Disclaimer: I do not own the Powerpuff Girls.
Written during a break from working on my thesis. A bit angsty and written from Boomer's perspective after Bubbles was killed in action. Enjoy.
He swore he had seen her in the rafters, and she was singing.
She had been brushing her pale fingers through the light wisps of the soft, blonde hair he knew so well; inaudible words flowed from her naked cherry-pink lips, bubbling and beautiful as a spring-time brook.
Boomer had blinked, looking for the sky-blue crescents of her eyes, and she was gone.
He swore he had seen her in the rafters, and she was singing.
Boomer scraped his hand through the muddled golden locks that messily crossed his head, the gaunt and emaciated fingers cracking softly at the violent contact.
It had been two years since their marriage, he thought silently, and one since her death.
A filthy golden band still circled Boomer's left ring finger, a silent and screaming reminder, never forgotten. He loved it, cherished it, needed it.
Filthy and abused though the ring was, it was all Boomer had left of her.
Quietly, he picked at the orange in his hands, escaping from his thoughts as he always did; it was a perfect mandarin orb, bright and joyful in its appearance, smiling at him with a sun-tinted coat from between two sets of identical bones.
Boomer hated it.
He hated anything that dared attempt to shine like she did.
And so he crushed it, mutilated it, and gnawed into whatever was left. Boomer's frame was thin, bordering anorexic; it demanded even the tiniest amount of nutrition, even if it was just a crushed fruit peel.
He didn't want to eat, he didn't need it. He just did.
Because she'd want him to; beg him to with those strong, soft eyes of her.
And Boomer listened.
He swore he had seen her in the rafters, and she was singing.
A picture sat on one of the many, beautifully chosen pieces of furniture in Boomer's apartment. It was pretty, golden, locked behind a dusted piece of glass, perched with pride on top of an aged, oaken chifforobe.
She had loved that picture, Boomer thought. She loved decorating. That was why he cleaned her furniture, and kept it beautiful.
Boomer brought up a rag, grey from abuse, and carefully lifted the yellowing picture from the tall cabinet, using the smallest, depleted levels of Chemical X to rise up and retrieve it.
As he cleaned the pretty, untouched image, Boomer observed it like he had so many times before; compassion and memory filling his eyes.
The Boomer pictured was a far cry from the one that wandered a sodden apartment now; happy, young and elegant, dressed in an ebony and white tuxedo fit for the richest of men. His hair was combed back, and his blue eyes shined with youth and strength; filled with ambition, the energy of gods.
He, was the groom.
Beside him, light and yet needing, stood the most beautiful woman Boomer had ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon, clasping his masculine hands with her pale, fragile ones. She was grinning, a tiny dimple visible in her left cheek, eyes flaring like the dying trail of a comet. The well-figured woman wore a dress, white and elegant, a crystalline veil cast happily over her left shoulder, just lightly covering the blond wisps that were her sun-bleached hair.
She was the bride, and her name was Bubbles
Boomer set the picture gently back onto its resting place, touching the delicate golden-plated frame. His eyes drifted to the depiction once more; his mouth was dry.
Boomer missed her, he still loved her.
He swore he had seen her in the rafters, and she was singing.
Boomer lay on top of a certain, knowing bed; it was cleanly, unused, and hated. He stared at the porcelain-tinted ceiling with azure eyes behind closed lids.
Boomer wasn't sleeping, he wasn't resting.
The voices swirled around him like a whirlpool, barely audible and yet so distinct.
'Boomer. Boomer. Boomer.'
Shut up, he thought, shut up.
'Boomer, get out of the way, I'll take care of it.'
No, you won't. You never did. That fucking monster got you right through the heart.
'It doesn't hurt, Boomer. Boomer. Boomer. Come here.'
Liar, stupid liar. Leave me alone, I don't need you any more.
'Liar yourself. Get up. I still need you, you need me. Get up. I love you.'
Boomer shifted, slightly, his leg twitching with anxiety.
It was false hope, he knew, the voices had come like rushing water only a few months back, appearing whenever Boomer's eyes happened to be drifted closed.
The emaciated, tired male had not slept properly in weeks.
And they were lies, those phantom vocals that kept him strangled and awake, the stupid fucking lies that got his hopes up. They beckoned to him, screamed to him, in her voice.
How dare they fucking use that voice, his voice. The voice of his beloved.
'I'm going now, Boomer. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you, I promise. I'll see you soon.'
Shut up.
You could've told the truth.
It hurt when that monster got you through the chest. It hurt when I picked your dying body from the bloodied gravel, when you saw your intestines coming out.
You cried, and I know why.
You wouldn't see me ever again, you lied even on your death bed. Tell me the truth, Bubbles, please.
I didn't see you singing in the rafters, and I never will.
I'm the one who's sorry.
I love you.
Please forgive me, I can't see you up there any time soon.
Because suicides don't go to heaven.