He never really believed in anything after death; his research filled life hadn't hardly granted him enough time to contemplate such things as a afterlife. Heaven and Hell, God and eternity. It was in the quiet moments, when he was lying in bed a night, and his mind drifted between the space of sleep and awareness that he thought things such as, "Does my research really mean anything?" "What's the real point?" "Is there even a point?"
His mother, on the other hand, was a devout Catholic. Dedicated through and through 'Hail Mary, full of grace.' a little blessing here and a little blessing there—it was how he grew up. It was between research and Mass, which his mother made him go to, that he lost permission to play his music. No more piano. His mind was 'made for science', church was the 'other thing'. Eventually, even that took backseat.
It wasn't that Mass bored him, mind you, he found the whole eternity thing somewhat interesting; the history was fascinating, to a point, but he never really meant it when he said his prayers. It was like some lifelong show he put on to please his mother, he only really wanted her to be happy for him, to be proud of him.
No matter what he did, though, it ever seemed enough. 'You can do better' she always said. Well, maybe he didn't want to do better.
But he never really had any free wil in the matterl.
All these things combined brought forth his unconscious belief that there was only one life, and it was a life in the moment. The constants, the variables, his equations, research, books, Eloise. He was a variable, he studied the constants. And along the way was taught a few things from time traveling Scotsmen.
For that split second though, that second that he looked down at his suit and saw the blood stain, everything seemed superficial; nothing really mattered anymore. He was dying. All he really thought of was, 'she knew' 'she knew' 'she knew and she sent me here anyway'.
"Who are you?" Those eyes, piercing and blue, oh-so-familiar from times past.
"You really want me to go? Would...would it make you proud of me?
"..I'm...I'm your son...."
"Yes, Daniel, It would."
Colors swirled together, everything was fading slowly; he was terribly dizzy, darkness eating away at his vision. The pain in his chest grew, soring for the sky with every ragged breath he was able to muster from his tiring lungs; he forced himself to breath—but wasn't sure why. Did it really matter?
His hearing started to go, his heart started to slow—the beats where further apart then what could be deemed totally healthy.
Then again, being shot tends to put a damper on one's health.
Beat....Beat.......Beat............Beat....
It was slowing down, the pauses were longer, struggling. He took a shaky breath it, his lungs felt like bricks. It was over, he knew it.
Funny...he wasn't fearful of this. Wasn't worried. Wasn't unsure. All he felt was a dull sense of 'oh' and deja vu. The concept of death didn't really bother him as much as he once thought it would. He suppose it was acceptance. Acceptance that he really couldn't change things now—no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much he tried, fate was what controlled it, and he was just a small pawn on the chess board of time. His play was over. He had been captured.
Beat...........................Beat.................................Beat....
His heart hammered, it sounded terribly loud to his ears; he let the breath he'd been holding in go. With it, he felt his body relax, his sight was gone, all that was left was a lone
Beat
Then nothing.
What Daniel Faraday found after that nothing...we'll just never know.
Fin.
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I'm thinking of using this oneshot as a opening for a chapter fiction I'm in the middle of writing...*Cough cough* Daniel centre. Pardon my sentences that start with 'but' and 'and'. Improper grammer, I know, but I just like to ignore that rule ;) Also pardon for any other grammer mistakes! R&R!!
