A/N: Had this idea to write a fic without using any dialogue. I've seen it done and have always wanted to try it, mainly to see if I could do it. It's interesting to write a fic with no dialogue for a character whose dialogue is so rich and colorful. I also tried to use no names, but hopefully you know who is who.
This is just chapter one. Please review!
He sat cradling the crying girl in his arms, rocking her back and forth; back and forth. The casket was only now being carried out, but the room had emptied an hour ago; the mourners already headed toward the cemetery. Staring down at the now still and quiet form that had only seconds earlier been restless, he couldn't help but wonder why this all had to happen the way it did. It was only when he heard the funeral director excuse himself to inform the "gentlemen" in the room that they would be closing, that he realized he was not alone. Standing abruptly, he turned and found himself looking into the eyes of the only other man he was certain both loved and was loved by the recently departed. Moving ever so slowly so as not to disturb the child (who, in his opinion, was wearing her first black dress much too early in life), he picked up his belongings and made his way down the aisle. The only time he looked up was when he walked past the still seated mourner, whose voice cracked as he commented on how she looked like her; had her eyes and smile.
As he gently placed her in the car seat, double-checking to make sure the belt was securely fastened, he couldn't help but think about the man who was probably still sitting, immobilized by grief and anger, and how deep down, he must know, or at the very least must suspect the truth. He shook this thought off, as the memory of the last time he saw her began to flood his mind. In the last moments she spent with him, she made him promise to love her. She didn't need to add "as his own," as he once had requested of her. She didn't need to. They both knew that. She softly kissed his cheek as she took her last breath, and with that, she was gone.
Driving to the cemetery, he found himself talking to her. Low, so he wouldn't wake the little girl in the back seat, whose hazel eyes matched not only hers, but his as well, were being hidden from the world as she slept. Over and over he repeated how he wished he could have changed everything; how he wished he could have taken it all back. He pulled off the road and into an abandoned lot, parking the car before slamming his fists on the dashboard. Expletives escaped his mouth and as his hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, tears began to fall freely. Of all the horrific things that she had endured in her life, many of which were in some way either directly or indirectly related to him, it was the post-partum depression that ended up being her rock bottom. Days before her suicide, she watched as he swaddled her in his arms, calming her tears almost instantaneously. She had thrown a bottle against the wall and fell to the floor on her knees, crying so violently, she began to shake. In between sobs, she cursed karma for being a bitch; asked if the reason her daughter was perpetually inconsolable and completely uninterested in breast-feeding, was some sort of penance – not just for the horrible things she had done, but for the awful things she had thought when she learned she was pregnant; for wanting an abortion but changing her mind at the last minute realizing she didn't want to be responsible for taking another life.
As they sat on the couch the night before she killed herself, she confided in him that she was scared shitless of being a mother; asked if babies could smell fear like sharks could. They talked for hours that night, and only in retrospect would he realize that she was self-medicating and probably had been all along. Before heading to her bedroom, she asked if he wouldn't mind putting her down to sleep; made a comment about how she felt fucking useless. Years ago, in a hotel parking lot, he held her tight, pressing her body close to his as she bawled and exclaimed how she felt broken. Now when he made an attempt to envelope her in his arms and tell her that she was far from broken, she shuddered at his touch.
It was the sound of glass breaking that jolted him awake. His son was being taken care of by the nanny for the night – a common occurrence as of late, and he was staying at her beach house with her, helping her take care of the baby. He had joined her in bed shortly after she had gone to sleep, placed a kiss on her forehead and watched as she stirred briefly before settling again.
When she didn't answer when he called out for her, he panicked and made his way to the bathroom. The sight in front of him brought him to his knees. A half empty bottle of tequila was on the tile floor, shards of broken glass strewn about next to it; and next to both of those, was her, slumped against the bathtub, blood pouring out of her forearms and wrists. He wanted to scream but neither his lungs nor his vocal cords would allow it. She slowly opened her eyes when she heard him chanting her name, begging her to hang on, telling her he would get help and that she would be okay. She weakly shook her head and told him it was too late; that she had done what she had to do. He kissed her lips, pulling her frail body up to rest on his own, and it surprised him how light she was. He told her he told her; and she, him. Like wrecking balls, each hit hard at love when it came to the other. Each had wanted to break down the walls that had been built up and armed with secrets, syringes, knives, and guns. But in the end they only broke themselves and each other.
