VOX IN NOMINE
by Joe Donakowski
Losing a friend hurts. Losing a friend and thinking you could have done something hurts
even more. Losing a friend and knowing you could have done something, however, is the
worst hurt of all.
It was late, nearly midnight, but Bryant promised himself he would finish one last
drink. He owed it to himself, that was for damn sure. Four days. It had been four days
since the incident, but the fact that he made it back alive to Sullust didn't seem to cheer
him up much. He wanted to be dead. He deserved to be dead. He would have to settle for
drunk though, so he poured another mouthful of Correlian whisky down his throat before
he let his hang hit the table.
His eyes were closed, but he still saw them. He always saw them. Commander
Verner, relaying the retreat order to the squadron. He still heard his last words echoing in
his mind, and he stil heard the static that spelt the end of the Commander's life. He
envisioned him, strapped into his T-65, fingers wrapped tightly around the flight-stick,
thumb locked on the trigger sending burst after burst of laser into the Star Destroyers
bridge shielding. It was futile. An X-wing against a Star Destroyer. Not in a million
years. If anyone could take out an STD it was good 'ol Vern, but now... now it seemed
pointless. The whole campaign seemed pointless. The whole fight seemed pointless. The
whole rebellion... no... his whole life, was pointless.
He closed his eyes tighter and tried to forget, wanting to make it all go away. The
pain, the hate, the suffering, but all he got was more pain, more hate, and more suffering.
Dwelling on it was no help, and all he wanted to do was curl up in his bunk and wake up
the next morning dead, or failing that, hung over. He looked into his glass, and saw his
reflection in the bottom of the silver tin. Strands of matted black hair tumbled down from
atop his head. Bloodshot eyes sunken into his tattered sockets. A nose coarse from
bleeding and cheeks stained with tears.
Bryant laughed. He didn't know why, but he suddenly started laughing, and
continued doing so for a few moments before picking up the mug and flinging it across
the room with all his might. It didn't even come halfway close to travling halfway across
the large galley, and it crashed to the ground with a loud echo. It was then he realised he
was alone. For some reason, that didn't surprise him. There would be minimal staff
awake now, it was roughly 0330, and his friends were asleep.
Friends? Acquantences maybe, not friends. His only friend was strewn across
space several systems from here. He needed to be alone anyways. He didn't know why,
but he did.
4 days and it still hurt. Hurt more then the 18 years at home. The loss left a scar in
him. Not visable pysically, maybe, but it was there and it would haunt him. It would
serve as a reminder, just like all the scars down his leg from his father, and all the scars
on his back from the streets.
He wanted to scream. He needed to scream. He couldnt, so he pushed his chair
back and burried his head in his lap, hands atop his skull simply because there was no
where else to put them. He found no relieft in the silence, however, and soon stood. To
the far end of the room were two large doors. He could walk through them, down the
long hallways to his room and simply curl up in his bunk. He didn't though. He instead
cast his vision out wards to space via the transparent wall opposite the doors.
Blacks, blues, whites, reds, golds, they swirled together like a painting, but Bryant
noticed none of them. He focused on the void, because in his mind, that was all that was
left inside.
Seeing nothing else to do, Bryant hung his head. Much to his surprise, his body
went limp, and his hands went to the transparent wall. He slowly slid down to the floor
until his belly touched the cold metal. Taking more effort then usual, he pulled himself
up and sat down with his back to the netherness of space. He drew his legs close to him
and warpped his arms around his knee caps, balling himself up and resting his head atop
his legs. He stayed there for a few minutes, eyes closed either deep in thought or in no
though whatsoever. In time though, he knew he couldnt sit there forever and slowly lifted
his head.
As a last resort for closure, his eyes wandered the mess hall until they stopped at a
table. Their table. It was Forn squadrons unofficial hang out, but to Bryant it was even
more. It was home.
He found his lips moving. He didn't know what words he used or what they
meant, but he spoke, his voice barely audiable. He talked for a few minutes, words
coming more from his heart then form his mouth.
He spoke a quiet euology to a fallen friend. A man he had come to think of as his
father. He sang a quiet psalm to one of the greats, and he voiced a prayer in the name of a
man.
Finally, he got to his feet and leaned up against a diamond table for a moment as
he stared off into space. He had drunk enoough for two people tonight, but that was his
intention from the start. With a heavy heart, he plodded off to his quarters and dreaded
waking up tommorow.
by Joe Donakowski
Losing a friend hurts. Losing a friend and thinking you could have done something hurts
even more. Losing a friend and knowing you could have done something, however, is the
worst hurt of all.
