This Is What It Feels Like To Fall
Summary: "This is what it feels like to fall," Dick thinks. And he wishes, he prays, someone would catch him, wishes something would anchor him. He prays for solid ground.
Pairings: None
Rating: K
Ties in to: Not Pictured, This is What It Feels Like To Fly (fic)
Word Count: 636
Genres: Angst, Tragedy
Disclaimer: Don't. Own. Anything.
A/N: This is a companion piece to "This Is What It Feels Like To Fly" and this is from Dick's point of view during Cassidy's funeral.
Dick looks up, looks past the people, past the minister, past the church.
All he sees is the box before him. The coffin. The closed coffin. They had to, he thinks. Because what is inside the box is too hideous, too horrible to fix. His brother's body is a wreck, destroyed - just like his life.
A small, frightened yelp escapes his lips, but no tears fall. He can't cry. Not about this. Not here. He won't cry. He tries to prevent the noises from escaping his lips, tries to hold them back, but he can't help it.
Not that anyone notices. The people that are here aren't here for him or for his brother. No one was ever there for his brother. Neither of their parents are here. None of his friends are here. He didn't have any.
Another terrified, strangled sound escapes his lips. No one was there for him. He knows he wasn't. His own brother. And he wasn't there for him. Not ever.
He was worse than just not there for him, he knows. He tormented him. He's the reason that this happened. This is his fault.
His fault.
And still, he refuses to cry. Refuses to let so much as one tear fall.
He won't. The people here, they'd see it. It'd count as a weakness.
Weakness. A part of him curses his brother. He was weak. Deserved it. Because he was always weak.
Different. Different and weak. He hates him. He can't stand him. Can't stand this. Any of it.
This is what it feels like to fall, he thinks.
For days now he hasn't felt right. Like he hasn't been walking on solid ground. Like he's been falling and still hasn't landed. He wishes, he prays for something to anchor him to solid ground. He prays that someone would catch him. Stop him from falling.
But he just keeps on falling.
At one point he thinks he feels a hand on his shoulder, hers (the one person that cared for his brother), maybe, but he's wrong. It's nothing. A ghost of a feeling. Less than nothing.
Before he knows it, the service is over and he finds himself headed towards the beach, a bottle of Vodka in hand.
He walks as far down the beach as he can before growing too tired to think, let alone walk any farther.
He sinks into the sand and stares out at the sea before him. He raises the bottle into the air, watching distractedly as it catches the light and breaks it into shiny, incandescent pieces.
Easily (for he'd had lots of previous practice) he takes the cap off the bottle and raises it to his lips.
As the icy liquid slides down his throat he thinks, finally, something to hold on to.
He finishes the bottle and stares at the sea for a while. The world feels more stable now, more stable but shakier, all at the same time. But he likes it better this way. It's easier this way. This way, his thoughts leave him alone. Alone in his stable-shaky world.
And just as the world starts to sink away he thinks he sees her, but he knows he's wrong. He knows it's only a ghost of an image.