The Curse of the Dusted Rose

by Chibiyu

The curse of the dusted rose is a curse of selfishness. Those who fall prey to the numbing dust will be forever lost in within themselves. Forever lost: day and night, year by year, and tear by tear, to the dark depths of hell. JONAS One-shot

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

A rose is said to live longer when hung upside down. But even in the most beautiful truth, there is a hideous lie. A rose that hangs upside down will be the first to cry away its delicate layers of soft tears; the first to reveal that hope can be stripped down into nothing but a thorn-pronged stem. And yet, somehow is can still see through the thick veil of lies and discover what it needs to survive, even though its shield has begun to fade away.

Dust is allowed to gather on the once coveted message of love. Though the particles sparkle in the minimal rays of sun, they do not mean a thing. They add no value to the fading color; only the sign of what is forgotten. However words may bleed from their paper, but their meaning is never lost. A rose, though covered in what should have long been removed, is still what it once was.

But this flower, it will never be the same. Not when it is buried within timeless amounts of sorrow and pain. Not when the good intentions of the sender were twisted and faded under harsh memories until even the best of times are drowned in the deepest pits of Hell. And there is nothing left – none of the smiles, of the bright eyes, of the warmth – even in the minds of those whom experienced it.

It is this emptiness that often drove a person to the edge, this lack of hope that brought nightmares to those who believe themselves vulnerable, and this eternal numbing pain that made blood flash across the skin of those silently screaming for help. It is the curse of the dusted rose, the lament from its chapped lips, and the stain it will leave on the pedestal.

There is no mercy to those who allow such fragile innocence to die alone in a puddle of its own red tears. No forgiveness to those who do not seek to deserve it. No relief to those destined to repeat their actions. There is only nothing; nothing but the dust-coated corpse of what once was. Such a thing can never be truly fixed just as a broken heart can never truly mend. There will always be the scars which reach their pale fingers towards any new hope and latch onto it. There is no reprieve from such an ailment. It is the curse of the dusted rose; peace shall never find the one who wronged it.

"Nick?"

The voice broke him from his thought induced stupor, and left the addressed to slowly blink. He looked over and took in the concern which lined the hazel eyes before him before he offered a shrug at the unspoken question.

Three months. Three months, nine days, fourteen hours, eleven minutes, and thirteen seconds.

"Honey?"

Again he was forced to look over, this time to his mother, and give a jerk of his head that could pass as a nod.

"Nicholas, please," she tried again, unsure even of what she was asking her youngest son. Her confusion was not lost to the young man, who offered another shrug against the cool glass of the car window. "Will you at least come with us?"

He stared at the untaken hand before him, and he shook his head once. His mother sighed once, but she gave no argument before she gently closed the door. Her son was left to listen to the silence which rang louder than most could stand.

But he was used to this. After three months, nine days, fourteen hours, twelve minutes, and four seconds, who wouldn't be?

And so he allowed the scenery before him to blur into an indistinguishable color and a long breath to escape his lips. He knew he deserved this. He knew that it was his fault that the rose was covered by inches of dust. He knew that this curse was his alone to bear. It was only he who deserved to feel it weigh down his shoulders until his next step became impossible to lift, he who deserved the numb brought on by the war which had morphed his image until even his brother couldn't picture him with a smile. And those who tried to recall the better days did not understand.

They had tried to tell him that the fault was not his; that the burden on his shoulders was wrongly placed, but they didn't understand. It was his fault; it was his to bear. If it hadn't been for him…He closed his eyes at this thought to trap in the moisture that stung and threatened to spill. This pain must remain a part of him; he cannot let it go – this is his punishment.

And yet, he still felt nothing at all. The pain he referenced was not one he could feel anymore. The sorrow he housed was too buried in dust to twist his heart. The war was over – it left only a forgotten rose as a message of peace; it left only numbness. The tears were nothing to him – he only felt them gather, but no longer felt the need to cry or the need to heal. He no longer felt anything at all. The cold glass under his fingers meant nothing – he didn't care about the chill it spread through his bones because he simply couldn't feel it. It was the curse of the dusted rose; to forever lay numb under a pile of his punishments.