It was late, nearly midnight, but Bryant promised himself he would finish one last
drink. He owed it to himself, that was for damn sure. Four days. It had been four days
since the incident, but the fact that he made it back alive to Sullust didn't seem to cheer
him up much. He wanted to be dead. He deserved to be dead. He would have to settle for
drunk though, so he poured another mouthful of Correlian whisky down his throat before
he let his hang hit the table.
His eyes were closed, but he still saw them. He always saw them. Commander
Verner, relaying the retreat order to the squadron. He still heard his last words echoing in
his mind, and he stil heard the static that spelt the end of the Commander's life. He
envisioned him, strapped into his T-65, fingers wrapped tightly around the flight-stick,
thumb locked on the trigger sending burst after burst of laser into the Star Destroyers
bridge shielding. It was futile. An X-wing against a Star Destroyer. Not in a million
years. If anyone could take out an STD it was good 'ol Vern, but now... now it seemed
pointless. The whole campaign seemed pointless. The whole fight seemed pointless. The
whole rebellion... no... his whole life, was pointless.
He closed his eyes tighter and tried to forget, wanting to make it all go away. The
pain, the hate, the suffering, but all he got was more pain, more hate, and more suffering.
Dwelling on it was no help, and all he wanted to do was curl up in his bunk and wake up
the next morning dead, or failing that, hung over. He looked into his glass, and saw his
reflection in the bottom of the silver tin. Strands of matted black hair tumbled down from
atop his head. Bloodshot eyes sunken into his tattered sockets. A nose coarse from
bleeding and cheeks stained with tears.
Bryant laughed. He didn't know why, but he suddenly started laughing, and
continued doing so for a few moments before picking up the mug and flinging it across
the room with all his might. It didn't even come halfway close to travling halfway across
the large galley, and it crashed to the ground with a loud echo. It was then he realised he
was alone. For some reason, that didn't surprise him. There would be minimal staff
awake now, it was roughly 0330, and his friends were asleep.
Friends? Acquantences maybe, not friends. His only friend was strewn across
space several systems from here. He needed to be alone anyways. He didn't know why,
but he did.
4 days and it still hurt. Hurt more then the 18 years at home. The loss left a scar in
him. Not visable pysically, maybe, but it was there and it would haunt him. It would
serve as a reminder, just like all the scars down his leg from his father, and all the scars
on his back from the streets.
He wanted to scream. He needed to scream. He couldnt, so he pushed his chair
back and burried his head in his lap, hands atop his skull simply because there was no
where else to put them. He found no relieft in the silence, however, and soon stood. To
the far end of the room were two large doors. He could walk through them, down the
long hallways to his room and simply curl up in his bunk. He didn't though. He instead
cast his vision out wards to space via the transparent wall opposite the doors.
Blacks, blues, whites, reds, golds, they swirled together like a painting, but Bryant
noticed none of them. He focused on the void, because in his mind, that was all that was
left inside.
Seeing nothing else to do, Bryant hung his head. Much to his surprise, his body
went limp, and his hands went to the transparent wall. He slowly slid down to the floor
until his belly touched the cold metal. Taking more effort then usual, he pulled himself
up and sat down with his back to the netherness of space. He drew his legs close to him
and warpped his arms around his knee caps, balling himself up and resting his head atop
his legs. He stayed there for a few minutes, eyes closed either deep in thought or in no
though whatsoever. In time though, he knew he couldnt sit there forever and slowly lifted
his head.
As a last resort for closure, his eyes wandered the mess hall until they stopped at a
table. Their table. It was Forn squadrons unofficial hang out, but to Bryant it was even
more. It was home.
He found his lips moving. He didn't know what words he used or what they
meant, but he spoke, his voice barely audiable. He talked for a few minutes, words
coming more from his heart then form his mouth.
He spoke a quiet euology to a fallen friend. A man he had come to think of as his
father. He sang a quiet psalm to one of the greats, and he voiced a prayer in the name of a
man.
Finally, he got to his feet and leaned up against a diamond table for a moment as
he stared off into space. He had drunk enoough for two people tonight, but that was his
intention from the start. With a heavy heart, he plodded off to his quarters and dreaded
waking up tommorow.