Sun
By RatGrl (ratgrl127@ameritech.net)
Archive: This story is indeed my property and may be passed along and archived as long as my name goes right along with it. Just ask first, heh.
Category: Drama
Rating: PG-13, I guess. Though there are some allusions to suicide.
Spoilers: None that I know of.
Summary: No summary by request of the author.
Disclaimer: Obviously the characters of Farscape do not belong to me and never will (awww!). They do, however, belong to the Jim Henson Company and I use them humbly for my personal entertainment within this little universe of mine.
Author's Notes: This is a story of loss. Suicide is not the main issue. It is merely a vessel in which this character is translating his universal pain. If this is a sensitive area, you may wish to choose not to proceed.
Feedback, of course, is always welcome.
Enjoy.
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It had been three years since he had last seen the sun. And there were days like these, when the burning light—silver, delicate beams of teasing arcs and glinting touches—faded from his memory, as if he had never seen it them at all, as if he had merely been imagining the overwhelming presence of God.
But he had witnessed it. He had felt it. He was sure of it. That was his only explanation. And that was all he ever needed.
He could have had a family by now—a wife, kids. A house with a porch and a sprawling backyard. Quiet hours spent in the warm arms of contentment. A life, perhaps. But here, now, he didn't measure time—there was no need to. Time was a thick, heavy pulse pressing in on him in a blur. He never moved forward, never fell backward. He just existed. Day washed into night and then night washed into day. An endless, featureless, hopeless strip of prolonged Death.
Death. The word was powerful; he could feel its weight in his hands. A dull fire curled in his belly. He shifted uncomfortably, burying the urge to retch. He wondered idly if the sensation of having one's stomach eaten from the inside out would ever go away.
He wondered how he would feel if it did go away. He wondered if the holes would ever be sealed again. He wondered if he wanted them to be.
He had been thinking about death a lot lately. More so than usual. The mere breath of the word would freeze his lungs into coils of iced sorrow, capturing the sharp breath crudely in his throat. Yet it was his only comforting thought as well. His only lifeline, his only tie to the world. It made him feel. And in some strange, backwards way that felt right. That felt right.
Though he could never be sure what was right anymore. He had somehow lost the ability to think in the ruling realm of Reason by now; only Impulse and Emotion drove him. Snarling beasts of carefully calculated indifference.
And he submitted willingly. He had no fight left.
They never asked questions. Not even one. Sometimes, this was a blessing—other times not. He had stopped caring to discriminate the two. He felt it would be best to destroy their sympathetic looks and quiet politeness, unbiased, from his current state of being. They, as far as he was concerned, didn't exist.
And if they didn't exist, he stood one less chance of losing something he could never even begin to protect.
As if he hadn't lost everything already.
The cold metal glinted in his hands. He couldn't be sure why the metal was so cold—or why he associated coldness with the metal. He had been handling the object for close to hours now. The blade was fingerprinted with his sweat. Sometimes his tears. Yet it still remained chilled to the touch.
That, too, felt right.
It had been her knife. Even now, it felt foreign to his hand. As if he expected her to chide him lightheartedly on his simple touch. But he was not unfamiliar with weapons. Quite the contrary. His instinct for survival was often stronger than his will to live. And that was the honest truth that kept him alive.
But still he remained unfamiliar with her weapons. He had made sure of it. To separate the beast from the person, the urge from the choice—he deemed it necessary. Crucial in the grand scheme of things.
Yet now, as the knife calmly licked his clammy skin, it seemed to make no difference.
That failed to shock him.
But he had already expected that.
The blade bit deeper into his flesh. It hurt. In more ways than one. And he found himself shivering, his teeth clattering uncontrollably.
Doubt flickered in him, rising up bitterly in his mouth. He coughed. And coughed again. Praying the intruding emotions wouldn't penetrate the barrenness of his soul.
He felt guilty. Truly guilty.
Not because of what he was going to do—that had long since ceased to bother him— but because of what he failed to do.
She deserved as much.
Though he knew she would never say so.
God, she had always been so beautiful.
A Goddess—A Higher Being radiating pulses of sensual light from the course tips of her fingers.
Her hands were rough. Yet so delicate—and he found himself unworthy in her presence. Unable to lay with her without weeping in the all-consuming passions of fire they had created. Like an artist in the aftermath of creation, feeling every beat, every rhythm, of the awesome order of Nature. Every exhale of the fragile art of Being.
She was a Goddess. She had created him, from nothing, and made him man. More of a man than he had ever been. She had touched him, honored him, loved him, and completed him. He had been her final masterpiece; and when she had finished, she had stepped back in confidence, her eyes glowing brilliantly in the pale firelight. "Beautiful," she had breathed. "Simply beautiful." And he could have died.
The knife slipped noiselessly from his fingertips, falling blithely into the swooping cradle of eternity. He never even heard the sound it made when it hit the floor. Nor did he care to. As far as he was concerned, it didn't exist. He was free.
It had been three years since he had last seen the sun. And on days like these, her warmth had never felt so strong.