"You couldn't have predicted this, you know," Kevin spoke up.

Nick jumped slightly, having forgotten that the older never left the vehicle. However this new revelation was not enough to get the younger to move from his spot.

Kevin sighed at the lack of reaction. "Please Nick, at least look at me."

Nick's eyes met Kevin's for the briefest of moments before he flinched and continued his deadpan stare. He did not deserve that look. None of that pity, sorrow, love, and care; none of it did he deserve.

"It was an accident," Kevin stressed. He reached over after a moment passed, only to find that Nick rolled his shoulder away when he sensed Kevin's hand approach. Kevin let limb drop; he should have known this would be his response. "So what if you wanted them there?" Kevin tried again. He watched Nick turn further away, but the window's reflection offered the older brother a view of Nick's vacant eyes. "So what, Nick? Was it your idea for them to be onstage? Did you start it all?"

Kevin received no answer.

"You didn't. This wasn't your fault."

After three months, nine days, fourteen hours, fifteen minutes, and nine seconds, Nick would have thought them to be tired of that repeated saying.

They didn't understand. They weren't there. They didn't know. They didn't. They just didn't.

The teen vaguely heard Kevin call out to him before the car shook from the closing of the door, but this did not draw him from his thoughts.

They didn't understand. They couldn't understand. They weren't there like he was.

The audience cheered loudly as they all stood with nothing but smiles lighting the entire area. He couldn't yet see them, but he could hear them, and would be hearing them for the rest of the night. He took a breath and allowed the smile to grow on his face as the doors in front of him slid open. He stepped from the fake elevator doors with three short strides. One wave. A few nods of the head. A big smile. And a bow.

His arm lifted to gesture for the rest of his cast to join him in the final ovation they would ever get together, but something familiar caught his eye. His smile grew along with the warmth in his chest. They ran from backstage to greet their son and brother in a green bow tie.

The crowd only clapped harder and flashes signified the use of the restricted camera. But Nick didn't care.

"You came!" he quietly exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around his brothers and father in a giant hug.

"When a bro asks, well, I wouldn't miss it," Joe smiled once, his tan more prominent from his ever frequent travelling. Frankie smirked at his older brother's slicked-back hair before he gave a hug as well.

"Thank you," Nick said simply as the joy on his face showed his family the words he simply could not find.

Not another word was shared as the rest of the cast and crew joined them. Hands were linked and the bow was made. Their arms raised for another as the crowd continued on, but not everything was as right as it would seem.

Nick pulled himself away from the window and he allowed his head to fall in his hands. His shoulders shook with effort to hold back the onslaught of emotions that he did not want to feel. He felt them once already. It had been too much then. And he knew that it would be too much now. He didn't want to feel the same torment that sent him into this state of retreat. He did not want to reengage the war after he had already thrown up his white flag. All he wanted was to remain numb, to remain where it was safe from the bullets that previously tore through his skin and scarred his soul. He had buried himself in a trench, but even then the dust followed him.

He couldn't escape it. Even when he did all he could to delay it, he knew that even this was a losing battle. Peace, if one can even call this by that name, never was meant to last. And after three months, nine days, fourteen hours, seventeen minutes, and twenty-six seconds, he knew that his white flag was nothing more than a tattered tissue with a few more waves left to give before it snapped off and let the wind carry it to its next life.

But it still had a few more waves left in it. But it seemed to be the only thing about him that still clung onto its life; his voice was gone, his muse was gone, his will was gone, he, in all aspects of the metaphorical term, was gone. Everyone could see it: Nick Lucas was no longer there. Sure, it looked like him at a distance, but under a microscope he could never pass for the man he once was. And Joe, Frankie, and his dad, if they were still with him, would only look at him with shame.

But they weren't with him. He could change anything about himself: his voice, his ways, his hair, but he could never change what he did.

