[ O7 / ? ] prompt: letter / me just trying to write a little more.
oh hey look another one I hate. then again, I don't hate it as much as the one I was working on and abandoned. it's now lying somewhere half - finished between my fics never to be touched again uehehe.
I actually had two possibly decent ideas, but one was just kissing and the other was angst + some kissing, and considering Losing Strings was basically just that, I figured I'd better write something lighter. my attempt at writing lighter stuff is now that unfinished fic. this is my second attempt at writing a little more today just to hit 6.5k - it's not as bad, but I still don't think it's good ... and, yeah, it's angst again, but it doesn't involve kissing at the least. orz ; offf to bed now.
LETTERBOX
[ tenth / donna ]
He has no letterbox. He has no working phone except his mobile. He doesn't even have a steady home where one may find him every now and then.
Still, he'd like to hear from her. He'd like to, but he can't. She wouldn't tell him anything, wouldn't have anything left to tell him anyway ( not the things he'd like to hear, just the trivial ones that only hurt now ), and he couldn't say anything himself, hardly, a word or two, because one word could be too much.
Maybe just his voice could be too much.
So he's considered writing, more than one, all the time, every time he comes down, sending her a letter then – or maybe simply every day, though it takes long to mail from Mars. He doesn't really know what to write: he just wants to say ' you're brilliant and important and I miss you please come back ' , because his guts feel like a landslide, roaring down and falling out and just leaving that gaping hole in which his hearts now pound so painfully.
He's been lonely before. He's always been quite lonely.
It's just never been thisbad.
He would like to look for Hope. Humans say she's flying, she's a dove, that she carries signs of life – and if he'd find her, he would take her, use the signs, bring back the dead ( because they're both now, she and him, or they might as well be anyway ) and then fly on forever as they promised.
He doesn't want to fly around, though. He can't even fly around. Spotting it would be the most tell – tale trigger, and as dead as they are, they're not yet buried – and he likes seeing her walk. It's not the walk he knows, not the one he's used to, but sometimes he spots her while out and about, and there's a certain comfort in the knowledge of her gestures still.
He can't fly since he'll be seen, but he is also down, and down and down and down he goes, all spilled out on the floor in misery and missing. Even Doctors need narcotics, and should he douse himself, there is none who will them cure him after.
Narcotics do not seem so bad. They would dull the sort of half life he is leading now, where he just travels since he must, since he runs, indeed, and cannot stop, the life where he is lonely and moving further from her as he goes and goes.
Starting over would be easier. Starting over all again. He can't, with her, though it would seem almost so – a blank slate to be rewritten, times to be enjoyed again, but that joy would end before it's even started.
Still he could begin anew, once again, new face, new voice, old memories, but of and in a body that would be no longer his. Perhaps it would dull the loss and pain, dull him to the point of finally getting to cut himself open and pushing everything back in to quench the void and make it stop, because if it's not longer him, it's almost just a story, a fabricated nightmare that maybe never happened.
But he doesn't want that.
It is horrible being lonely, but he just cannot let go. Songs and tales last ages, but at some point they will go. There is no living creature that sings the war cries of the Romans still, or the anthems of crusades. She was important – she is important – but there will be new disasters, and while her story's grand, over time it will pale, bleach like paper, croak like the voices now conveying lyrics faultily.
It is horrible not remembering, but not being remembered is so much worse.
Some songs are not supposed to end.
It is right before he goes and flies and ends up becoming what he fears is someone she'll be less important to ( someone that fails to remind people he had a friend that called him spaceman ) that he leaves one little note. It's in an envelope, no return address, and her name is simply impersonally typed because he does not know what his handwriting could do. The paper inside is simply empty.
Especially at final moments, he has always been the worst at saying what he wants.