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Ashes to ashes, - she shivered, the unholy winds snatching at her hair and the water that had sat, motionless, behind her eyes all day finally beginning to blaze a trail down her face, almost scalding her raw cheeks. God, it was cold. Should she be this cold?
Dust to dust; - It didn't matter, anyhow. She might as well die now. Time had proven what she'd always secretly believed, though she'd told herself it wasn't so. She just couldn't do the things she needed to do. It was the same pattern that had repeated itself over and over in her life. She was good, she was very good, and she was so very nearly there, but she was never quite good enough. Sullied...could never be unsullied. Failure was inevitable. She was disintegrating, slowly but surely. One second away from life. The persistent drizzle was gaining conviction, evolving into a torrential downpour, and with it, the time trickled away before her eyes, the proverbial icy mists conspiring with the rain to cloud her vision, and the shapes around her became steadily more blurred.
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, - And it wasn't for want of trying, either. She'd tried. Lord knows, I've tried, she screamed inside her head, so loudly that she was almost surprised the man next to her didn't flinch. She'd done every single thing she could, risked everything she had, and it had cost her every last scrap of dignity. And for what? It had all been in vain, in the end. She'd just missed the mark. She'd died. Again. It was all so typical.
Till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken; - She was soaking wet, now, and shivering more than ever, struggling to stop her teeth from chattering. It was already hard enough to hear the minister over the rushing winds and the pouring rain. There was no getting away from it. It was a shit day for a funeral, oh, God, it was a shit, shit day. She was really crying now, probably making a spectacle of herself yet again, but what did it matter? It wasn't real, and it would be over soon enough. She couldn't get home. She couldn't do anything, because she was dying. And there was nothing anyone could do about it, least of all her. She hadn't been able to save her mother, just as her daughter wouldn't be able to save her.
For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. - She shrank into the shadows, unable to face this bit, please, God, not this bit again. She couldn't bear it. Especially not now...not now that she knew. Oh, Christ. A very charming man. The same charming man that had greeted her on her way into the chapel, had said he'd wondered if she'd be here, the charming man that she'd had brushed aside, impatiently. People, constructs, she couldn't deal with them today, she couldn't take it, she was so very afraid to feel that agonising pain that had already begun to course through her. She had to go, she had to get out of here, it was already too late. Time was running out; might have run out already. "Worked courageously for justice and truth," that was what that sainted headstone had said; what it proclaimed to the world about them, and she was running along the roadside now, the courtyard falling far behind her, not caring what it anyone thought of her, because she had to get away; she couldn't do it, she couldn't do this. If you deviate from it for one split second, you invalidate it; you shatter it. The wind whipped her from every direction, and the rain beat her down to the ground. She slipped on the wet pavement, and she was falling; she'd fallen, and fuck, it hurt, she'd be covered in bruises, but that was okay, she'd take the physical pain. Physical pain was fine, was lovely compared to what she was coming far too close to feeling now. She felt herself wavering, oscillating uncertainly between consciousness and near comatosity. No, she wouldn't, couldn't lose consciousness now, not after today. It might be her last chance. Or one second away from death. She knew what she had to do. I'm happy, hope you're happy too.
"Drake! Where the hell have you been?" he demanded, having opened his front door and found her on the porch, gripping the doorframe, a little clumsily.
"I took the day off," she told him, trying and failing to contain her dizziness.
"Yes, so I bloody hear. I didn't ask if you'd taken the day off, I asked where you'd been."
"Funeral."
"Funeral? Whose funeral?" He paused, colouring slightly, before continuing: "If this is about those bleeding Prices again-"
"My parents' funeral," she interrupted him, sharply, feeling far too tired and sick to stand here and be told off. She didn't have the time or the energy.
"Oh. Christ."
She shook her head, dismissively.
"It doesn't matter. I mean, well, it matters, obviously, but it's not...it's not why I came."
"Why are you here, then, Bolly? Couldn't bear the thought of a whole day passing without a fix of the Gene Genie?"
Choosing to ignore this, she went on, taking a step towards him.
"I came because...well, I really wanted to see you, and life is, it's too short not to do the things you want to do..." she broke off, her voice softening as she glanced at his lips "...when you really want to do them."
They stood there, watching each other, and something passed between them, a fleeting bolt of electricity, and she went to move closer, but then the moment passed, and he moved, self-conscious, breaking the silence, if not the spell, and muttered "Yes, right, well, you'd better..."
She bit her lip, her stomach beginning to fizz in anticipation she laid a hand on his arm, leaning closer, and whispered, "Shut up, Gene."
And then she was kissing him, uncertain, but resolute; tenderly, at first, growing more insistent. He responded in kind, holding her against him in a way he might never have dared to do without her prompting, feeling her arms lock around his neck. She hadn't been able to make her marriage work, she couldn't stop work from dominating her life, she hadn't been able to save her parents, and now she couldn't get back to Molly. She was good at her job, but the rest of her life was in pieces, scattered around her, all slightly out of her reach. Like mother, like daughter. All she could do now was try, though deep inside her she knew, she knew she couldn't succeed, and do what she had to do to make herself happy along the way. Memento mori; remember death. It was the only way to revive your life. When she broke their embrace, she was panting, her eyes dilated and her expression loaded. She longed to continue, but she really did feel quite shit now, actually. She might collapse or be sick at any moment. But...no. Yes. She had to go now, or she'd end up throwing up all over him, or something equally mortifying. Their time was up, for this evening at least.
"I've got to, erm..." she gestured towards the street behind her, awkwardly.
"Oh, er, right, you're...right," he nodded, staring at his shoes, even more embarrassed than she was, if that were possible.
"It's not, I mean, I just...I'm not feeling well. It's been a long day. But..." she trailed off, fixing him with a steady, meaningful gaze, "I'll see you soon." She half turned, wanting to look at him for just one more moment, before stepping out into the unfamiliar street, drenched in the evening sun. She wasn't sure when it had stopped raining, just aware that it had been a while. She was about halfway down the road when he called after her.
"You're not going to go dying on me, are you, Bolly?"
She smiled a small smile, and "I can't promise that," she called over her shoulder, and made her unhinged, delusional way along the irregular pavement, stranded in a world that was not her own, her imminent death looming closer with every step.