(It's been forever, and with college, I've been so busy that writing a story myself has been extremely slow, any attempts too episodic to get anywhere. Anyway, one lonely night, I picked up this song, one fabled in urban legend to have caused the suicides of over 100 people worldwide since its inception in 1932 (I believe) in Europe. Many versions have since been produced, the one I found the 1996 recording by Sarah McLachlan. Afterwards, I started writing and it eventually morphed into this hybrid of a song fic. See where it takes you…)
Gloomy Sunday
It never ceased to amaze some people how occult misery could be among the general populace. Everyone so caught up in their own life's events that they rarely ever get a peek into a neighbor's window where a violent argument could be in process, or down at the corner bar, where a dyspeptic drunk is heckling the pedestrians after being kicked out for unruly behavior. Most even look over the homeless depths of penury tucked into the filthy depths of the cities, alleys serving as modern Augean stables, vice still persistent but never garnishing the attention of the common person. The Dome was another example of this trend. Underneath its concrete expanse and vast bay windows was a team on the verge of collapse. They always lost one of their own in a moment of lunacy, yet a second tragedy was waiting in the wings when his brother had mysteriously vanished soon after, the body gone as well. How much did the general public know? Had they any idea that the cynosure of the city was soon to grow effete like the turning of a season. One lone figure, a silhouette watching over the masses below, knew the answer well.
He stood alone, wistfully gazing over the endless valley before him. None of it really mattered anymore. Every thought remained stapled to the tomb at his feet. How could life have taken him down this course, installing false hope and mirth only to banish it all away in one fall swoop? Holding the tattered remains of a shirt in matted hands, mechanically rubbing a small splotch of blood, the gore was a reminder of how real things were. How could he be so careless; misjudging the precariousness of this mission, forgetting all about the consequences of their actions? Dropping to the knees, the shirt dropping off the hand, visage turned to the dirt at his knees, silent tears precipitating in tune with the gales of wind. There was no room for any words, only tears, though that wasn't able to inhibit the grimacing visions of a frenetic mind…
It was in a warehouse. The battle that changed our lives was in some mundane little building with no discernable type of importance. The towers in the distance glimmered in the dwindling sunlight, the adrenaline incandescently flowing through dilated veins, hearts and minds ready for battle, putting an end to another unconscionable plan of the saurians. Another rocket fuel, another day, right? Lactescent plumage fused with the mask, blazing eyes directing everyone into the fray, confident words carelessly disseminated in the heat of carnage. Laser shots, debris, punches, kicks…all so easy, all so inherent.
No chances for regrets, not now, not ever. Instead of joyous celebration, there was only a devouring sadness, the whole world now appearing turbid, the moribund heart inwardly crying out for justice. The silent prayers, all the words said to the Great King above, begging for another chance, all of it expended when the moistened eyes opened to the same grave. All of it only four days ago, and all ready, he had given up his current lot in life, disappearing from the rest of the team, and hiding here among the flora of a secluded cliff, where he had single-handedly taken and buried the body. They would all think he was just mourning, but this self-indulgent lamenting was intolerable. The pain was too great; it never dissipated in intensity, the unbearable pangs inside the soul, the emptiness left behind with his brother's swooning.
Voices…coming from that steel door in the distance? Aiming the puck launcher, screaming for them to take cover, I sundering the lock, freeing the hostages. All the frantic gratitude is just an intrinsic part of the job, so commonplace that you almost take it for granted. However, the reaction is enjoyable. Draguanus obviously wasn't delighted to see them fleeing, escaping and taking with them his only remaining trump card. The tide of the battle was already changing. Minions taking cover behind ravaged crates, their ammo expended, the impending thoughts of another lost battle cascading in their bovine minds. What could be done but to crawl away and hide until the next miserable defeat? Transporters ready, wrangled fingers at the buttons, meeting only an intimidating, stentorian growl, patience at its final strand.
