Vacant
By Elisia Ware
Revenge.
That's all that's left for me. No fear. No pain. Not even love. Only hate for the one who has taken everything from me. Hate for the one who has left my soul in pieces and my heart in tatters.
I cannot harm him directly. He is impossible to reach. So instead I take my revenge on others. Imagining that they are him. Knowing that their deaths hurt him. I taste blood and pretend it is the life force of my always unseen enemy.
My revenge holds my thoughts forever. But for one thing. This child. This perfect child. She rests there, on the bed. Vacant. Like a temple devoid of worshippers. My favorite kind.
Laying against the pillow like that, with wisps of dark hair drifting over the faint rose in her cheeks, she looks as if she might wake up. She looks as if, at any moment, she'll turn her face towards mine, her tender lips quirking in a faint smile, her lashes parting to reveal soft eyes full of promise.
She looks as if she is not really dead.
I should hate her, just as I hate everyone else. As I hate the very God who would allow such a young thing to face this not quite death. The God who would do something like this to a gentle child like her.
The God who would do something like this to a gentle child like me.
I should hate her. I should hate her for what she has done, for what she represents. I should hate her because she is what I can no longer be.
But...
I find that I can not hate this beautiful, empty, china doll. I see too much of myself in her. We are two of a kind. Alive on the outside, dead within.
We are vacant.
*********************************
"Farfarello."
The quiet figure standing vigil over the silent bed gave no response. Farfarello's amber gaze refused to turn from the bed's still occupant, even when his name was repeated.
"Farfarello."
Schuldich shifted uncomfortably against the door. This room gave him the creeps, right along with that girl who, for some reason, was so important. He fought his overwhelming urge to just leave and stepped forward to place his hand on the psychopathic Irishman's shoulder.
"Farfarello," he said with a thinning patience, "we need to go, Crawford is waiting."
"You don't like it here."
The statement caught the redhead completely off guard. He frowned to himself.
"No. No, I don't like it in here, Farfarello."
The one-eyed assassin indicated the comatose young woman.
"She disturbs you."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The telepathic German studied the ground as he sought the correct words to explain his unease. "It's...unnatural. She seems...alive, but her mind is...empty. Dead. I can feel it...pulling..."
Schuldich gave an abrupt shudder and quickly changed the subject.
"We should really get going. Brad will be majorly pissed if we're late again."
"Hn," was the only reply he got.
Leaning forward gracefully, Farfarello cupped a chill cheek in one scarred hand. He ran his rough thumb across the smooth skin, then lifted his fingers to brush aside a few arrant locks of silken hair. Briefly recalling innocence lost, he ever so gently pressed his lips against her pale forehead.
Standing suddenly, Farfarello turned and left the room, not even sparing a glance for his shocked team-mate.
Murmuring softly to himself, Schuldich stared after the departed Irishman.
"Yes, dead," he muttered, "Empty. A shell, a living corpse."
Unconsciously, he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. He slowly turned his jade eyes to the rumpled hospital bed.
"She reminds me of you, Farfarello."
Shuldich gazed in silence for a few disquieting moments, then shuddered again. Plastering his trademark smirk on his face, he strode jauntily from the silent room, leaving the vacant child behind him.
~Owari~