Not another word was shared as the rest of the cast and crew joined them. Hands were linked and the bow was made. Their arms raised for another as the crowd continued on, but not everything was as right as it would seem.

A spark crackled, unheard over the applause as it happily danced along the paper-like backgrounds of the set.

Everything was too late: the twitch of the nose when smoke did caress the air, the whine of the fire alarm, the downpour of the sprinklers. It was black within moments; not even the glow of the fire was able to be discerned through the thick poisonous gloom.

Nick didn't know who did it, but a hand shoved him to the ground as he coughed. His heart pounded as he wildly felt around and tried to scoot towards the edge of the stage, fingers wary of the orchestra pit. He couldn't tell where he was, which way to go, or if the hand on his ankle was a friend or fan. His mind raced with horrid thoughts of panic induced stupor.

What if he couldn't get out? What if everyone couldn't get out? What if the fire couldn't be put out? What if something fell? What if people died? What if Joe or Frankie of Dad died?

He tried to call out to them, but found the idea to be a bad one when smoke entered his mouth. He choked and sputtered and kicked out involuntarily. The hand on his ankle released him. And he was alone.

Nick looked down to his foot and pulled up his jeans; he was still able to feel their grip. Still able to feel their fingers slid away from his skin when he kicked them away. And to this day, he didn't know for sure who that person was, but he could guess. He could very easily guess because that person did not make it out of the building. And if he wouldn't have kicked…if he wouldn't have, then they would have made it. He knew they would have.

Alone. Such a word has no meaning unless put into a context such as this. There was nothing to be seen, but everything to be heard. The crackle of fire, the fall of the set, the scramble of frantic feet, and the hitched cries of those terrified. And Nick was caught in the middle of it. He waited a second more, but the hand never came back. He nodded to himself and put his trust into the security and into his father to get them out before he jumped to his feet and ran towards the door should be, hunched over and shirt over his nose.

But it was never to be.

He had heard the creak over the race of his own heartbeat. He remembered picturing the right-most panel of the set collapsing on top of him. And he remembered the searing heat when the imagination turned into reality. And he had known nothing more after that moment. His brain, in the sheer panic of it shut down in the worst time. It was not a heavy set. He should not have passed out. But he did. And when he woke up…he wished that he never did.

He could hardly take a breath without being victim to a lung tearing cough. He could hardly move without upsetting whatever was on top of him. But he wasn't in pain. Wasn't dead. He was ok.

He slowly pried open his eyes and pulled himself out from the set, mindful of both the danger that could still be present. Everything was still pitch black and reeked of burning, but the crackle had died down significantly.

He had to lean against the wall as another fit of coughing overtook him, bringing up blood from the rawness of his throat. He tried to ram his shoulder into the door, but it didn't budge. He tried to move away from the stage, but his legs shook too badly to allow him to take another step. And before he knew it, he was on his knees, unable to even breathe away the spots that danced across his already hindered vision.

"H-help…" someone croaked out. Nick angled his head towards the sound of a hand scrapping against the debris. "P-please…"

Nick tried, he really did, but even the smallest movement left his head spinning and him on all fours gasping out. He tried to respond, but nothing but coughs came.

"S-someone…"

Nick flattened himself on the floor, just barely able to make out the hand that stretched towards him. He reached out as well, fingers able to brush, but neither had the strength to actually grab.

"N-Nick?"

Nick looked over and tried to find the face, tried to see passed the blur from his lack of breath. He forced himself to focus and hated that he had. His teeth found his tongue as a strangled sob erupted from his lips, but no other sound could be made. Not when the next fit had him curled in a tight ball, his shirt stained with flecks of red.

When he looked back…

It had been too late.

That was all Nick could recall of that night. That it had been too late. And as much as he wanted to wipe away the memory of his little brother's vacant eyes, of his blackened skin caked with cauterized blood, of his little fingers that were raw from the heat...

It was too much.

If he hadn't asked them to come out…if he had been stronger…if he hadn't kicked Frankie, if he hadn't…done a lot of things, then they would be here. It was his fault. He had been too late. Only later that night did he remember raising his sluggish head to see the pile of bricks and metal, to see the burnt set and the costumes, to see the place where his family stood before the lights went out.