He snapped. Who would of thought it'd finally happen?
And so it's come to this. Holding the shirt up to the beak, trying to quell his wailing with a comforting smell, an ephemeral reminder what he used to have. Only the scent of now-crusted, life-preserving fluids haunted the fabric, instigating a cough with a qualm of nausea, head and hands slumped to the ground once again. There was no way to win. It seemed like an eternity since the tragedy happened, when he saw his beloved brother dead at the hands of lunacy.
Draguanus actually announced he gave up, eyes glowing with florid perniciousness. Verbally lashing out at the world, directed haphazardly to both sides of the conflict, everyone staring at each other incredulously, growing cautious at how instable he was growing. In unison, all ducked for cover when his gauntlet was brandished, relentlessly fired, Dragunaus completely ignorant to where the shots would stray, eyes closed and his face turned away, awaiting either victory or death in a last belligerent stoke, faithful to his gods for his divine rewards.
They apparently didn't listen. In the ultimate irony, he killed himself. We mottled him under a swarm of resounding pucks, his balance skewed, one of the heedless shots hitting a stray piece of machinery. As his final moment came to an end, his tractable miscreants watched it fall towards their master, a sharp point immediately protracting into the chest, a splatter of blood rewarding its piercing. Staggering, coughing, collapsing under the steel, a sequential and orderly proceeding, the rapacious light in his eyes fading as a scowl turning to a softened frown, and then to nothing. Lying on the floor, his raspy breathing drawing his followers close. They were as stupefied as the rest of us were. I don't know what he said to them, inaudible murmuring on an increasingly defunct tongue. The final vestiges of life subsiding, the corpse and the others vanishing in jaded light as quickly as they came. Could it finally be over? Through a cruel happenstance, we were finally rid of the saurians and could actually claim victory as our own?
As soon as the dreadful gasps behind me, I knew we didn't escape this unscathed. When I swung around, my wildest fears were realized in full…
Could anything have hurt so much? There hadn't been a chance to say good-bye, no opportunity to diligently rush him back to the medical bay to be healed. Tanya's curative prowess was ineffective this time, the panacea of the team rendered helpless under the decisiveness of fate. Muttered curses met his beak, for bestowing faith in others, for believing in the sake of a team or that they would be able to forever prevent the death of his loved one. Now, forced alone, hands methodically reaching into a back pocket, knees holding steady as a small sliver of metal glistened in the moonlight, presented to the grave, almost as an offering, but just as soon pulled back, concealed in a fist as the mind wandered if he should really go through with this.
Not him! Anyone but him! The team huddled around, I felt faint, my feet giving way at the sight. The other ducks shared glances, giving me morose stares. They knew I was scared out of my mind. Tanya's eyes searched the body for signs of life, arms checking pulse, ears tuned for the sound of inhaling. There was nothing. Soon, refined patience met with frenetic worry, struggling to find the guiding light. However, the pupils shimmered, opaque orbs slowly growing large with hopelessness, the eyelids twitching with incipient tears. Her gaze tried to stray from me, who remained inanimate, waiting to hear her verdict, my life hanging on the verge of rejoice or collapse.
"There's nothing I can do…he's dead…"
I screamed at first. Told her she was lying and swarming over the body, meticulously reevaluating every prospective sign of life. They all eluded me too, and a trembling fit began to set in. They all were quiet, staring at me, saturnine and penitent, but none of it comforting. Nobody flinched when they heard me give me first lamenting wail, crooning uncontrollably, as I caressed the body, my own armor blotted in a sickly crimson. They must have become concerned for my sanity…I can only remember laying him down and pounding on the plated chest, shrieking hysterically. Grin tried to gently pull me away, but I refused to cooperate and began clutching at whatever I could, torn fabric the only souvenir when I was entombed in a sympathetic, though powerful hold. I kicked, I fought, but I was too enervated, limbs drooping as my eyes watched the others solemnly taking the cadaver in tow, carrying it back to the Aerowing. All I could do was watch, sniffling, sobbing, my mind replaying the same realization; it was over. My brother was dead and there was no help, no possibility for revival, and no chance to avenge his death. I never thought Draguanus would be so callous…that his defeat would bring ours as well.
