Written for Otorisosa-kan's March Themed Writing Challenge. The theme for this month was Spring (like the lovely season that's just around the corner!).
Despite the numerous ways I could've made this into a happy story, alas, it is not. Huge surprise. But seriously,I know that a lot of my stuff is sad/angsty, but I am warning you now that this is just plain mean. It's also quite different from anything I've done before in terms of style/point of view. With that being said, I still hope you enjoy it? Oh gosh.
There is a hand sticking up out of the ground. Yes, definitely a hand. He wasn't sure at first, because it's poking out from beneath a pile of rubble about two feet high and if he wasn't paying close enough attention, he probably would've missed it. Actually, technically it isn't him who's paying attention. He couldn't care less, really. It was a shame about the buildings, he supposes. Those were quite immaculate, as far as buildings go, and he's always been fascinated by the whole concept of them, particularly the name. Buildings. As if they would never be completely finished, absolutely and totally built.
He likes the idea.
He wants to just keep walking, but the voice inside his head has suddenly amped up several notches, a simpering sort of grief that breaks through his train of thought, interrupts this quiet stroll he'd been taking.
Please God. Please God no.
Don't be him.
Please.
The voice is pushing up against the base of his borrowed skull like white heat, like sky high flames that sear into the backs of his eyes. Quite the aggravating headache, really. He stops walking, rolls those eyes, and speaks aloud to the voice hammering around inside his head.
"I suppose if you're going to wonder about it all day, we can have ourselves a look. Just to be sure. How about that, huh? How about we take a look. That is, if you're sure you want to know."
Please.
The word is a faint whisper, but that's just because the voice is suddenly preoccupied with other things, searching for an opening, a crack in the wall. The voice hasn't done that in quite some time, has chosen to remain dormant for this past year or so; to be nothing more than a voice. He finally thought it had given up, but suddenly here it is again, loud and clear and full of renewed determination.
He's not too worried.
He smiles to himself, takes a few steps and starts digging. He almost doesn't want to admit that he missed that voice, if only a little bit. Nice to have some company, anyway.
The buried hand twitches, but it's just the rubble shifting around it.
"I can't concentrate with all that mumbling," he says after a minute of digging, slightly annoyed by the continual barrage of Please, God. Please. No running through his head as the hand becomes an arm becomes a shoulder becomes a torso. So much for company if this is what he gets.
And then he's pulling the half-buried corpse out from the rubble, all slathered in dried blood and dirt and bruises and….
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
It is such a poignant scream, such a delectable yearning that tears from the voice inside his head, that it actually makes him stop for a moment to drink it in. Not that he particularly enjoys causing such pain to the one he owes so much to, but there is undeniable rarity in a sound like that, in a tragedy so deep it can seemingly cut through the walls he has carefully constructed inside this mind. The walls stay intact, of course. But for the briefest moment, he could swear he heard them shatter with the sound of that voice.
Sobbing. The voice is sobbing now, garbled strains of No. No. No. Dean. Dean. Dean. Please no, that have a strange constricting affect on the heart inside this body, the one he was so sure he was in complete control of. He looks down at the corpse he has uncovered, examines the short, spiky hair and the once brilliant green eyes that have faded to a dull gray, a dead winter. It is a pity, really. He hadn't meant to…
Ah well. Wrong place, wrong time. He'd been warned.
He sighs, but something draws his attention a little farther off to his left, and he turns to get a better look, not sure why he's taken notice in the first place. It is perhaps the smallest, most insignificant speck he's ever encountered, but it reminds him of how this body remembers those now-dead eyes, so he kneels to get a closer look.
And there, sticking out of the lifeless ground, a few inches off of what used to be a curb on the side of what used to be a street in what used to be a sprawling city, is a small green sprout. There are two tiny leaves shooting out from its root and curling back towards the ground, as if it is trying to push itself off from it completely. He smiles and runs his hand along the fragile stem, fingers just brushing the almost microscopic leaves. After a moment, he pushes back to his feet and begins walking again, pausing to look back at that blooming bud and the bloody corpse that lays beside it, a microscopic spark of life next to a hollow shell of what once was.
"Well, would you look at that Sammy?" Lucifer says to the still-wailing voice inside his head.
"Looks like it's almost Springtime."
I know. I warned you though, right? Thank you for reading anyway. If you're interested in being involved in future challenges, please PM Otorisosa-kan for more information- we'd love to have more participants! And if you have time to review, I'd love to hear your thoughts.