They hadn't been waiting for him outside. They hadn't been in the back of an ambulance.

They never made it out.

They never made it two feet.

And they had been there, that night, in that exact spot, unable to get out or get help, because of himself. Because he had been too late. Too weak. To needy.

Only when his hand came to his face did he realize that tears rolled down his cheeks, that his breath was uneven, and that his nails dug into his forearm. A shudder ran through his entire body and he let out a sob. His hands went to grip his hair before he remembered that his curls were gone, so he folded them instead on his lap. He tried to calm down, or at least, tried to feel the sadness his body was portraying, but nothing came to him. Everything was still numb; was still out of his control.

He lifted his head and for once his eyes were able to focus on the landscape outside of the car window. But the green grass was deceiving. Green meant life. This was not a place for life.

Their funerals had been held while he was in the hospital, hardly able to breathe. He missed them. Missed saying goodbye. And though the three of them came up here on every Sunday, he never was here. Physically perhaps, but never mentally. And now that he was, he wanted to be gone.

And he wanted to see.

His hand gripped the car door and he silently pushed it open. He stared at the open gravel.

After three months, nine days, fourteen hours, twenty-six minutes, and…however many seconds, Nick would have thought he would know the answer to what he was going to do next.

But his feet dropped onto the ground and the car door quietly closed behind him.

He needed to see.

He slowly neared his family, who kneeled in front of the headstones Nick had been so sure that he never wanted to ever see. And he stilled as his gaze caught the first letter of his brother's name. He closed his eyes once, only able to see his vacant stare, before he stepped forward again.

He needed this. He needed to see. It was the curse of the dusted rose: to be forever haunted by what he won't have the courage to experience.

And he needed to have that courage. He needed to see. Needed to say goodbye.

He stopped again, his hand rested on the nape of his neck.

But he couldn't. Never again.

A hand came into his vision and he lifted his head to see the kind face of his mother. She looked so hopeful and so proud, and Nick wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't disappoint her.

"When you're ready, sweetheart," she whispered too quietly for Kevin to hear, who had yet to notice that Nick was a few feet behind him.

Was he ready? He had needed to see. Needed to say his goodbyes, but that need left him when the cold reality hit. He could never say his goodbyes. Never.

He took a step back, away from the hand. His own dropped to his side and clenched.

Joe would have jokingly called him a coward for this. Frankie wouldn't have understood. His father would have smiled encouragingly and waited.

A knife tore through his heart as a tear fell from this realization, but his hand was now in his mother's. She gently led him to the spot next to Kevin and helped him kneel and gave him a shoulder to lean Kevin's arm looped around his shoulder.

And then he finally lifted his head.

His heart burst. He let out a pitiful sob before his face buried itself into his mother's shoulder. It was too much. Too much. He had been covered in dust for too long for it all to be suddenly blown off. It was too much. The rose was not strong enough to withstand such a force. Its petals shattered and became one with the particles. Its stem cracked down the length and flaked off, little by little. The pitiful leaves were torn to shreds. Too much; it was too much.

Their names…Joe, Frankie, Tom…too much. /

Time blurred. All that existed was this pain, this war. His white flag was gone in the new onslaught of artillery. His surrender was over. His trench was gone. He had to fight again, but he couldn't. The shots tore through him, brought him to his knees, and left him in the middle of the dust-chapped ground to die. To drown in his own tears. To burn in his own pain.

And the two held the boy as tremors ran through him, as he struggled to find his breath, as he finally allowed them to hold him. They held him close until the air chilled and the sun moved their shadows. They held him well passed their arms could bear. They held him until he slowly released them and hid his head. And then they watched him look over at their names and reach out with a hand that shook violently. He traced their names.

And then he stood and walked back to the car without a word.

"Was that a good thing?" Kevin asked when they heard the car door close.

Sandy knew why he asked. Nick had looked the same when he left as when he came: unsure, hurt, and empty. But there was a change.

