A Letter to No One
by Kalliroscope
******
To: Whoever. God. Me. You. Whoever you are.
I can't go on like this any longer. I've got to get out of this place! Out of this life, with all it's forgotten dreams and remembered nightmares. All its ghosts (of Christmas past) and memories (of everything past). I've got to go far away from here where I can't think for the thoughts crowding my head. Where I can't breathe for the ache in my heart. Where I can't smile, laugh, sing without wondering how I dare to be happy. How dare I be happy when so much loneliness has been here? When so much pain and misery and suffering and regret and anger and heartache… I'm going in circles. I've been over this! I have to stay here for the same reasons I have to leave. I have to remember, or it'll all be forgotten. I'm the only person who can remember now. They've all gone… dead, even when they're still alive. They all gave up, got out. I could leave, too. I could leave… no! I want to leave - I need to leave, to forget. But the memories cannot, must not, will not be forgotten…
The memory of one magic night… I remember all too well… that's why I'm writing. That's why I'm leaving it all here, so I _can_ leave, so I _can_ get out, follow them all out to safety and security and the pseudo-joy of the real life. Oh, hell. Who am I fooling? I'm writing this down because I'm scared I might not remember, even if I _do_ stay around, try to remember, I'll forget one day. One day I'll smile, and it'll all be lost. It'll become as faded as memories used to, as faded as memories ought to, as faded as other memories become. The vibrancy, the life, the glitter, the radiance, the brilliance, the splendour, all will be lost, turned into some dull, faded, shadow of an echo of a whisper of a memory.
That night was the most perfect moment of connectedness. We were all together. All happy. _True_ happiness. Jealousy, spite, hatred, rage, bitterness, loneliness, frustration: All was forgotten. We swore we'd always remember that night for what it was -- the one moment we were all alive. And now they've forgotten.
I could save that night in other ways… it could be saved in other ways, remembered in other ways than writing. One way would be to make a film, a touching, poignant, bittersweet movie about the night, the glittering sparkling night. That would be the usual Mark Cohen way. Another way would be to write a song about it. That way? The Roger Davis way, of course. How else…? I don't know what any of… of them would do to preserve that night, if they did at all. If they wanted to. But me… I put it in writing. It's the only way I know how.
I've failed, though… the memory has already faded, the night has already passed, the life is already over. Angel's dead and gone. For good. The most permanent loss of all, but the other losses are there, too. They've all drifted away… Angel was the core of our existence, our group, our family. On that night, we _were_ a family. Angel was there. He -- she -- whatever. I've never been sure which to use. Pronouns aside, Angel made us a family.
I don't know if I should show this to any of them. Maybe if I did, it would bring us back together again. Maybe we could be a family again, like before… not the same family. That's gone, dead and buried, committed to the earth with Angel. But we could try again, find a way to center our lives again, focus ourselves…
No. What good would it do? Any attempt at a recreation of that night would result in… memories. "Remember that night at the Life Café? … Remember Angel? … Remember this, remember that…" No. I can't show it to them… but I'll have it, anyway. And… maybe… there's one person I could show it to.
******
He stood, staring at the gravestone. "Angel Dumott Schunard" it read. "No day but today."
No tears came to his eyes. Not surprising. The pain and loneliness he felt at Angel's death went beyond tears. He hadn't cried when Angel had died, he couldn't cry now.
He pulled his coat closer around him, shivering in the chilly wind. Dried brown leaves lay scattered across the ground and the rough dirt. Lying on the grave, propped up against the headstone, was a bouquet of only slightly wilted flowers. Bright, beautiful flowers, even with the brown, dying petal-edges.
Someone had been here recently. Whoever it was had left their memento, their gift to Angel. Now it was his turn.
"I guess I'm just hurting myself more," he said, sighing, "talking to the dead. But you're the only person I _can_ talk to. I can't talk to any of the rest of them. They've all forgotten… well, no."
He looked, again, at the wilting flowers. Obviously, one of them hadn't forgotten entirely. "Anyway, I can't talk to them about what's happening. But… I can talk to you. I won't spend all day here like I did last week…"
He grinned ruefully. Last week, he had stayed the whole day at Angel's grave, just talking to the dead street drummer, pouring out all his feelings…
"But I wrote this down, and I can't show it to anyone. But I can't just keep it lying around the apartment… so, here, I guess…"
He dropped the thick bundle of papers on the grave, where they lay, stark white and strangely accusing against the cold brown dirt, the green and red and white flowers, the cold grey stone.
"I guess… I gotta go now."
He opened his mouth to say something, shook his head, and said "I love you, Angel." With that final good-bye, Tom Collins left the graveyard.
*******************************
A/N: So what about it? My first attempt of any kind at a RENTfic... and it's not M/R. Funny, I thought my first RENTfic would be. Anyway, please please please review and tell me what you think of it! Is it too obvious that it was Collins? Is it too rambly? Should I have bothered with a plot?
