Fulfilling A Prophecy
Chapter 7: Kill (Wesley's POV)
by Hollywood Phoenix
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So far: Slowly putting the pieces together...
~~*~~*~~ @ ~~*~~*~~
It all begins with a woman's presence. A whisper here. A hello there. A smile. A touch.
Then they go for the kill.
It may be subtle. It's probably intentional. But it'll most certainly make its mark.
With women as skilled as Justine, it makes no difference how they do it. It is only with deliberation. And a clear and cold purpose.
Felled by a slash. Cut to the deep. I never even knew her. My life force bleeds from this first blow.
Fred comes to me, hesitantly, bringing Gunn with her. I see them outside the glass window of my room as I lay on the hospital bed, with wires attached to me every which way, keeping me alive but drawing my will to survive. She is determined to see me and he is desperately trying to prevent it. We used to be so close, this man I hung out with. We had a tacit understanding. He let me into the normal world, I watched his back in the insane one. We've lost the understanding. The greatest battles in life always seem to revolve around a woman.
I watch as he argues with her. When she starts towards me, he pulls at her arm. She resists, pulls away. She is walking swiftly to me, now.
She stands next to me, beside the bed and stares down at my still form. I am conscious but I cannot speak. In her eyes, there's more hesitation because she doesn't know how to start. As I wait, I draw from her quiet strength, a beacon of eternal hope.
She is telling me that she has found the prophecy I interpreted and has shown everyone. But she pleaded my case and although they are angry, they will come around. So sweet and pure, my Fred, like a ray of light.
But she is also a pillar of true purpose. She's now telling me that I was wrong. That despite my good intentions, I was manipulated and learned only of half-truths. That the father has already killed the son.
But then she tells me that I did what I had to do.
She is darker than I gave her credit for. She has hidden it so well these past few months. I see the tall dark man behind the window and wonder if he knows that about her. But of course he doesn't. And when I don't respond for a very long time, she goes to leave with him. But before she does, she says, with a little sadness in her heart, "I wish you had trusted us. I wish you had told us."
And so, the second blow is struck.
Three is all it takes.
How fitting that it be by the hand of my first real friend. A woman whom I love very dearly, whom at one time in my life, I thought I was in love with. But it is an altered love, a mature brotherly one. She still does yield great power over me, although most times, she's unaware of it. Over me, over everyone. Her unconscious hold on the women she associates with and all the men around her, especially him.
And that makes her all the more deadly.
She carelessly tosses onto a chair whatever she used to wrap herself from the cold that has descended around us. Her movements are stiff and jerky. But she places a cold hand on my forehead and smooths it gently.
Oh so tenderly.
She's speaking way too quickly now. Her tone is fevered and strained. She's confiding about visions of death and destruction. Whispers from The Powers That Be to start at the beginning and protect a prophecy by finding answers from the past. And she's telling me that a sceptre is showing her images from his history book. None of what she says is within my comprehension, but it doesn't matter. When she leaves, I am relieved that her burden is gone. But at least she cares. At least she forgives me.
I will remain steadfast by my convictions. I did what I had to do. Like other fathers before him, the father may hate me for ruining his son's life for the rest of his days and mine, but I have stopped a destructive kill.
Yet, staring at the emptiness in my room and the lonely space behind the glass, I wonder if I have exchanged one son's death for another.
It's a disappointing conclusion. For whom this is more so, I hope none of us will ever know. With the stark, mechanical machinery breathing life into me, and the even, depressed lines flowing along on my monitor, I realize that I will never find out.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it's not the women who strike the fatal blows. Maybe it's not even the sons or their fathers. And maybe they were always in my mind.
~~X~~X~~ * ~~X~~X~~
A/N: Depressing...yeah, I know. But no one's giving me anymore feedback! So are you guys reading and not wanting to say anything in your depression? Or just not reading?
Disclaimers: Not mine.
(c) March 26, 2002
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