Title: Snow
Author: Tekli
Rating: K+
Genre: Angst/Spiritual
Pairings: None.
Warnings: Um... weirdness, angst...?
Spoilers: Um... for the book? I wrote it after chapter 8...
Disclaimer: A Separate Peacebelongs to John Knowles, not me.
It's night again. The dark creeps in slowly behind the brilliance of the snow, catching you off guard when you realize that it's already pitch black. After that, the night is more noticeable than the snow.
The minute or so that Finny and I give each other to pray is torture. I always start by praying for my family, my safety, and for the soldiers (it's not really a war, it's one big joke), but I always end up with Finny, glorious Finny. I really hope that God doesn't dig deep into the thoughts of people praying, because I'm lying and I know it. Oh, sure, it would be wonderful for everybody if Finny got better – just maybe not as perfect as before. That would be nice. But that's not really what I want, what I've been begging for. I know that I'm really praying for me – if Finny got better, I'd be off the hook. If a killer doesn't kill his victim, it's not really a murder, is it? God forgives everybody. Forgive me! Pity me! Anything! Just save me from the torment of not knowing if I want Finny dead or not!
It's not really that I want to be forgiven, actually. Is that so awful? Nobody's perfect (except maybe St. Phineas). Everybody has something they secretly enjoyed; don't want to be forgiven for. Mine just happens to be driving me insane. But I didn't enjoy it! I don't even know if I did it! Did I intentionally knock Finny off? Could I have? Sure, I was (and still am, in a more confused way) jealous of him. I even hated him. But I don't think I'm a killer – am I? God, I'm beyond forgiveness at this point. I just want my sanity.
Finny's talking now, probably about the Olympics. Give it up, Finny, give it up. You shouldn't help your killer. Shouldn't fulfill your dreams through the one who made them unattainable for you. It's just cruel. I'm already bleeding slowly to death from paper cuts, and now you're rubbing salt into them. I just want some peace to figure this out. A little peace and a little distance. It's hard to come to terms with yourself when the source of your confusion is following you on crutches.
Yes, I suppose I still care about Finny – I don't want to see him dead (at the moment). But I wish that he'd recover miraculously so that I can figure this out in peace. But maybe that isn't enough. If he died – that might be. The guilt would be increased, yes, but I'd have a chance to figure this whole damn thing out.
There's no more snow falling. All that's left is black. Finny isn't talking either; he must have fallen asleep. I wish I could go numb as well, but the release of sleep is no longer a comfort for me. Let me be buried in the snow.
Author's Note: Written for English, but I liked it too much not to post it... ()
A Separate Peace is such an angst-able book!
Reviews are nice, but don't feel pressured... I like questions... but praise is good, too (not that my ego needs any more food)