"Yes," she replied before she pulled her oldest son to his feet. "But not a word to him about it. He needs to come to us."

Kevin nodded; Nick had always worked this way, even in the worst of times. "So we act like nothing happened?"

"We smile at him and take it in stride."

They both did just that. The car ride home was silent until Kevin turned at a slight whimper next to him. When he saw the pained looked on his brother's sleeping face, he was never more grateful for the habit he developed of sitting in the back seat. He carefully switched to the middle and more carefully still he pulled Nick against him. The younger instantly shifted closer to the warmth, his whimpers now gone but he still shook ever so slightly.

"I didn't know," Sandy whispered, "But it makes sense that he has nightmares about it."

Kevin nodded once, unable to speak without the risk of rousing Nick. But his efforts meant nothing when Nick hummed lightly and lifted his head, exhaustion still in his eyes.

"Hey," Kevin greeted lightly, pleased when Nick nodded but did not move away. "You ok?"

Nick was quick to shake his head no.

"Yeah, stupid question, huh?"

No response.

"It will be ok, though."

Nick pulled away at this.

"Why don't you think so?"

Not even a glare was sent his way.

Nick tuned out the rest of Kevin's words. He had no want to believe in such false hope. How could anything be alright again? He was caught in another war. The nightmares were back. The pain was back. Everything was back. And it was too damn much for him.

He angrily swiped away another tear before he curled into himself and watched the streetlamps pass. He was first out of the car when it stopped, but last one to crawl into bed.

The nightmares. He can't. Not another dose of pain.

So he stood in the center of the large upstairs room and stared at his own bed. Sleep meant pain. Awake meant pain. So either way, he was screwed.

He walked over to Joe's side of the room and stared at the perfectly made bed, at the thin layer of dust on all of his workout equipment, at Frankie's misplaced toy at his feet.

He doesn't know why he did it, but he found himself perched on the edge of Joe's bed, with Frankie's action-figure being turned loosely in his hands. It felt wrong to have moved it from where Frankie had carelessly dropped it, but he couldn't let it go. There were too many memories: of Frankie begging to get all of this superhero's comic books, to see some movie that he was in, and to get the toy, and of Dad humoring him for each request, and for Joe stealing the action-figure to harass his youngest brother.

He looked down at the sheets, tears again in his eyes when he realized something he never noticed before. He scooted until his back hit Joe's pillows and hugged himself with closed eyes. He tried to convince himself that Joe was the one hugging him. That the faint smell of his cologne was from his actual brother and not from his old bedding.

He curled himself into the sheets, not caring anymore if he disturbed anything.

He missed them. Wanted them back. And this was as close as he would get.

This was how Kevin found Nick in the morning: curled up on top of Joe's sheets with Frankie's old toy held in his relaxed, goose-bump covered hand. The older sighed sadly before pulling the ends of the bedding to cover his brother. His heart broke when Nick burrowed closer, nose stuffed into the pillows. But even this was better than waking up to see Nick in the middle of his own bed, staring deadly at nothing and looking as if he hadn't even closed his eyes. Anything was better than that.

"He needs help," Kevin told their mom when he went downstairs. "He's – ."

"In Joe's bed, I know." Sandy Lucas ran a tired hand over his face. "He won't accept the help. Remember last time we brought in the therapist?"

Kevin nodded. For one week, nothing happened. The lady ended up walking out with the exact same information she had on Nick from the beginning of their sessions: nothing. But that was because Nick was not there. Wasn't present for any of their talks. Kevin even doubted Nick knew that the woman had sat across from him once a day.

"Then what can we do?"

"Be there. I can't imagine what he is going through, honey, but we have to be there for him."

Kevin nodded. "I know. But it's hard when we don't even know what he saw."

Nick took that moment of silence to trudge down the stairs and drop into the seat farthest from the two.

"Hey, bro," Kevin whispered.

Nick looked over and nodded once, but his eyes lingered on Dad's empty chair.

"I miss them too."

