Chapter Two
Disclaimer: incase you were wondering: I don't own Gundam Wing.
//Call It In The Air
Leave home today.
escape your region.
It's in your head, keep moving on.
become your dad.
Live unquestioned.
It's in your head, nostalgia is death.
Choose starlight.
No way to retrace.
It is gone.
Choose star bright.
No way to retrace.
It is gone.
No way to retrace
All your good days, add them up
It is gone.
None of you knew any more then. leave it here.
It is gone.
Can't depend on honest answers from dependent hands.
Won't accept an honest answer from an open hand.
Say the words and I sign off//
There is nothing sadder than attending a three-year-old's funeral. Well actually I lied, there is: attending a join funeral for a three-year-old and the three-year-old's mother. I decided to have a Catholic funeral, a tribute to the time I spent in the Maxwell Church.
I wasn't wearing my usual clergy wear, although I was cloaked all in black. I sat alone in the front pew. Or, I would have been alone if Hilde's sister Gretchen and her family hadn't sat next to me.
"Hey Duo." She said kindly.
"Hi Gretchen."
"Hilde told me about that star gazing you did at night, that is so sweet."
I couldn't help a sad smile, "She always yelled at me for doing that, telling me that I needed my sleep."
"Oh she was just saying that, she really loved it. She told me how horribly romantic that was." Before we could continue the conversation the singing of the hymns began. I didn't even need the hymnal; I've remembered all the old hymns from my childhood.
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One thing I have never understood is the idea of a post funeral party. I guess that some people want to grieve with others. I've never felt this way; I've never had a choice but to grieve in private, to grieve alone. So when I had everyone over at our home- well I guess it was only my house then- that afternoon I wished that they would all just leave me be. What could I do though? Kick those people out? No, I couldn't do that.
I couldn't take those stories though. If I had to hear one more of Hilde's relatives reminisce in the nostalgic memories of days long since gone, I think I would of lost it, I would of broke down right in the middle of the living room sitting next to Hilde's Grandmother, or some nameless cousin whom I was supposed to remember.
I know they meant well. They were only trying to bring a light note to that senseless tragedy. I didn't want light, I didn't want happy, I wanted to be alone in a dark corner; deprived of light, warmth, and comfort, because that was how I felt.
As Hilde's aunt (whom I supposedly met at Christmas two years before) left, I was met by a familiar face, one of the few there. He sat down besides me, where the numerous friends and family of Hilde had sat before him, with crossed arms, "I'm sorry about them Duo." He said flatly.
"Thank you for coming Heero." I solemnly replied.
"You alright?"
"What do you think?"
"We're all use to death, that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. Stay in there though, these people don't need another loss."
"I doubt they would even notice if I took my life. I'll tell you one thing, my funeral wouldn't get this turn out."
"You're wrong."
"Huh?"
"You'll be missed Duo, so don't do anything rash." And with that he left, no goodbye, no see you around, nothing. He just got up and left. I told him years later that that little chat saved my life. I don't know, maybe he could see it in my eyes that I was contemplating suicide, or maybe he just had a feeling. It shocked me though; to have a guy like Heero, who acted like he didn't give a damn about me for so long, tell me that I would be missed.
It struck me so hard, that later that night, after everyone left, I burned the noose I had tied that morning, and left on my bed for after the post funeral party. I tried to forget that I ever even thought of putting it around my neck.
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After that day I grew reclusive. I went to work and went home. I declined invitations to friend's houses for dinner, and the boys at the yard's invitations for beers after work.
I hardly spoke to the guys at work after that. They tried to be sensitive about it, and offered their condolences. I remember one kid, who we called Charley, even though his name was Aticus, came up to me and told me how sorry he was.
I knew this kid well; I knew that he had grown up on a neutral colony, one free from the hardships of war. I also knew that the only person he had lost to the wars was some cousin. When Charley came up to me and said, "hey man I'm really sorry to hear about your wife and kid. I remember when we lost my cousin Mel." I snapped.
I grabbed him by his collar and pulled him right up into my face. "You know nothing about loss." I said though my clenched teach. I threw the startled boy to the ground and raised my voice; "I've lost more people near to me than every member of your extended family, and all of their spouses families." I pointed to my chest, "I'm a survivor of the Maxwell church tragedy!" I yelled. "What do you know about losing loved ones? You know nothing, so don't go offering me your half- hearted sympathy."
I left work early that day, right after I lost it to Charley. That wasn't the first time I left work early. I owned the yard, so no one could tell me when I could, or couldn't leave. Old Francis automatically took over when I felt like I couldn't be there any more. Come to think of it, he wasn't really old, only about forty, but that was older than any of the kids I employed to work the yard, thus the prefix old was added to his name.
There was no instructions given to him to do so, so I was very proud of him for taking it upon himself to look after the kids. He got a nice raise for his work; and retired into a nice area three years back, after being diagnosed with lung cancer, thanks to all those years of chain smoking. We lost touch after his retirement; I don't even know if he's still around, I should try giving him a call.
