Authors note: 'Heavens a lie' is a song by Lacuna Coil.


Heaven's a lie

It's the sun breaking over the horizon that wakes him, searing through the backs of his eyelids. He forgot to close the blinds. His mouth tastes like stale vomit and his tongue feels so furry that he considers shaving it. He begins to roll over, the blanket peeling away from where it has stuck to his cheek as he moves. He's got an entire orchestral drum section playing in his head; he can almost feel his brain throbbing like a hammer crushed thumb in a grainy old cartoon.

He reaches out unconsciously, jerking back when his hand brushes the cold polyester sheets on her side of the bed. His stomach clenches painfully with intent but it is already empty. His bladder reminds him with some urgency that it however isn't.

Somehow he makes it to the bathroom, on jelly legs and with uneven footing. After relieving himself he stands with a hand on either side of the mirror, holding him up as he studies the hollow features reflecting back at him. His skin is ashen. Dark bags hang under bloodshot eyes. Rough black stubble blankets his chin; he hasn't shaved in days.

He forces himself into the shower, not even bothering to undress. The water is frigid but soon warms until it feels like it will scald the skin off of his back. This is when he finally undresses; wisps of steam rising from his skin as he lets the discarded fabric pool at his feet until he is wearing nothing but the 9mm casing that dangles from a piece of thick black cord knotted around his neck.

He stands under the bludgeoning cascade, every drop like a boulder across his shoulders, washing away the nightmares that come from his own regrets. He takes a deep breath, turning his face upwards into the stream. For a fleeting moment it feels good; he had almost forgotten how to be anything but numb. Until he opens his eyes once more, his gaze falling on her toothbrush; the most innocuous of items and it sends the most exquisite pain lancing through his chest. He needs to see her.

He forces himself to move though every part of his body is leaden. The motions are automatic. Robotic. He gets dressed, his usual white collar and tie. He cuts himself twice while shaving, unable to control the tremor in his hand. Laces and unlaces his shoes so many times that he loses count until he finally realises that he's stalling and compels himself out the door and down the graffiti filled stairwell.

Outside everything looks different. The streets are subdued, his world painted in a hazy monochrome. He thinks it's ironic that the rain seems to have finally stopped, though it makes no difference to him now. The concrete is still wet; the sun's glare reflects back at him making everything so damn bright that it sets off fireworks behind his eyes.

It's still early, the streets are not as crowded as they will be by lunch time, even less so then they will be by evening when the city comes 'alive' with the walking dead. He feels like he is moving with his eyes closed, doesn't even realise how far he's gone until he looks up to find the steeple of the rip-off church towering over him.

As he passes through the churchyard he catches sight of a familiar blue habit. The nun's piercing cerulean gaze watches him from the doorway. She seems so surprised to find him there. She offers him a sad consolatory smile and his fingers twitch with the urge to slap it off her face; even if doing so would get him shot. He has to remind himself that she has lost her friend too. He responds with the barest nod of his head before continuing on his way.

He walks through the field of memories, passing by the forest of blooms that adorn the newer graves. Each cold lump of stone a memorial to a broken heart and an agonizing farewell. He knows where to find her. She is at the back, out past what is technically the border of church grounds. No one decided to press the issue when he had picked out the spot.

He kneels, tracing his fingers over the freshly etched words, clinging to the false hope that he would be able to feel her through them.

He'd been told that he'd make a good villain. Here on his hands and knees he'd never felt more like one. He had made her weak, like Samson and Delilah; like Ginji and Yukio. He made her human again, somehow managed to revive the frozen metal slag she had in place of her heart. In turn that had made her vulnerable. Exposed.

He doesn't bring her flowers. She would have hated that; laughed and mocked him for his sentimentality. She would laugh too at the sight of him now; lost little boy whose only home was a cold granite tombstone.

He draws a small wooden box out of his pocket; he'd been working on the gift for weeks, though the intention behind it had been entirely different when he had first started. Five bullets stare back at him, beautifully cast in burnished silver, each with a single word delicately etched into the metal.

I.. can't.. live.. without.. you.