Nick look back over to Kevin at this and heat rose to his cheeks when it dawned on him that Kevin saw him before.

"It's okay," Kevin quietly reassured the obviously embarrassed teen.

Nick shrugged once before he began to pick at his food. He kept playing his mother's and Kevin's conversation over in his head.

"It's hard when we don't even know what he saw."

What he didn't want to see. What he never wants to see again, but what he sees every time he hears Frankie's name or every time he closes his eyes at night.

"He needs help."

Nick pulled his phone out from his pocket as he thought of this. He didn't want help. He just wanted them to understand. To leave him be. To treat him as he deserved.

'Can I tell you something that I never told you?' Siri's voice rang out and startled the other two in the room. Sandy and Kevin were quick to nod, attention solely on the one cautiously tapping out his words. But his fingers stilled at a word and twitched once.

He couldn't do it.

He shook his head once and put the phone face down on the table. He wasn't ready. But in the process of flipping the phone, his finger brushed the talk button.

'I saw him dead. Fran…'

All three of them stared at phone in shock.

"You…what?" Sandy asked weakly, her hand on her heart. "Sweetie," she cooed, "How?"

'I…' that was all Nick could type before it was too much. He bolted from the room and back up the stairs, unable to take it.

It crashed down on his shoulders – a rock slide of rose petals topped by the mountain of dust. He was hardly able to make it to his portion of the top-floor before the weight of it all collapsed him. His stomach cramped from it all; twisted and knotted and churned until it took all of his strength to keep the contents in. His shoulders trembled violently, so much so that he was sure the floor beneath him shook as well. His fingers, in habit, tried to yank at his hair, but there was nothing there for this exact same reason. So fingernails dug into his forearms instead.

And yet, no tears came.

It was because of this that, when someone's arms came around him, he was able to force them away and stand again. He tuned out their pleas of worry and walked over the window. He forced in deep breaths and closed his eyes in attempts to find the numbing pain.

To feel nothing, he fathomed, was better than feeling this.

"Honey," Sandy tried as she again reached out to her youngest song, "Please don't shut us out. Please tell us."

Nick didn't respond, though his eyes did open. But they only stared vacantly at the street below, lost in whatever thoughts that had managed to sweep the boy away.

"Nick!" Kevin called and clapped. Nick jumped harshly, surprise in his eyes when he finally turned to stare at his older brother. "Don't do this!"

"Talk to us," their mom pleaded, Nick's phone held out in her hand. "Please. Let us help."

Nick's face was a clear response: you can't help me.

"Why can't we?" Kevin challenged as he prayed that this tactic would gain them some ground.

Nick just looked away again, but the gleam in his eyes stayed. He was still listening.

"You don't know that we can't help. You've never told us a thing about that night. You've never let us in. Please, just try. Maybe it will work! And if it doesn't, then you win!"

Nick looked over at this, brow furrowed. 'Win?' he mouthed the question to suck terms.

"We leave you alone."

"Kevin!" Sandy Lucas protested, but she was quieted when Kevin sent her a look.

Nick, without hesitation, snatched the phone from his mother's hand, as if angry.

'You're sure you want to know? You sure you can handle it?'

Even though the question came with the sound of caring from Siri's robotic voice, the blatant hardness to Nick's eyes said otherwise.

The company nodded once.

'Say it.'

"We're sure," they chorused, but their voices shook slightly.

'No, you're not. Then I'm not about to make you hear it.'

Nick went to move away, but Kevin's hand closed firmly on his upper arm. "No." The older lead the small group to the middle of the room and all but threw Nick down onto the ataman. Their mother sat hesitantly on one of the armchairs and Kevin remained on his feet. "Talk."

Three months, nine days, and about fifteen hours ago, that order would have made Nick livid. But now, if anything, it just panged his heart. He, however, did not comment on it.

'Where do I start?'

"When you first saw them that night," Sandy spoke up. Her fingers twitched like she wanted something to hold onto, but she stayed put.

