A/N: Warning: Some may find the language in this chapter offensive. Just a heads up.
Jorg Kaulitz stared down at his son. Pale, still, cold.
Maybe it was just a joke? Maybe Bill was just sleeping? Maybe he forgot where he was again and had just simply dozed off, like when he was a child.
…No, even he could not bring himself to believe that. There would have been grins instead of pained grimaces and trembling lips, giggles instead of sobs. He had never seen his son so still in his life, and he had hoped he never would. If it were a joke, Bill would have been twitching, fidgeting, moving in some way, because he was always moving – bouncing from one place to the next, smiling, laughing…
'Even in death he is beautiful,' Jorg thought as he stared down at his only son, trying desperately to keep the threatening tears at bay, to keep them from spilling out onto already wet cheeks. He looked peaceful, the thick rings of eyeliner missing from around his eyes and the piercing from his face, but he was unmistakable – thick, shining black hair, softly colored skin, naturally pouty lips. Of course, under the makeup – layers upon layers of foundation, painted on in thick, heavy coats – his face was nothing to speak highly of anymore – bruised black and red, jagged scratches running up and down his pallid cheeks; yet even that moment at the hospital that seemed years past, walking into that acrid cloud of disinfectants attempting to mask the scent of death, disease and despair – seeing his son lying on the gurney, broken and battered, had made him realize how beautiful he really was, despite all of the flaws that now covered him from head to toe. Nothing could subtract from it, not even the harsh pains of reality.
But he still cried; burst into tears as they fidgeted nervously before him, trying to say that Bill was not going to make it through the night, that he had no chance; sobbed when they pulled the pristine white sheet up over his son's contused face, the silence in the room deafening as the beeping of the machines ceased; wept as they finally ushered him from the room, prying him away from the hospital bed they now needed to roll down to the morgue, conveying their cold, robotic sorrows to him; and he cried when he finally stepped out into the bitterly cold night air, his gut clenching with guilt, the harsh reality of everything slamming down onto him until he could not take it and became sick in the bushes nearby.
Only when his key turned in the lock and he stumbled through the front door of his (their) home did the tears abruptly stop, drying up into nothing and making his face tight with grief.
Because crying would not bring him back.
Bill was dead.
His son was dead.
Jorg finally ripped himself away from the thick wooden coffin, pulling his gaze away from Bill's dead (sleeping) face. He couldn't look at it anymore. He just couldn't.
Soft whispers vibrated off the white walls of the church around him, scratching and clawing at his ears like rabid, hungry dogs as he sat down in the first row of pews.
"Did you hear about that poor girl, Sophie? She was in the car with him when Bill drove out in front of that truck. What was he thinking?"
"I wonder what they're gonna do with Bill's stuff…"
"I heard that Bill was sooo wasted when he started driving…"
"What a waste. Bill had such a pretty face."
"I feel for the father, you know? I mean, he already lost his wife not that long ago to that psycho in the States, now this."
"Did you go up to the coffin? I just can't! Dead people are so gross!"
"You have to wonder what kind of person would get behind the wheel in a state like that."
"Why are we even here? I don't even like Bill."
"It was definitely his fault, god! Bill deserved everything that he got."
"I-I c-can't believe he's dead! Bill was l-l-like a b-b-br-brother to meeeeee!"
"Dude, can you believe they actually had an open casket after that accident? I totally thought we'd come in here to look at some pulp of a person in that box."
"Kids have to get it from somewhere, and with that father of his it doesn't surprise me. We all should have seen something like this coming from a mile away."
"Bill…"
"Bill…"
"Bill…"
"Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill…"
Jorg ground his teeth together in an attempt to stop the incessant buzzing in his ears, his blood boiling intensely underneath his skin. Bill's fault? Bill's fault? Only if you thought puppies caused cancer! He would be damned if anyone tried to pin the blame solely on his son - that cunt that dragged him to the party, now that there was the one to pin the blame on.
His nails dug into his legs, bunching up the fabric of his pants in his fists.
What could he even say in rebuttal? Bill had been intoxicated-
It was that bitch's fault.
-so he really had nothing to go on, but his own thoughts and opinions.
He bit his tongue as the minister took his place, centre stage, before all of the mourners that had decided to attend, his meaty hands clutching a white leather bible as his dark, beady eyes swept over the pews, stopping momentarily on Jorg before moving on like the contact had never happened. He cleared his throat noisily, hands tightening their grasp on the holy book. All the whispering in the pews ceased as attention was focused on the large man wrapped in generous amounts of black cloth cinched together with a thick white collar at the neck. The minister patted the white leather cover and looked robotically over to the – surprisingly – open casket that was occupying the church that ironically beautiful autumn afternoon.
"Today we are here to remember the young man, Bill Kaulitz…" His booming voice sounded throughout the chapel, reaching everyone with the same clarity as if their ears were pressed to his tiny, chapped mouth.
He droned on and on as the sun sank lower between the hills beyond the church, the red-hued light spilling through the stained glass window behind the mountain of a man, making him larger than life. His voice was grating against Jorg's ears, stinging with each syllable, the words burning deep into his mind.
