact that I'm writing all of this to you is only proof of it.
I still feel trapped, but I haven't left. I think a part of me realizes that it's not about this place. It's about the things in my head, and it doesn't matter how far I go. There's still this pain in me I can't decipher... I can't pin it down and identify it, but it's like a sickness that makes it hard to move or feel. And I wish I weren't quite so alone. It would make it better, I'm sure, just to have someone else to throw all this at. I guess that's what this is... an attempt to hold on and keep myself together, and some days I'm sure I've failed. Everyone is dead or moved on, and I'm still standing here in the middle of the desert, waiting for rain from a clear sky.
Friday, July 20th
I've been on edge my whole life. As far back as I can remember, I've been walking just the other side of that thin line between safety and danger, pushing my luck to see just how long it will last. Just how far I can stretch it. I keep pushing harder and harder, throwing myself against that boundary again and again as if it were a glass wall, and on the other side is this endless expanse of water, violent and bottomless. And if I can just reach it...
I slipped off into dark dreams last night, the ones so thick with terror it's hard to remember them. Someplace dark and cold, and I walked on ice so thin it cracked with every step. But I kept on walking until it gave way completely and fell into water that was black, so cold it burned. I drowned in the darkness until I woke, covered in sweat and gasping for air.
Wednesday, August 1st
I wonder what I'm waiting for. It's silly, but it's like I'm expecting something to change, that tomorrow morning I'll open my eyes and the world will be different. And actually, I don't even think that I'm expecting it to be a *good* change. There's just... something, and it's a long way off, but it's coming, and I'm not sure what I'll do. I've had to change my perspectives. I used to view life in terms of loss. Lost childhood, lost loves, lost lives. It's strange when you can't stand to remember the bright moments in life because of how much they make the present hurt.
This... it's not goodbye, Nathan. But I have to do something here. I need to learn to breath again after years of holding my breath. It never works anyway, no matter how much you brace yourself, the bad still comes. But I think it's no reason to forget the good. I've been so afraid for so long. I was afraid to live, I've realized. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, so certain that it would all fall apart that I missed it. I missed living in the moments between the darkness. I think we both did.
The people we are, the real people we are inside, are so fragile. And we built up this armor around us until we became the armor, and the selves we tried so hard to shelter were broken anyway. We only hurt ourselves, and each other. I wish... I wanted to say this in person, not on a stupid piece of paper, but I don't know how else to reach you. No one had a number. So I'm sending it, all of this--my letters to the wind, as it were.
We were wrong, Nathan. Our lives didn't make us, and they didn't destroy us. We made us, and we destroyed us. I feel a kind of despair at that. It's that pain that never quite leaves; at least I know what it is now.
This isn't goodbye.
----
She's resting, sleeping, dark hair in waves and curls on the pillows, like some fairytale princess--or, no. Not a princess, fairy princesses don't sleep naked, probably. Tragic heroine, then. Juliet--she had dark hair, right? She was Italian... she must have had dark hair. No... not Juliet either. This face isn't peaceful. Even in sleep, her face is tired--the whole analogy is shot to hell. She's not perfect, not at all. Just looks that way at first. I can see her shoulders above the top of the sheets now. Perfect shoulders, perfect body, but it's worn and scarred. Fairy princesses don't have callused hands like she does. Her feet are sticking out from beneath the blankets--it seems somehow obscene.
Perfect and broken at the same time. I could slip out now, before she wakes up... she never has to know that I was here. It would be better that way, to not have to see the cracks behind her eyes. The journal in my hand is suddenly a lead weight, anchoring me to the spot. This trip I made on some half-acknowledged need is suddenly seeming like a very bad idea. She wasn't waiting for me and I half hoped that when I got here, someone else's name would be there on the mailbox, but there wasn't, just a well worn alias of hers, and for some reason, I came anyway. The masochist in me, I'm sure, is what drove me up those stairs to her unlocked door.
I should have sent someone else. That's all I can think as I stand here looking at her. I should have sent someone else to make sure she was okay, because being here is too much. Too much guilt for things I should have done before, too much discarded responsibility. I picked and chose which promises to keep, and she was dropped somewhere on the wayside of my path to destiny, only to find there was no glory at the end of it. There was nothing at all, and it doesn't seem right for me to be here, clawing away, trying to win back everything I lost due to my own neglect. I'm not a fool, she doesn't need me and she never did, but she wanted me there, and I was always very bad at deciphering her signals. I couldn't see a shove away as the cry for comforting it was, couldn't see the anger that was really grief. And now I can't see the fighter in this woman before me.
End