Nick looked away and for a brief moment, his eyes went distant. And in that second, they could see everything that the young man felt: the burden of the world on his shoulders which forced the once strong individual to become a shriveled heart.

'I can't.'

Sandy's hand finally found Nick's and she held it tightly. The young man stared at her hand for a moment; tears now prickled his eyes at the newfound warmth.

"Sweetheart, you can. You're strong enough to do this. You're ready."

Nick gave a jerk of a nod and took a shaky breath before his fingers hesitated over the phone's keyboard. Can he really do this?

Kevin's hand came to rest on his shoulder.

And Nick told them. Everything.

At some point during the recollection, Sandy moved over to him and pulled him close.

When it was over, Nick felt no better. His heart still wept in its shriveled state, still bled only tears of self-hatred; still was compressed by the weight of shattered petals and a coat of dust. His white flag was still gone; his surrender was still impossible. The war within was far from over – the bombs still rained from the deathly gray sky. And Nick was still stuck in his trench, bowed over for cover, and he still screamed for the reprieve.

But no one could hear him.

"It's not your fault," was the first thing said after the shock somewhat subsided.

Nick didn't respond; he was too tired to. Too tired of being lied to. Too tired of being called out for not believing them. Simply just too tired.

He dropped the phone next to him and pulled away from his mother, but he didn't stand.

"Sweetheart, what are you thinking?"

Nick just shrugged because in truth, he wasn't thinking much of anything. Only that he wanted to hide from it. He wanted it to be over. He just wanted peace.

"You didn't start that fire, Nick. You couldn't have known. You couldn't have done anything."

And the peace was not given.

He could have done something. He could have been faster, stronger, smarter; anything more than what he had been. He could have saved Frankie. He could have never asked them to come. He could have shooed them from the stand instead of letting them stay and clap as him and the cast took their final bows. He could have done something. He should have done something. Normally, he would have. Normally he would have shoved Joe away for 'embarrassing' him and would have jokingly told him to wait backstage so Joe wouldn't steal his spotlight.

So why didn't he?

The answer never came to him.

When he looked up again, he was alone.

Three months, nine days and…did it even matter anymore? It's been too long. He has been this way for too damn long. Silent and suffering for too long. He was sick of it. Sick of retreating. Sick of being in so much pain that he couldn't feel anything. Sick of being numb. Sick of it all.

Tired of it all.

And he couldn't do a damn thing to fix it. He couldn't believe them when they said it wasn't his fault. He couldn't speak to them to express what he needed too. He couldn't even write about it. His words left him with his voice. It was the curse of that damned dusted rose. Everything left him with its life. Everything. And he was a fool to think otherwise. A fool to ever think that he could escape this pain – that it would get better.

He allowed himself to feel it. He cut himself off from feeling it. He spoke about it. He saw their graves. And nothing, nothing, helped. He was cursed to live the remainder of his life as an empty shell, as a sad reminder of who he once was and of what he had lost. And he didn't want this.

()

And that, that feeling, that thought, it was all he remembered of that night. Everything else was just…gone. He didn't know how he ended up here; if he did it to himself or if another did it to him. All he knew was that he still waiting for his hurt to end.

He sat on the hard bench, barely able to hear the mutters that came from each of his sides in the large, crowded room. They were all waiting. But waiting for something they didn't know. Some hoped, others feared, and more were called into the back room. But not one returned. Sometimes they heard the screams and the cries, other times they heard the sounds of rejoice, but it had been silent for a long while. Silent, minus for the mutters that surrounded him.

"It can't be so bad," he managed to catch the words of the older woman seated next to him. "It's not the best place, but it can't be all bad."

What she was speaking of, Nick knew not.

In fact, all he did know is that he wanted his family. Wanted to see them again. To smile with them again. To remember more about them. To tell Joe, dad, and Frankie that he was sorry they died, sorry that he asked them to come; sorry he couldn't stop it. And he wanted, as juvenile as it sounded, he wanted his mom. Wanted her to hold him and tell him that everything would be okay and that they would get through this. That whatever this place was and wherever Nick would go when his name was called, that he would be alright and she would be with him.