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One of the hardest things after their deaths was grocery shopping. That was something I didn't expect to be hard. I found myself buying all of Gwenny's favorite foods. One day I came home with a gallon of apple juice, and I can't stand the stuff.
It was hard to break old habits. Once I almost bought a pack of tampons for Hilde. Right after I put them into the cart I realized what I did, and quickly put them back. It was the little things like that, which continually tore me apart.
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I felt like I had to give my unborn child a name. He or she hadn't even lived long enough to develop organs, but they were still a live- and now dead- to me. I didn't like thinking about him or her as 'my unborn child'. So I did the only natural thing to do: I named them.
Taylor is what I decided on for two reasons. First of all the name could pertain to a boy or a girl. The name seemed fitting since I never even thought to ask the doctors if they could tell what the sex of the baby was. The second, and most important reason was, that Hilde loved that name. She suggested it for Gwenny and kept by her guns. I talked her out of it; I know she wished I didn't though. Thus the little guy or gal was deemed Taylor.
I thought about them all; Hilde, Gwenny, and little Taylor occupied my thoughts day in and day out. For hours every night, as I lay in my cold and lonely bed, without Hilde's comforting figure by my side, I would just think about them; remember all the wonderful times we had.
I thought about them so much that my memories would roll into my dreams. Night after night for years on end I dreamt about them. The dreams always started off so happy: me pushing Gwenny and Hilde on the swings in the neighborhood park on a sunny Saturday afternoon, or that trip Hilde and I took to that beach on earth, the same trip where Gwenny was conceived.
Sure the dreams started out filled with smiles and laugher, but they all turned dark. In every dream they would die the same way. The red pickup would come careening from out of nowhere and kill them. In every dream I couldn't do anything but watch: and stare into the cold, bloodthirsty eyes of that killer.
That killer had a name; he had a family. Marv Jukes was his name; it said so right on the side of his truck, 'Jukes Pool Cleaning,' that was what it said. The man, who had a wife and two small children, was on his way to his first client's home that morning. He was speeding because he was late, and old Mrs. Steward hated when Marv was late. So as he drove with reckless abandon, he punched in Mrs. Stewart's number on his cell phone, to give her a heads up that he was a few minutes behind schedule.
The paper with her number on it slipped out of his fingers, a hundred yards or so from the intersection. He didn't even see the light turn yellow, and then red as he searched for the last two digits in the number. He didn't even see Hilde's accord until it was to late.
I guess that guy was truly innocent. It was an accident; he didn't mean to shatter my life by taking away all that mattered to me. He only didn't want to lose old Mrs. Stewart as a client.
To me though he was a cold-hearted killer, and the press ate it up. It was a high profile case to begin with because of who was killed. Adding more fuel to the flames was my history as a Gundam Pilot. That wasn't anything compared to the drums of gasoline I added to the media furnace when I first met Mr. Jukes.
The first time I saw this man was on the first day of the trial, which started three months after the deaths of Hilde and Gwenny. I couldn't keep it in any longer. Right before they got underway I hurtled myself over the gate and into the front of the courtroom, where the lawyers and judge were. I charged Jukes and threw him to the floor. Before the guards were able to pry me off of him I broke his nose and knocked out four teeth.
As they drug me away I was quoted in the papers yelling, "You baby killing bastard, she was only three-years-old! My wife was pregnant you coldhearted son of a bitch! I hope you burn in the deepest pits of hell and I, Shinigami will torcher your soul for all eternity!"
I spent the night in jail. The charges were dropped, but I was banned from the courthouse for the remainder for the trial. After that there were daily recaps of the trial on every local newscast, all of which included the artists rendition of me beating the crap out of that man.
Three months after the courtroom brawl the trial was over. It was already spring, and yet I still felt cold with the absence of my family. Marv got eight years in prison for two counts of involuntary vehicular manslaughter. At the time I thought they were being lenient. He took away everything I loved, in a sense; he took a way my life, and all that was taken away from him was five years due to good behavior.
Even six months after the accident, when the jury results were in, and Marv was sporting a lovely orange prison jumpsuit, I was reclusive. I never went out. All I knew was work, all I ate was take out and delivery pizza. It was bad; I had the restaurants' numbers on speed dial, and I knew all the delivery boys' and girls' names.
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A month after their deaths I had a very startling dream. I awoke in a cold sweat, like I did every night before, and every night after that. This dream shook me more than the others though. We were at that beach in Florida, a favorite for my post-accident dreams. This time it wasn't only Hilde who was there with me: so what Gwenny and her little brother Taylor.
Taylor had never been out of the womb in one of my dreams. He was about one in the dream, with his thick, nappy black hair, and big, hazel eyes he looked as much like Hilde as Gwenny looked like me. What startled me most about that dream came the next day: when I finally got around to cleaning out the garage. It was a task Hilde wanted me to do the Saturday after their deaths, and because so, I postponed until then.
While moving the dusty old boxes out of the back corner one caught my eye. "Hilde's Pictures ages 0-5." The collapsible, cardboard moving box boasted in black permanent marker.