A soft click reverberated from the object, a small metallic blade flashing, its iridescent reflection of the soft moonlight reflecting in the mallard's misty pupils. An unreasonable mind didn't think of the virtues of surviving or would permit his sibling's death be tarnished by his own departure. All that was on his mind was the pressing need to be reunified with his family, dwelling in the ethereal plane, leaving him to toil alone on this planet. When he found out about his parents dying, it was hard enough, but he could seek comfort in his brother, the two encased in each other's arms many a night and knowing they would somehow persevere. However, who was going to hold him now? In those cold nights, when restless eyes were staring at the vacant bunk and the absence of guidance and vivacity were taking its toll on the team, who came to alleviate the pain? It was some price to pay in order to be a hero.
At one time, it all seemed like a polychromatic fantasy, almost like a cartoon, where no matter what the peril, they were always safe in their beds at night, the odds eventually in their favor, and the disputatious foes always brooding over another defeat, already concocting the next plan for the following day. A wrist was bared, plumage brushed until he could feel the veins, the patchwork of his mortality pulsing with life, each resounding heartbeat producing another lump of sorrow. The blade came down, lowering until it was lightly touching the skin. It may have been a cowardly death, but in the current mentality, he figured it was better than living. Another night was sheer torture anyway…
Who could sleep that first night? The team tried, but the visions of the death in their heads plagued their thoughts, a wave of insomnia holding us ransom. Of course, no one would come right out and admit it…I was left alone in our room…my room now. I spent the last two hours in the cavernous medical bay just staring at the body, making hundreds of mental wishes for the breathing to miraculously start, or to let the eyes slide open and lean over to whisper words of comfort to me, to finally staunch the teardrops. It never happened. Returning to the room and sitting in the darkness, I shivered in the corner, every possession shrouded in darkness. I already cried over the bunks, running my disjointed hands through the sheets and blankets, as if I expected my brother to be sleeping there, in some moment of phantasmagoria, telling me that it was just a nightmare and every image I seen, no matter how lucent, was conceived by an overworked mind. The phosphorescent numbers of the clock in the distance, carving voids into the darkness, only continued to count on apathetically. It took mere moments when patience depleted itself and I destroyed it, a bit surprised that no one came to check when they heard it combust against the wall. The grief was too strong I guess. They wouldn't be able to dissuade me from anything, even self-destructive habits.
Hours passed excruciatingly slow, though nothing would take my away from depression. I could only have imagined what losing my brother would be like, but I never dwelled on it very long, away taking his mortality for granted…everyone's actually. He always insisted he'd be around for a long time to come, a couple of old mallards on Puckworld with great families and sharing memories about times past on Earth. I remembered our years of childhood, the mutual help we gave each other through all the trials, losing and finding each other in the camp, learning to rely on each other for so much that the relationship had become the sole means of support. Puckworld was falling apart around us, but as long as we had each other, the love kept us going. Now I felt cold, betrayed, though pitiful. That bond was severed by a tyrant who found carnage enticing so what was once the haven for safety was now a virtual prison, full of cruel reminders.
I want the pain to end. Please, stop the pain…
There was no room for pity anymore. The accursed world had taken his parents and brother from him and he was dedicated to seeing them again, even if it implied a premature death. Still, even if the spirit longed for liberation, the hand was stoic, frozen from its final swath. It was as if the mind was forcing his soul to sit back and revisit all the excruciating memories that brought him to this pivotal point. It was easy to recall, it was all as painfully diaphanous as if transpiring a mere moment ago.
