Stone
An Invader Zim fan fiction
Summary: He remembers, and it hurts.
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"All alone he turns to stone
While holding his breath half to death
Terrified of what's inside to save his life
He crawls like a Worm from a Bird
Crawls like a Worm from a Bird"
- "The Bird and The Worm", The Used
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She was crying, pale heart-shaped face blotchy red from the effort. Her tiny slender hand, fingers so thin and delicate, clenched about his own, crushing the bones together with an audible grinding sound. He was cooing to her, soft words of comfort as he patted her sweat-drenched brow with a cool damp cloth.
"It's alright, love, just keep trying, we'll get though this..."
Deep hazel brown eyes flickered open, long lashes clumped together from sweat, and gave him a furious glare that probably would have killed him outright were it possible for looks to murder before squeezing closed once again. Long wispy curls of dark hair were plastered to her face, the deep purple locks turned black.
"Never again, Ivan, NEVER! YOU HEAR ME?!"
"I do, darling, I do, now push, dear heart, I'm here for you..."
It was so hard to keep his voice strong, level, calm, he was so very scared.
She'd been in labor for almost eight hours now, and the baby didn't even seem to be moving. The doctor said that the infant had gotten twisted in the womb, and recommended a Cesarean, but she would have none of it. If she could have two children naturally, she most certainly could have a third the same way, no matter what the goddamn doctor said. He could see the strain it was putting on her delicate frame, the pale sheen to her reddened skin, the palpitations of the heart monitor, her irregular breathing. The only thing that wasn't fluttering uncertainly was her death grip on his hand, the continuous pressure reassuring, if painful. She screamed, furious, angry, frustrated, and the twisted shoulder finally popped out, the tiny infant slipping into proper birthing position at last.
Blood, so much blood, oozing and flowing and staining and she was so pale, so quiet and her grip was slipping, no, not now, not her, not this, not-!
"MARIA!"
He lurched up, her beautiful name on his lips, and for a split second, she was there, giving him an exasperated glare that held just the barest twinkle of amusement in their hazel depths, her long violet waves tumbling down her back and brushing his cheek, a pale hand on his shoulder.
Then, nothing. Just him, alone at his desk, blueprints and writing utensils and beakers scattered about from his sudden violent awakening.
He slumped back in the padded chair, his breathing loud in his ears as he recovered from the dream, no, nightmare that had woken him so abruptly. But it wasn't really a nightmare, was it? It was a memory, a painful one that continually reminded him of the empty void torn from his very soul, a wound now nine years old. Nine years. Almost a decade without her. Her laughter, her glares, her voice, her smell, her touch, her taste. Without his beloved Maria.
Just the thought of her name made his breath catch in his throat, and he felt his eyes burn. Heaving a tired sigh, he reached up and lifted off the blue-tinted goggles, rubbing at the sore spots left by the incredibly strong suction as he set them on the desk before him. For a long moment, he stared at the mirrored lenses, his tired eyes taking in the slight glint of the lamp light against the glass-like material, the warped shadow where the same light went through the same material, and let his mind go blank but for that single mental image.
"Maria..."
He felt his eyes burn, saw his vision blurr, but it was only when he felt the damp warmth dripping down his cheeks did he realize he was crying. Once realized, he tried to stop the salt-tainted flow, but the emotion behind it was too strong, and the tears just kept coming, faster and heavier until he couldn't even see past his own nose for the flood. He sat there for a long time, tears pouring down his face in utter silence as his body expressed that which he could not. Eventually, the tears began to taper off, and he shifted in his seat, pulling himself upright as he fumbled through the clutter of his desk for the box of tissues some thoughtful employee had taken to leaving within his reach for these painful moments of grief. The box, when he had finally found it and brought it forward, was purple. A beautiful deep violet so dark it was almost black. And he found the tears come anew as he clutched the box to his chest.
It was her color, the color of her hair, her clothes, her fingernail polish, the cool tone that radiated comfort and warmth from under its chill. The ache in his chest deepened, stabbed into the very center of his shattered soul, and he cried, not caring if anyone heard his broken sobs through the office door. Finally, he ran out of tears, and was left feeling simply empty. There was no relief in this emptiness, none of the subtle strange comfort that most associate with having a good cry. Just emptiness.
