Author's notes: For some reason, I've been inundated with the angst plot bunnies recently. Some of this derives from plot ideas that came to me while writing the 'Liz Sherman' chapter of Hellboy's Family, but just couldn't be used without pulling the story line of that chapter too far out of shape.
Gone
Damn, but it's cold up here; wet, too, and dark—but I can't abide going back inside. All I can do is stand and stare in the same direction; the way they've taken him, gone to a place where I can't go.
I overheard that after the funeral in the cathedral here in Newark they're putting him in Green-Wood. Not surprising for a guy whose official residence is somewhere in Brooklyn. That's where Brooklyn buries most of its famous sons and daughters, even the transplanted ones—even the ones whose public fame has almost nothing to do with their true life's work.
I've been to Green-Wood a couple of times myself, to deal with the occasional haunted mausoleum or silly ritual in the catacombs. It's a pretty place, the closest I've seen here to one of the great cemeteries of Europe, fitting for someone like him. I remember the way there and I suppose I could sneak off sometime to see where they've laid him. But what's the use? I wouldn't see anything but a bit of green and a stone with his name; but he wouldn't really be there, he'd be gone.
Somehow, that's the only way I can bear to think of him. Not 'dead', not 'passed away', just 'gone'.
It's a word that I've always associated with him. 'Don't worry, Hellboy, he'll only be gone a few days. The Professor will be back soon.' He used to travel a lot when I was too little to go with him, back when we lived in New Mexico. Whether he flew or took a car, the men used to take me someplace to meet him when he returned. I remember being so excited I almost peed myself.
Maybe that's why I'm up here in the dark, with that freezing rain working its way right through everything I'm wearing. I'm pretending he's just gone on some trip, like he's done a couple of times since we moved to Newark, and I'm just standing here watching for him to come back.
I used to love to come up here, just to watch the sun rise or set, or to observe the moon and stars. Now, it's too dark to see anything and I'm not even sure of the time anymore. It's been a long time since anyone's tried to get me to come down; even Liz and Katie gave up. If I wait long enough, everyone will go to bed and I can sneak back into my room without seeing anyone.
I'll find a way to jam that lock on my door from the inside. Then I won't have to deal with anyone, talk to them, or have them trying to get me to eat anything. As long as I'm alone in my room with only my kitties for company, it'll be just like he's grounded me again for doing something stupid and he's out there somewhere waiting for my time of punishment to come to an end.
I know it's just a silly fantasy; but it's all I've got to hang on to.
To let go of that is to admit that he's gone for good and I can't do that. Not yet, maybe not ever.
Author's afterword: The Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn is indeed one of the most beautiful and most prestigious cemeteries in New York City, incorporated in 1838 as the city's first 'rural cemetery'. It eventually attracted some very prominent people and is filled with absolutely stunning statuary and mausoleums. Even after the urbanization of Brooklyn, Green-Wood retained much of its natural beauty. The newer plots, as I envisioned in my story above, are still lovely, but the grandiose architecture of yesteryear is, alas, no more.