AFTER THE RAIN, by Zhirea. Circa July
27th, 2001.
Pairings: BF/RV.
Spoilers: Victoria's Secret.
Disclaimer: Although the characters aren't mine, the story, plots
and ideas are. Third part of Tears. RayV's POV.
Author's Note: I wanted to make it Slashy, but thought better of
it. Like it better this way. Angsty.
~~~@~~~
After The Rain
by
Zhirea
~~~@~~~
It's raining.
I've been on this motel room for I don't know how long. All I
know is that everything's got bent out of shape, and I don't know
if I can fix it. In fact, I don't know if I wanna fix it, anyway.
Things have been hellish this past few days. You're still trapped
in that damned hospital, hooked on to so many machines that I
can't see you without shoving cables to the side, although very
carefully, of course. We wouldn't want you to die for one of my
mistakes, now would we? And anyhow, what few people on that
hospital know is that I put you there. All by myself, I managed
to shot my best friend, single-handedly, and people are still
trying to make me feel better about it. How can I , damn it???
Maybe I'm talking incoherently. Must be the bottle of vodka I
just downed, or the fact that I can't find the corkscrew to open
this bottle of wine. Maybe I'll just brake it against that table
and slit my wrists with the shreds while I'm at it. Anything to
get out of this nightmare.
Death doesn't scare me anymore. Maybe it's because when you're a
cop, Death plays with you all the time, and most of the time you
win, but you can always lose... And as for my religion, that
forbids me to commit suicide and, if I do, I'll go straight to
hell, all I can say is that I don't give a shit. In fact, I've
found so many loopholes in Catholisism that I've concluded that
it's an ancient religion that doesn't adapt to the modern world,
or the wretched reality of yours truly.
Speaking of dying, I don't wanna die a painful death. Even if
Death doesn't scare me, pain does; especially when I saw you
twisting in agony after I shot you. And since it's vox populi
that I'm a coward, it shouldn't surprise anyone that I'd take the
easy way out. It may not be clean, but it'll be fast and, above
all, painless. I'll be dead before I feel any pain.
The crackle of lightning makes an amiable companion, like
whiplash.
I've found the corkscrew and the tangy taste of this $80 wine is
like sex: unexpected, pleasurable, and you don't want to end it.
At least that's the way I figure sex would be with you. But in
our case, as if I had a chance in hell with you, wounded or not;
it would've been heaven. Just having you there, pressed against my
body and telling me that you love me, would be the most exquisite
of tortures. But it's not, and will never be: even if you get out
of that bed, and walk again, and resume your normal life, I'll be
out of the picture. I don't want to be with you anymore. I can't
risk it. I can't make you a target again. I love you too much for
that.
So, now the bottle is empty, and I'm dressed in my Academy
uniform, because I want to be found in honorable fashion. Maybe
that'll ease the pain of my mother, and my sisters. And as you
told me once, the worst way to die is without honor. So maybe, in
this uniform, I can fake that I was honorable. Or maybe they'll
just think that I make a handsome corpse. I'd laugh at that, but
I'm too depressed.
The gun weights heavily in my hand. It's cold and hard, so unlike
you; and that's what I deserve: to be mocked by this gun before
it erases me from this existence. And unlike the custom, that is
to put only one bullet on the chamber and off yourself with it,
I've loaded the gun in case I flinch when I pull the trigger.
It's unlikely I'd flinch six times, but I don't want to leave
anything to chance.
It's pouring outside. I can hear faint shouts and the click-click
of high heels on the paviment, receding towards the management
office of this crappy motel. That clicking reminds me of
prostitutes. God forbid me; maybe I'm passing judgment, but who
knows? Maybe I'm right. All I know is that sound reminds me of
whores. I'm definitively loosing it. Whatever.
Yes, I know I'm stalling. The gun is pressed against my chest,
directed to my heart. I pondered the possibility of blowing my
brains out, but I know Ma wouldn't stand it. And besides, I don't
want to be bald and brainless. I caress the handle once again,
checking for the thousand time that the gun is unlocked. Imagine
how it would be to pull the trigger and have nothing come off.
What a mood-killer, eh?
Alright, enough chit-chat for a lifetime. This last words are for
you, Benny: I love you, and I'm sorry. That's all I have to say.
~~~@~~~
-Epilogue-
Detective First Grade Raymond Vecchio did pull the trigger. The
hollow, empty sound his silenced gun made was somehow heard by
his neighbour and he called the police. When they arrived, the
good cop was lying on the floor, unconscious, and after the
paramedics arrived and examined him, they found that,
unexplicably, his chest was only scratched. No blood, no gore, no
nothing.
No one can explain what happened that night. And no one can
explain how a loaded gun pointed directly to the heart and fired
by a seasoned cop could somehow misfire, knocking the wind out of
him without actually killing him.
As of this moment, Ray Vecchio lies on a bed beside his best
friend, Benton Fraser, in the same hospital room, and is being
monitored closely by doctors and psychiatrists. As for his friend
and love, Benny, he's come out of his delicate condition and
spends his time watching over his friend, who's so out of it he
doesn't know what's up and what's down. The only thing they both
aknowledge is that they're both alive, together and saved by some
kind of miracle. Now they have the rest of their lives to work
things out.
Ah... and it stopped raining.
~~~@~~~
THE END
Comments? Buzz Me