He tore a few tissues from the box, wiping his eyes and the dampened edge of his lab coat collar before tossing the used articles into the wireframe trashcan half-buried in crumpled papers and blueprints and the occasional Styrofoam coffee cup. For a few moments, he simply stared into space, feeling intimately that terrible hollowness next to his heart, then carefully placed the tissue box back onto the desk before reaching over to the file cabinet he kept right next to his desk. He opened the bottom drawer and peered inside to the precious contents within. One by one, he removed the six items he kept inside.
A turtleneck sweater, soft and warm and very purple. An earring, a thin golden hoop missing its partner. A book, its black leather cover cracked and worn, its feathery white pages bent and torn. A bottle of perfume, rectangular cut glass container of a pale rose-colored fluid with a peeling label. A picture, a portrait of her, seated on an old wooden swing, watching the sun set. And lastly, a tiny black velvet box.
He cleared off a space in the center of his desk, pushing aside the various accoutrements of his occupation, and carefully arranged the items before him. For several moments, he gazed upon the make-shift shrine, eyes glazed with pain and grief as he remembered. Then, he picked up the box, that miniscule little thing that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, and opened it. It was her wedding ring, the one he'd given her on the altar. A tiny thin band of silvery metal, set with a trio of deep amethyst stones, the color of her beautiful hair when it caught the sunlight. He held the ring carefully between thumb and forefinger, reading the inscription engraved within the band.
"Usquequaque quod pro umquam."
Always and forever. Latin, of course. She always did enjoy the dead languages.
Carefully, gently, he placed the ring back within the box, closing the lid with a faint creak from the tiny hinge. He held the box in his hand, felt its weight resting upon his palm, and felt the hollowness inside himself anew. Inhaling a deep breath, calming his shattered nerves, he replaced the items in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, settling them inside with a reverence usually reserved for things of a holy nature and locking it once it had been closed once again. The tissue box still lay on the desk, pushed off to the side from the set up of his little shrine. Another deep breath, a tissue, and the box was replaced in its hidden spot amongst the crumpled papers and tools and beakers, the color of its outer covering lost amidst the mess of his desktop.
He sat very still for a long moment, his thoughts lingering as he stared down upon the blue-tinted goggles. She would be angry with him for doing this, this self-pitying, self-loathing grief he buried deep inside himself until the memory of her passing was jerked to the forefront of his mind by some stray thought or action. She would be utterly furious with him for what he was doing to their family, the one they had made together, that she had loved so much. His children barely knew him as a father. He was that strange person that popped in every once in a while with some over-dramatic exclamation about science and made sure that they were fed and clothed. Some small part of him told him that it was his job that kept him away from home so much, it wasn't his fault the world needed him so badly, but he knew all too well that it was just an excuse. If he really wanted to spend time with his family, to be the father they needed him to be, he would make time for them. But he didn't. He buried himself in his work, the experiments and theories and equations that spilled from his intelligent mind to better the world, and merely checked in on the kids every once in a while when he remembered he even had a family to support. It just hurt too much to be around them.
Dib, with his enthusiasm and brilliance and so much energy for anything and everything he did. Gaz, who had inherited the deep purple hair, ghostly pale skin and dark hazel eyes. They were their mother, split into appearance and attitude, and their presence made his heart ache with grief. Perhaps their third child would have been different, would have become something to hold him to his family, but the infant had been still born. Maria never got to see their baby so still and silent, not breathing though the doctor had swatted the babe's behind in the common practice. Professor Membrane took a deep breath, heart heavy in his chest as he let out a weary sigh and reached for his goggles.
Time to go back to work. Back to stone.
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Author's Note:
This story came to me from several sources, but my main inspiration was the song I quoted at the beginning of the fic, "The Bird and The Worm" by The Used. Listening to it and reading Invader Zim fan fiction, I got this vision of Professor Membrane stuck in my head, the man lurching up from falling asleep at his desk with a name on his lips. When you watch the series, the Professor is a background figure no one really thinks about, being too enthralled by the escapades of the incompetent Irken Invader and the young boy seeking to stop him from taking over the Earth. But, once one does start to pay attention to him, you realize that he's not as he seems. The long days away from home, the detachment from his family, the obsessive compulsion to just keep working, it all points to a man hiding away from himself for some reason. This is simply my interpretation as to what that reason might be.