I was called to the kitchen by the team. They didn't want to disturb me, but they knew that something had to be done, that we had to somehow" pursue the light" as Grin phrased it. Sitting at the table, they are as ragged as I was, harrowed by nightmares, cosmetically distraught. Apparently, they had all taken it hard, and now, without any of us willing to take the initiative to act as leader (even myself), we felt erratic. I was so empty inside, my heart and soul already scathed by pity; how could they even expect me to place any effort into holding the team together? They wanted to decide on a burial place for my brother…something I didn't even want to think about. No one forced me to return when I left abruptly, back to the medical bay to sneak another view of my brother. He was exactly as I left him, his eyes forced shut and beak, even with remnants of his dying looking of shock, was manipulated into a half-hearted, peaceful look. The tears came back, grabbing the arms and lowering my head to listen for a heartbeat. Nothing. I just stood there, holding my brother's body tight, longing for all the times when he could hug me in return.
It was on the news. Phil made the announcement this morning to the press. Apparently, the others had told him, and of course, he was worrying about his own profits before thinking about how crestfallen the team was. Who was ever going to replace such a hockey player? Who else would continue the spirit when we stood in the frenzy of public, clasping sticks together and yelling our team slogan? Even that cheer seems useless now, a reminder of what was lost and what I'll never have again.
I wasn't surprised to find Duke behind me, his stealth finding him even in mourning. A soft hand came to my shoulder, hearing my sobbing, but was powerless to stop them. He tried to console me, but it only made me angry, every time he said my name, urging to help them pick a sight of burial to move towards closure. It was so disgustingly respectful, yet disheartening. I felt the urge to strike him down…but every time my head lifted, my beak contorting into a frown, I saw my brother's quiescent body, and once again falling back into forlorn depths of pity.
I was apathetic for the rest of the day. Couldn't speak, couldn't eat, I already trashed my locker, vowing to never play hockey again. I was back in the dark, the team trying so hard to get me back, never leaving me alone. I grew violent, I tried to physically attack them for all their sympathy…they had to shoot me with a sedative. I even thought I saw a phantom of tears in Mallory's eyes as she saw me collapse in lethargy. Never thought I'd reach a point where I had to be controlled by a drug. The sleep was comforting.
But it didn't end the pain.
I woke up in the middle of the night. Somehow, they were under the impression that once I was unconscious, I would remain torpid for the entire night. As soon as the drug acceded control back to my body, the soul began another round of vociferous screams, my weary, bloodshot eyes opening to the ceiling of the medical bay. Struggling to regain sentience, I ebbed off an unrestrained side of the bed over to the ground, making a soft thud, crawling about as my senses cleared. I found my brother, placed in a thick, leather bag, already prepared for his burial. All of a sudden, the penitence over my past actions began to cause self-doubt. If they had to knock me out once, what's to say that I wouldn't do it again? Who's to say I'm even sane to be around now, as mercurial as I was? I knew what I had to do. Slowly handling the bag, hauling it over the shoulder carefully, I removed my com and snuck into the hallway. Not a phantom of life. I caught sight of them, all huddled together around the furniture in the living room, their sprawling forms appearing so helpless, so deserving of help. Another slight flint of guilt softened my glance, but secularity quickly asserted itself when I felt the body shift.
Could it be?
Rushing to open it, I hastily unzipped it as it was slowly leveled. I whispered for my brother, eyes dripping tears that resounded against the leather. I held his head in my hands, its cold and stiffened flesh mortifying me. The agony flushed over in full force, zipping up the bag, staring at the group of bodies with a frigid glance, and continued down the hall, away from my team for the last year. Where they were once my allies and friends, they were now liabilities. I wanted my brother back, to finally breathe without feeling I was in a vice, my heart already diminished to a expiring shadow of what it once was. The hanger felt like a giant tomb in such a distressing time like this. I looked out for the door, yearning to escape this subterranean prison. No one would ever expect me to leave without a vehicle, a tracer in tow so they could seek me down and drag me back into this meager existence. Out of the Pond, through the late night streets of Anaheim, hiding from the crowds, I toiled with the body in tow, paranoid that every jolt was really him waking up. Every time I quickly set the bag down and opened it was equally as disheartening as the last.