My E-mail, btw, is LutraPearl@aol.com if you care to e-mail me for whatever reason.
by Kalliroscope
******
To: Whoever. God. Me. You. Whoever you are.
I can't go on like this any longer. I've got to get out of this place! Out of this life, with all it's forgotten dreams and remembered nightmares. All its ghosts (of Christmas past) and memories (of everything past). I've got to go far away from here where I can't think for the thoughts crowding my head. Where I can't breathe for the ache in my heart. Where I can't smile, laugh, sing without wondering how I dare to be happy. How dare I be happy when so much loneliness has been here? When so much pain and misery and suffering and regret and anger and heartache… I'm going in circles. I've been over this! I have to stay here for the same reasons I have to leave. I have to remember, or it'll all be forgotten. I'm the only person who can remember now. They've all gone… dead, even when they're still alive. They all gave up, got out. I could leave, too. I could leave… no! I want to leave - I need to leave, to forget. But the memories cannot, must not, will not be forgotten…
The memory of one magic night… I remember all too well… that's why I'm writing. That's why I'm leaving it all here, so I _can_ leave, so I _can_ get out, follow them all out to safety and security and the pseudo-joy of the real life. Oh, hell. Who am I fooling? I'm writing this down because I'm scared I might not remember, even if I _do_ stay around, try to remember, I'll forget one day. One day I'll smile, and it'll all be lost. It'll become as faded as memories used to, as faded as memories ought to, as faded as other memories become. The vibrancy, the life, the glitter, the radiance, the brilliance, the splendour, all will be lost, turned into some dull, faded, shadow of an echo of a whisper of a memory.
That night was the most perfect moment of connectedness. We were all together. All happy. _True_ happiness. Jealousy, spite, hatred, rage, bitterness, loneliness, frustration: All was forgotten. We swore we'd always remember that night for what it was -- the one moment we were all alive. And now they've forgotten.
I could save that night in other ways… it could be saved in other ways, remembered in other ways than writing. One way would be to make a film, a touching, poignant, bittersweet movie about the night, the glittering sparkling night. That would be the usual Mark Cohen way. Another way would be to write a song about it. That way? The Roger Davis way, of course. How else…? I don't know what any of… of them would do to preserve that night, if they did at all. If they wanted to. But me… I put it in writing. It's the only way I know how.
I've failed, though… the memory has already faded, the night has already passed, the life is already over. Angel's dead and gone. For good. The most permanent loss of all, but the other losses are there, too. They've all drifted away… Angel was the core of our existence, our group, our family. On that night, we _were_ a family. Angel was there. He -- she -- whatever. I've never been sure which to use. Pronouns aside, Angel made us a family.
I don't know if I should show this to any of them. Maybe if I did, it would bring us back together again. Maybe we could be a family again, like before… not the same family. That's gone, dead and buried, committed to the earth with Angel. But we could try again, find a way to center our lives again, focus ourselves…
No. What good would it do? Any attempt at a recreation of that night would result in… memories. "Remember that night at the Life Café? … Remember Angel? … Remember this, remember that…" No. I can't show it to them… but I'll have it, anyway. And… maybe… there's one person I could show it to.
******
He stood, staring at the gravestone. "Angel Dumott Schunard" it read. "No day but today."
No tears came to his eyes. Not surprising. The pain and loneliness he felt at Angel's death went beyond tears. He hadn't cried when Angel had died, he couldn't cry now.
He pulled his coat closer around him, shivering in the chilly wind. Dried brown leaves lay scattered across the ground and the rough dirt. Lying on the grave, propped up against the headstone, was a bouquet of only slightly wilted flowers. Bright, beautiful flowers, even with the brown, dying petal-edges.
Someone had been here recently. Whoever it was had left their memento, their gift to Angel. Now it was his turn.
"I guess I'm just hurting myself more," he said, sighing, "talking to the dead. But you're the only person I _can_ talk to. I can't talk to any of the rest of them. They've all forgotten… well, no."
He looked, again, at the wilting flowers. Obviously, one of them hadn't forgotten entirely. "Anyway, I can't talk to them about what's happening. But… I can talk to you. I won't spend all day here like I did last week…"
He grinned ruefully. Last week, he had stayed the whole day at Angel's grave, just talking to the dead street drummer, pouring out all his feelings…
"But I wrote this down, and I can't show it to anyone. But I can't just keep it lying around the apartment… so, here, I guess…"
He dropped the thick bundle of papers on the grave, where they lay, stark white and strangely accusing against the cold brown dirt, the green and red and white flowers, the cold grey stone.
"I guess… I gotta go now."
He opened his mouth to say something, shook his head, and said "I love you, Angel." With that final good-bye, Tom Collins left the graveyard.
*******************************
A/N: So what about it? My first attempt of any kind at a RENTfic... and it's not M/R. Funny, I thought my first RENTfic would be. Anyway, please please please review and tell me what you think of it! Is it too obvious that it was Collins? Is it too rambly? Should I have bothered with a plot?
My E-mail, btw, is LutraPearl@aol.com if you care to e-mail me for whatever reason.