"He was a friend to many, a good son…a kind soul…brilliant beyond his years…
Bill…
Bill…
Bill…"
It was all so passé. This man did not know Bill – no one here knew Bill, yet they were acting as if they had all been the best of friends for years, or that they really cared. It aggravated – no, it infuriated him; but what was he going to do? Chase everyone away and bury his son himself?...
The sky burned red, smeared with orange and yellow as the trees rustled in the late afternoon breeze. People passed, coming and going as they laid their eyes once more on the dense wooden coffin that would soon be lowered six feet under the ground. Some laid snow white lilies on the dark-grained wood, bowing their heads in mourning; others confronted Jorg, paying their respects and telling him how sorry they really weren't – assuring him that they felt his pain; that they understood what he was going through, patting his back reassuringly.
And he just nodded, acknowledging their condolences absently as he stared blankly into the abysmal hole his son was being cast into.
Because they didn't understand. Their son or their daughter wasn't getting put six feet under just to get ravaged by the worms while they rotted slowly in the dark; their kid was going to go on with his or her life, graduate high school, go to college, have a family… And his? What about his son?
He was ripped from his thoughts when he felt a slight touch on the back of his hanging hand – a soft, feeling touch, one that actually seemed to convey real emotion.
Jorg looked down only to peer into the bruised semblance of a girl who had stared death in the face and managed to come out the other side – but far more worse for wear than she had been before the standoff; a girl who was now bound to a wheelchair indefinitely, her limbs cast in milky white plaster and gauze, bruises and slashes cascading up and down the pallid flesh that was exposed.
And yet, he did not feel for her. Not even in the slightest.
Sophie coughed nervously, casting her haunted gaze to the side as she chewed her split lip for a moment, unsure of where to even begin. It had taken all of her courage to even confront the man before her, and now that she was where she was, she had no idea what to say. Her pale fingers twitched momentarily from where they poked out of the mound of plaster, anxious and guilty.
"…Mr. Kaulitz?" she finally mumbled pitifully, her eyes still not meeting his.
Jorg did not even dignify the girl with a response. He just stood there, his hands hanging limply at his sides, even though he had more than one idea of what to do with them.
A small, unintentional flinch under his heavy gaze seemed to signal that Sophie knew this too, and it frightened her. He frightened her. More than anything she had ever encountered.
There was a slight creak in the wheels of her chair as she shifted uncomfortably, her wide, moist eyes finally travelling up to connect with his. "I- I am so sorry for the loss of your son, M-Mr. Kaulitz…" she stuttered, her painted, brunette eyebrows scrunching together as her eyes welled with tears. "It was never s-s-supposed to happen, I swear!" Her voice hitched as a sob escaped her throat. Her head dropped to her chest as the tears leaked out of her eyes in a steady stream. She could not even look at him, knowing that it was at least partially her fault for taking Bill to that party.
His eyes flashed as he stared down at her contemptible, shaking frame. Who was she to ask him of his forgiveness? Did she honestly believe that her apologies would make everything better again? He had taught Bill better than that; he knew there was no way his son had willingly gotten behind the wheel of that car. His eyes narrowed to barely open slits. It had to have been her fault – this girl must have made Bill drive that night. There was no other way to explain it.
Sophie lifted her head once more, her eyes pleading with him to accept her honest sincerity, her deep sorrow for what had happened. "I am so sorry!" she sobbed, each breath wracking her thin body. "I'm so, so sorry…"
She continued blubbering, groveling at his feet, until her own mother declared it enough and rolled her away, to the car for home, presumably.
But Jorg continued to stand there, motionless and angry, distraught and exhausted. The one thing he was not, though, was defeated. Rage bubbled up inside of him, scorching his veins and arteries, warming his skin, incinerating his heart.
Dusk was now painting the sky with light purples and dark, threatening pinks, but the darkness did nothing to soothe him. In fact, if anything, it only made him more resentful.
His feet carried him unknowingly over to the nondescript tombstone his son now lay under, his fingers uncurling and letting a soft, white rose fall to its base. His car was not far, home was not much farther after that. He would be back, though.
It was far from over.
Journal Entry: 10/6/10
That… girl, the one Bill used to associate with, tried to approach me today to spew her fake apologies and regrets. She tried to tell me that she knew what I was going through, that everyone was sad about what had happened to Bill, but how could she even begin to understand? She has no idea what I am going through! He was my only son, the only person I had left after Kathryn died and she tries to say that she understands what I am going through?
It was her fault, everything. If Bill just hadn't been with her that night, if he didn't "hang out" with her, if he had never met that bitch, he wouldn't be six feet under the fucking earth. And she tries to tell me she understands. It was her fault. Does she understand that?
I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't even think without Bill here. Dr. Cudov gave me time off, so I don't have to go in and teach this week, but what about next week? The week after that? The week after that? The week after that? I can't go back and look at all those faceless college students, slouching in their desks and taking their lives for granted. They don't appreciate what I do for them anyways. They appreciate nothing.
Bill was going to be in college next year. He said he wanted to go back over to America for school, that he wanted to go to Harvard, can you believe that? My son, going to a prestigious school like that. He hadn't even applied yet, but I know he would have been accepted, he was so smart. He would have done great. I know it.
Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill.
No matter how many times I write his name, it doesn't make a difference. It doesn't make him any less dead, any more here, any less there…
But I think I know something that will.
-J. Kaulitz
A/N: Questions? Concerns? Rocks to throw?