This is going to be a short story (four chapters at the most) inspired by the quoted Slipknot song. I just wanted to be writing, I'm well aware that I have quite a few Eastenders stories that need updating but I want to wait for the show to carry on with certain storylines before I update. So right now you are stuck with this little story and I have another short story planned where Danielle meets Glenda I may write. I hope you enjoy reading.
And a Long Bitter Aftertaste
Bury all your secrets in my skin
Come away with innocence, and leave me with my sins- Slipknot, Snuff.
He stands in the darkness, a shadow of a man, an inky black ghost of sharp angles.
Red light reflects on water, makes it shine like blood before his eyes can focus. Rain whispers on broken pavement like static, slides across his face, cool against fresh bruises. He can still hear her laughter, ringing and cold, memories fading in and out like a bad transmission. "What could you possibly offer me now?"
Tomorrow.
But then, that was never enough.
In many ways it was all too much.
He had spent so long running for everyone, from himself, from her because he feared the worst. By finally confronting the situation it had all spiralled away beyond his grip.
Turns out he could never stop hurting the ones he loved.
The night is bitterly cold. Frost caught in elaborate spiders webs shine like jewels in the headlights of a passing car. His fingers are numb, shirt transparent in the downpour.
He feels it all so much it's overwhelming. He just wanted it to be the end. The fact that she is not here to share this night with him hurts the most.
"I'm not the woman you loved anymore. I don't think she ever existed and I couldn't bear to see the disappointment in your eyes when you realise I'm right. I have to go before I destroy you as well."
He did not have the words to tell her that it was already too late for him. He would willingly drown in her gaze and living without her was enough to destroy everything he had ever been. He would follow her over the edge of the world.
The iron gate of the graveyard is locked with a rusted bolt; he'd been standing absolutely still, hands in pockets, eyeing the gate for so long time has lost all reference. When he does not move it is easier not to think. It is easier to imagine the wind and rain blowing wet and cold and foul through everything around him, moaning through the cracks in the trees, and he imagines it could blow right through him, whistling through the hollow places, carrying away everything but frail skin and muscle and bone. It's easier to believe the world might stop turning with him.
He has refined the habit of putting of the inevitable until the worst possible time into some sort of art. He had been trying to build up his defences, make his heart like stone. Instead he was becoming more raw and afraid with every passing second, but then, she always did know how to get under his skin.
Another car drives past, wheels and mechanics creating clumsy noise through the silence, harsh headlights spurring him into action. The stiff and brittle bolt flakes under his hands. He thinks the gate should creek menacingly as it swung open. This was never the way he thought he'd have to say goodbye.
He lurches across muddy grass, a soft surface if he is to fall. And oh god he feels like he might fall. Not because of copious amounts of alcohol but because every step seems more and more impossible. Another step towards losing his last piece of hope, then this will all be real and he will have nothing.
Half a night's determined effort at drinking himself senseless, and he can still see her eyes, cold ash and dull steel, ravaged, mocking. See her long hair cascading over slim shoulders golden and rich, face a stunning mix of strong cheekbones and intelligent blue eyes . She was all sharp, broken edges, splintered fragments flying apart, shrapnel piercing friend and foe alike.
He wishes he could have held her.
Even in the gloom he finds her grave without trying. He swallows against the rising nausea. It should have been him, he should have saved her. Words are meaningless but he has so much he wants to tell her.
He feels a wet stinging on his knees before he realises he has fallen. If only he could cry. With a hesitant hand he touches the cold stone, runs his finger down the carved letters of her name with heavy regret.
Veronica Elizabeth Mitchell.
At least she can sleep now.