Visitor
AN: It shouldn't be hard to guess who the subject of this little piece is...
Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.
Sometimes, she visited his grave. It was usually a Monday evening, since her husband was at work, and couldn't question her on where she was going. She was grateful – her husband had never thought much of the man.
Visiting his grave usually made her feel immensely sad. She hadn't liked the man much, either, having heard the entire story behind his demise. But she felt pity for him, and that was enough to drive her to his graveside on some cold evenings.
She would stand in front of the gravestone and let her eyes wander over the carvings made. Many people had argued against his inclusion in the local cemetery, but in the end, he'd just been a man after all, and deserved a peaceful place to rest.
She would think about him, about the few times she'd actually met him. He'd never struck her as anything out of the ordinary, even though she'd heard many things about his apparent genius. He'd just seemed like a normal man.
Until he'd crossed that one line and shattered the illusion behind his smile.
Most of the time, she felt sadness. But on that day, she felt inexplicably angry instead.
Why, she wanted to shout at him, why did you do it? Why did you feel that you had no other choice? Why did you do it, when you knew nothing good could have come of it?
She wished he was in front of her so she could shake him. A few tears dripped down her cheeks, and she unconsciously cradled her swollen stomach.
Why did you give her up? Why didn't you fight? Why didn't you see that as long as you're alive, you can struggle? Why did you give up so easily?
Did the lure of silver mean that much to you? Or was it something else – were you afraid?
Did you want to die, for what you'd done to her mother and your wife? Did you think doing that to her would redeem you in some way? Did you plan on killing yourself afterwards? Or did you truly feel no remorse? Were you truly a psychopath, like some people claimed?
No. You loved her, I know that. You loved her, and yet you did that. And that is why everyone thinks of you as a monster.
The tears came again, and she cupped her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. I wish you had given yourself a chance. I wish you'd allowed yourself to live.
She inhaled deeply, wiped the tears from her face and turned away, her back towards his gravestone. It was placed in a breezy location on the outskirts of the burial ground, which meant that the wind had plenty of chances to wear away at his name. But it was still visible – the name of a man and a monster.
Shou Tucker.
AN: The woman could be anyone, anyone who'd ever met Tucker at all. I didn't write this with anyone particular in mind.
Tucker's often been branded a monster, and rightly so, but I want to believe that there was something that redeemed him.
I know prisoners' bodies aren't returned to their families, but I tweaked that a little to allow him to be buried in the local graveyard.
476 words.