I found the place to bury my brother. As poignant as the task was, I refused to concede for any help, even though I was sure that the team would rally to the cause. They could already sense the dissention in my soul; I knew they wanted to belay that, to vivify that conscientious prudence I was always known to possess. Fools.
I found the ideal spot, a secluded little cliff far away from the noise and convolution below in Anaheim. Everything was peaceful up here, I thought it would have been perfect to go on a camping trip, but instead, I was digging a makeshift grave with my bare hands, a small marker with a scrawled epitaph standing at the head of it. When I finished, I had to fight the brooding imagery of him dying from suffocation because of our lack of circumspect. To completely give up hope of my brother's survival was heartbreaking. I fell to my knees, crying again. I couldn't move…the night rolled by, and several days have pass now, never sleeping, crumbling inside while maintaining silent vigil over the burial site, drinking only with the rain. How long exactly has it been now?
He reached the present state, waiting for his hand to resume its job, but somehow, he couldn't force it to cooperate. Something was holding his appendage back, preventing him from ending everything. His mind was teeming with thoughts, tiny strands of remaining morality kept admonishing his senses, telling them that this decision was cowardly, that he couldn't give up on the team and his responsibilities. Could he really force them to adjust to yet another death, to leave them alone to find their way home after what they had been through together? Even if his brother wasn't here, he was still alive, able to guide the team back to at least some incarnation of normalcy. A car pulling up a short distance away suddenly curtailed his introspection. He listened intently as the person inside messed with the radio, cacophony ensuing before setting into a boisterous announcer.
"Well, another early Sunday morning has started in late night Anaheim, but the storms keep rolling in. Here's something to reflect on the mood around here lately, especially with the heartbreaking death in our beloved Mighty Ducks team. It's Gloomy Sunday…"
Sunday is Gloomy,
My hours are slumberless,
Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless
Little white flowers will never awaken you
"Nothing will…"
Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you
Angels have no thought of ever returning you
Would they be angry if I thought of joining you
Gloomy Sunday
"Would they?"
Gloomy Sunday
with shadows I spend it all
My heart and I have decided to end it all
Soon there'll be flowers and prayers that are sad,
I know, let them not weep,
Let them know that I'm glad to go
"They'll understand…they're stronger than I am…"
Death is no dream,
For in death I'm caressing you
With the last breath of my soul I'll be blessing you
Gloomy Sunday
"Soon, bro, soon…"
Dreaming
I was only dreaming
I wake and I find you
Asleep in the deep of
My heart
Dear
"Why couldn't this just be a dream? Please, let me wake…"
Darling I hope that my dream never haunted you
My heart is telling you how much I wanted you
Gloomy Sunday
"Forgive me…please..."
The world grew increasingly translucent, everything glazing over little by little. The feelings of dizziness shrouding the head in a spell of inexplicable comfort, the duck falling to his side, lying in the mud, the rain like tiny javelins on the marred plumage. Soon, all sense of feeling had vanished, leaving behind an ambient chill, welcoming him into darkness. As the eyes feel, one last view fell towards the crimson wrist, its life fluids pouring unceremoniously on the ground, the tomb behind it beckoning him, every arduous heartbeat sending another gush of blood from the wound, slowly subsiding in quantity. It was too late for regrets. The car was already silenced by a gunshot moments ago, the person apparently having the same goal in mind. Growing too hazy to allow vision, a solitary line managed to escape the lips as death welcomed one more into its admittance…
"I'm sorry bro…forgive me…"
The kid would found the dirtied blade days later in eroded soil after torrential downpours gave little thought to where it came from. Anaheim moves on…