This is my little monthly angst fic coming out...you can guess why it's monthly, right? just a little Collins/grief piece. read on.
It was early in the morning, too early for even the bums to be awake. The cemetery was quiet and moist, eddies of mists swirling through the trees and over the headstones. Dew gathered in droplets on the stone face of an angel, giving the appearance of tears running down her smooth, cold cheeks. Beside her, a slab of granite shimmered as a rare ray of sun danced over it. The grass was wet and slippery, and the air was thick.
One man made his way carefully down the slope. His shoes strained to get a firm grip on the slick grass. His hands steadied him as they trailed over various graves, briefly touching the hard, cold reminders of human life. The folds of his coat hung heavily off his frame, and the wet air bit at the worn leather. His eyes were downcast, either to assure his footing or in some form of respect for those who lay beneath the ground, slowly being forgotten in this world where more fade away everyday.
After nearly ten minute of trekking down the treacherous slope, he reached his destination: a small grave, with a rather unassuming headstone. It was not what the person below the headstone deserved, nor did it give that person the proper credit. Yet it was all that could be afforded. The headstone was actually rather like the person's life, in those respects.
The man knelt before the headstone. After a moment, he moved backwards to sit cross-legged on the ground, sheltered from the dewy grass by his coat. With one finger, her reached out and traced the name on the stone.
ANGEL.
Beneath that were the date of Angel's birth and the date of her funeral. It had been decided that they would put that date, Halloween, on the grave instead of the day Angel died. She loved Halloween; it was only fitting that it should be the day remembered. Beneath the name and dates was a small inscription. It had cost more to put on, but Benny had paid, so it wasn't a problem. The wording was simple and the letters were the same. Nothing attention-drawing about it. Anyone who read it would look it over. But to those who knew what was behind it…
Now I Know You Can Rent It.
Collins sighed. He looked upwards through the mist that still sat heavily over the cemetery, upwards at the early-morning clouds in the sky. He took a breath of cool, wet air. One hand covered the A in ANGEL.
"Hey, girl," he whispered, his words melting into the mist. He swallowed and looked down at the tiny words near the bottom of the stone. His chest hurt.
"I…I haven't come here in a while. I'm sorry, I've just…I don't know. I've been trying to figure myself out. Figure out what I should do with my life, or what's left of it." He smiled ruefully and stroked the name set in stone. For one tiny moment, he could close his eyes and pretend that it was warm and dry and so smooth, just like her cheeks used to be…
"I didn't know what they others were doing. Mark was…drifting, like me I guess, except he stayed here, in New York. Maureen and Joanne stayed with each other, I think…maybe not. Mimi was in rehab; at least I thought she was, and Roger…well, we both know where he was." Collins sighed and shivered as the dew crept down his neck.
"You know what happened to them better than me…but when I got back, it seemed like they were all just broken apart. Splintered. I didn't want it, but I was going to accept it. Can you imagine that? Me, just letting them all go off their separate ways…I was done. But then Maureen and Joanne found Mimi, and she—" He stopped talking. One finger rested on her birth date.
"Why am I telling you this, Ang? You know, you were the one who…you gave us Mimi back, Angel. You gave her the second chance she needed. Even though…" He needed a moment before he could complete his sentence. When he did, his voice was hoarse with emotion.
"…Even though you didn't get the second chance you needed." His eyes closed in pain. Flashes of red Santa coats, tapping drumsticks, shining black hair and sparkling eyes chased each other across the backs of his eyelids. He let out a strangled breath and opened his eyes again, the hand on the grave clenching into a fist.
"I don't hold it against her, Angel…I'm glad she's back, I'm happy about it. But there's this voice in the back of my head that won't stop saying it isn't fair. We deserved another chance, Angel; we needed more time that we didn't get. Why did you get taken while Mimi got to stay?" He didn't know what he was saying anymore. Collins had stopped talking; it was his heart that was speaking now.
"Angel…you told me once that you wanted me to move on if you went first. I said no then and I say no now, but Angel, how can I go on like this? How I watch them spend their time together when we ran out of time?" The mist swirled past his face, and left drops of water on his face. They mingled with his tears. Angel's grave, long since wiped clear of whole droplets by his hand, shone as a sunbeam nestled on it momentarily, before being snatched away by a cloud.
"I'm not asking for another miracle, Angel. I'm not asking for that. I just…I want you back. I know it might be wrong to say that, but it's true. I need you, girl. I need…" Collins closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He held it for a moment, the stillness of the cemetery and the morning and the dead blocking him inform all sides. He felt claustrophobic, despite the wide-open surroundings.
"I'm sorry," he finally whispered. A gentle breeze pushed the mist away slightly, brushing it against his face. He sighed. 'I miss you, Angel, that's all. I don't think and…you know, there's something I was thinking of the other night. I was thinking about this whole year and what happened and how it happened and…this is going to sound crazy, but it seemed like a story. You know, from a book or a movie or a play. Us meeting on Christmas, Roger and Mimi meeting the same night, Maureen and Joanne and all their issues, Mark with his camera…we all seemed like characters in some giant movie plot. And then when I thought about you…you dying, I felt like the author did it on purpose." Collins took another deep breath. It washed through, calming his thumping heart.
"I felt like the person writing the story did it for…I don't know, emotional conflict or something. Like it didn't matter what we thought about it; they just decided, and that was the end." He sighed.
"It's crazy. But I just…never mind. I think I'm done, Angel. I think I've had all I can take for now." He slowly stood, water sliding off his coat in small rivulets. His eyes stayed on the grave for a moment, reading the words and wishing so badly to just see the person they spoke of one last time. But there was no lightning, no fanfare, no holy vision, and there wouldn't be. She was gone.
"I'll be back, Angel, I promise. I…I love you." He stood there for a moment more, the turned and headed up the hill, his feet moving across the grass steadily. Morning was coming; the sun was drying the air and the grass and the stones. It shone on his back as he walked; and it shone on the grave he left behind.