But it was the curse of the dusted rose: to be alone when he needed someone the most

"Nicholas Lucas?"

His head snapped up at the call. He stood slowly, the old woman next to him gave up her mutters to pat his hand once and whisper: "It can't be so bad, son."

He managed to nod to her once before he walked down the room. A man in a suit stood by the large doors, a clipboard in his hand. He gestured to himself and then the name on the list, unable to find his tongue, even now.

The man pursed his lips in distaste before he knocked once of the door. "Good luck, Nicholas. I hope, for your sake, that they are in a better mood."

Fear mounted in his chest as he was shoved through the small opening. He stumbled, his footing nearly lost when the carpet changed to smooth marble.

"Nicholas Lucas?"

He nodded once at the call, his head staying down out of fear.

"Boy, do you know where you are?"

He had an idea, but couldn't voice it.

"Your idea would be correct."

Nick blinked once in surprise at the newer, nicer voice.

"Whether his idea is correct or not means nothing!"

Nick flinched harshly at the anger in this speaker's tone. His knees began to quiver, his stance not nearly as confident as he would have liked.

"See, now you've gone and scared the poor child!"

"What do I care? The idiot killed himself."

Nick froze at this news, the floor in front of him blurred now from shock. He…he killed himself? His fingers unconsciously traced the flawless skin at his wrists to the untouched areas of his neck and temple. He…he couldn't have. He, though in terrible pain, never once thought of such an option. Never in his memory.

He vaguely heard the sound of a door, somewhere to his right, creak open. Wind pushed through the room and the speakers fell silent.

"Your judgment has been made," the kind voice called.

"Look now, Nicholas, and see what awaits you," the harsh words slapped him in the face.

He slowly turned his head and saw only the flickering light reflected from the sheer floor. He took a breath and lifted his head.

"Nick…"

He was unable to move. Unable to do anything but stare.

"Come on, son." A hand raised in wait.

"We don't blame you."

A shake of a head and soft eyes were sent his way. "No, we love you."

That was all it took for the judged to be running towards them and throwing himself into their arms as a sobbing mess.

"It's alright, son; we've got you."

He just held them all the tighter, unwilling to believe that they were actually here. That his dad stood with a happy smile. That Frankie was beaming up at him. That Joe was smiling his same old goofy grin. That they were here.

For the first time in a long time, Nick smiled.

He released his parents and pulled Kevin over, his other arm wrapped around Frankie. He and Joe were the last to hug and like normal, Joe pressed their foreheads together and gave him a big smile.

Nick opened his mouth to speak, the words finally ready to jump to his lips, but he was never given the chance. Because he didn't belong there with them. Paradise was not for those who murdered.

And he did murder. He murdered himself.

Those cursed by the dusted rose are truly cursed. Not only to be cursed to lament out of chapped lips, to stain a pedestal, to never find peace, to lay numb, to be haunted, to be an empty shell, and to be alone, but to die with those same feelings. To be left utterly alone that the cursed has to end it with their own hand. For they will never find what they need; they can never truly live again.

And for Nicholas, there was no exception. The pain hurled him from his family and dragged in down to where sweat raced from his brow, to where feet thrashed his flesh every moment, to where fires burned the tips of his stretched fingers, to where he was crushed by the other souls who sinned, and to where the laughter of devil was forever recorded in his head.

The curse of the dusted rose is a curse of selfishness. Those who fall prey to the numbing dust will be forever lost in within themselves. Forever lost: day and night, year by year, and tear by tear, to the dark depths of hell.

For Nick, there was no escape. There never will be.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Chibiyu: Blame my dear friend Lizzy (snowfallxo) for this hideously cruel ending. She inspired me by saying "Kill them all!" To which I thought to myself: how can I kill them if they're already dead? And that key phrase made this ending. Weird huh? But it makes sense – I put Nick through hell every single story, so why should this be an exception?

And why not throw in a purposeful message in the midst of the angst?

Until Next Story!