Okay, I'm warning you readers. This is not a happy fic. It's horrible, in fact.
I started writing this before the finale, when we were all tense about everyone's fate, haha. And I started thinking about death, especially since it was a theme that seemed so prominent in these last couple of episodes. And my angsty!writer mind took over, and I started wondering about how certain characters would react to the death of their loved one. I know, not the loveliest of topics, especially after that beautiful finale haha.
But if you're still interested in reading this, it's in Eclare's and Jatie's perspectives. I didn't mention names or too many descriptive features because I wanted you to figure out whose POV the drabble is in. But it's not too difficult to figure out ;)
Anyways, I hope you can enjoy this, although it's not rainbows and sunshine.
And I really recommend you listen to "Demons," by Imagine Dragons while reading this. stephenstohns video on tumblr really inspired me.
I don't own.
-x-
The Beauty
-x-
Why would he kill himself and risk the unknown, when his life was such certain hell?
He didn't go to the funeral.
Never wanted to look into an open casket after his mom.
He never spoke of her, acted as if she'd never existed.
He went to work the next day smiling and laughing - all charm - ignoring the looks of concern and sympathy. As if they fucking cared before.
His business kicked off. He was rolling in money and booze and women. He told himself it was fun.
Blue eyes and black hair were a lethal combination though.
"It's Amanda," the blonde huffed when he'd moaned the wrong name. "Right," he'd said.
He sat with his weed and whiskey, pretending he didn't send her sister sunflowers every month – her favourite.
He loved his fun, so long as it wasn't complicated. And angry girls were complicated.
He never spoke of her – only once when her sister asked.
I don't feel anything, he said, and that was that.
He didn't go to the funeral. She wasn't dead. She was in her perfume that lingered on all his clothes. She was in her favourite song that he'd play on those nights he drank.
"She's gone, son."
But she wasn't. She didn't die. Couldn't they feel her?
"Who's gone?" he smiled.
He didn't go to the funeral, but that didn't stop him from visiting her grave every weekend, alone and quiet and unrelenting. Unknown to the world, but known to her.
"Hey love."
They talked for hours.
-x-
The Beast
-x-
She slept. Sometimes till four in the afternoon if she was lucky. Sometimes before ten if she wasn't. She put her arm across the pillows and smiled. Then she remembered.
She should buy some food, but she knew she wouldn't. She threw most of it up yesterday. She didn't cry, just forced the chopstick down, not stopping until all the food stared back at her. Wasn't she supposed to feel something?
It didn't feel right in her throat. Neither did the air she breathed.
He was an early riser.
She tried getting up, but her covers were warm and she was lulled back to her dreams. She shut her eyes, as tight as she could so that it hurt, desperate to get back to him.
She didn't want to live anymore. There wasn't any point. She told her sister so.
"Don't say that. You can't say that," the girl begged.
"It's true."
She would take the pills in a second if she didn't have her sister - the lovely, perfect thing.
She thought back to how she used to be and grimaced in disgust. She used to have purpose. Now she'd go days at a time without eating or showering.
She hated that her sister's life was the only tether keeping her alive...knew it was horrible to put that on the girl.
The funeral was a joke. People pretending to love him, strolling in like they had a right to be there. She sat there seething, furious that they called themselves his friends now that he was dead. No one knew him like she did.
She laughed as they offered their condolences. Laughed and laughed and laughed.
Everyone loved him, but he was hers.
And they could all fuck off.
She tossed the pills back, stripping out of her clothes. She stood under the hot water, falling to her ass in the shower.
"I get headaches like that too..." he'd smiled. "You know what really helps?" She'd shaken her head. "Just sit down in the shower and let the water pound down your neck and back...it feels fantastic. And breathe slowly."
She shut her eyes. She breathed slowly. She whispered his name.
No answer.
She couldn't fix this.
-x-
The Beauty
-x-
She wouldn't allow herself to think about it, because that lead to dangerous territory in her mind.
She was there for his parents, there for his friends, there for the service where she made the speech, breathing through her sobs.
But she realized that no one was there for her anymore. Just for her. Not like he was.
She grieved like she was supposed to, got angry like she was supposed to, got stronger like she was supposed to.
She felt sick that she could fool everyone so easily.
She thought about killing herself.
But she knew she couldn't. She knew he wouldn't want her to. Knew he wouldn't want her to stop living. She tried to smile. Tried to keep in touch.
A therapist would close her file happily, proud of the way she coped.
But this wasn't better…this was survival. Just because she'd finally accepted that he was gone didn't make it fair.
So many people had left her. He was supposed to be forever. She couldn't tell if she was sad or numb or just sick from missing him.
Some days she could laugh or enjoy all the hours in the day, but then she'd have to bite her lip in regret. Why was she allowed to be happy when he was dead?
She tried dating like she should, became successful at her job like she should, fell back into the dutiful daughter role that held the family together.
She only prayed when she missed the feel of his hands on hers so badly that she couldn't stop the tears. But it was never a prayer of thanks, just a desperate wish to get him back.
She'd accepted the cards and the phone calls and the food, polite thanks and gratitude on her lips.
She was sick of doing what she was supposed to do.
"I can't wait to marry you..."
He would be 31 today, she realized.
-x-
The Beast
-x-
He thought of suicide, his constant companion.
The thoughts weren't new, disappeared for years, but now there was no escaping them.
When he found out, he collapsed on the floor, screaming and yelling and crying and cursing.
He grabbed his dad's gun, bolted back to his apartment; nearly crashing three times on the road.
He was shaking as he loaded the bullets, his strangled sobs choking him.
If he'd been sane, he would have waited. Would have written to his parents, his friends. Her family.
He would've gone to the funeral and cried till his lungs were empty.
He would've understood, in time, that this would get easier. That he could survive this. That he would've sold millions of books and helped other souls not feel so damn alone.
But he wasn't sane, not now. Crippled by the loss - loss that he thought he'd never have to fucking feel again.
He wished he could be stronger than his love for her.
He cocked the gun, and if he was sane, he'd have felt her.
Would've heard her whisper that he'd fall in love again, learn to accept that his children's eyes would never be blue, and that he deserved to live - to love life.
But he wasn't listening, roaring as the gun jammed.
If he waited, he would've come to understand the pain he would put his parents through. All the people who loved him. That they would have to be the ones to bury him.
But he wasn't thinking of them. Only of her, and how he couldn't survive.
Half of me is gone, he would say. Do you fucking understand? I don't want this anymore.
He put the gun in his mouth and took a breath.
And before he pulled the trigger, he looked at the photo he had of her taped to his mirror.
She always had such pretty, blue eyes.
-x-
I am so, so sorry. I was just in this kinda mood for writing. I'd love to hear your thoughts though, leave a review lovely? :)