I sat on the cold concrete and started flipping though the photo albums of her youth. The shocking discovery sent a chill down my spine, and formed goose bumps on my arms. I stared at one picture in particular.
In the picture little Hilde was building a sand castle on one of earth's beaches, which had an eerie resemblance to our vacation spot. She looked just how I had envisioned Taylor, right down to the smile and chubby, dimpled arms. "Hilde, August AC 181." The calligraphy like writing said at the bottom. She was only a year old in that picture: the same age as Taylor was in my dream.
A week after my chilling dream I found Quatre on my front porch; He didn't even fake a smile that afternoon when I opened the door. "Quatre what are you doing here?" I too made no attempt to pretend the visit was on happy terms.
Quatre looked me over. I hadn't washed my hair for a week, and it showed. Loose strands of hair, which had fallen out of my braid, hung heavy with dirt and oil. I had dark circles under my eyes from my fitful nights, and a rough beard growing.
I also saw him take a look at my clothes, not that I blamed him. Who knows how long I had been wearing that black shirt, I didn't bother to put on pants that Saturday morning. What was the point? I wasn't going out, and I wasn't expecting company. I probably looked rather silly standing there in my red boxer shorts. "God you look terrible." Quatre said truthfully.
"You should go." I said solemnly.
"What for?"
"I don't want you to die like the others."
"What are you talking about?"
"If you value your life you'll leave."
"I'm not leaving you in this state. Don't let me in fine, I'll stay out here until you do."
I sighed and let him in. Sadly, the house looked no better than I. Half finished Chinese take out boxes covered every available space. The smell was rank from the food in their different stages of decomposition. Clothes littered the floor as well. "Sorry for the mess." I said with embarrassment, "I've been meaning to clean it up."
"Don't worry, I understand." He said. He picked the neglected newspapers and mail off a chair and took a seat. I fell into my regular spot on the couch.
"I'm sorry I missed the funeral, I was in the middle of an extensive colony tour, and I couldn't get away. I'm so sorry you had to loose them Duo, I know you must feel like hell."
"You have no idea."
"I know I don't. I lost my father, but I'm sure that's nothing like what you are enduring. I'm sure if Amelia and Arika were to die. I don't know what I would do."
"You should go now."
"Duo, why are you pushing everyone away?"
"I just don't want to kill anyone else."
"What are you talking about? There was no way you could have prevented that. I know this may sound silly coming from me, but blaming yourself isn't going to do anyone any good."
I shook my head, "No Quatre, I'm cursed."
"You mean the GPC?" The Gundam Pilot Curse, or GPC for short, was established between the pilots due to the massive amounts of death each pilot had endured, and their tendency to survive it all. Nowhere in the curse did it mention anything about being to blame for the death that surrounded us, which is why it didn't pertain to me.
Again, I shook my head, "No my curse runs much deeper than the GPC; I'm Shinigami after all."
"Stop that, that's not true. That's only a nickname: like Perfect Solider is to Heero."
"No it's true. It was true when I was four and my whole family died from that damn plague, it was true when I was five and Solo died." I sighed, trying to maintain composure as I continued, "It was true when I was seven and all 245 people at the Maxwell church died, it was true when I was nine and the street gang I joined was gunned down by our rivals.
"It was true all though out the war, when all those countless soldiers died at the hands of my scythe. It was true ten years ago when my friend Brent died from cancer. And it's true now. They were lucky to make it so long with me. So you see it's not just the GPC, I am the true Shinigami because everyone close to be dies, and that is why you have to leave. I don't think I could live though the loss of one more friend."
"Don't forget that I'm cursed as well, Duo. The GPC may not run as deep as yours, but I do survived against incredible odds, and this is no different."
"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you." We were silent for a few moments, until I numbly began to speak again.
"Our five year anniversary was to be tomorrow, you know. I saw Hilde eyeing a bracelet in a store window; I bought it a few days before the accident. It's silver with little hearts on it; she looked great in silver. It's still in the box, hidden in my sock drawer. She would of loved it, I just wish I could of seen her face when she opened it, and how it looked on her dainty wrist."
"I'm sure you will find another woman worthy of that bracelet Duo."
"I could never love someone like I loved Hilde." I looked up at Quatre, for the first time in our conversation. "She was pregnant, you know."
"Who? Hilde?"
"Three weeks. We were trying for over a year. What a cruel twist of irony: she died the very same day she was going to tell me. Why didn't I see it? I mean, she was showing all the signs: the sickness, the breakouts, the weird foods. I guess I wasn't as good of a husband as I could have been, not to not recognize the signs."
"Oh Duo."
"Taylor, that was what I named him."
"I know you two wanted a boy."
"He had black hair and hazel eyes, just like Hilde."
"How."
"I saw him in a dream. He was so beautiful, Quatre, he was so beautiful, so why? Why did he have to die? Why did I have to find out from the doctor that Hilde was carrying this tiny miracle in her womb? Why couldn't he of lived? Not one breath, he never got to take one breath. He hadn't even developed the lungs to take that breath. Where is the mercy in that Quatre?"
"There is none Duo."
*sniff* break out the tissues. Sorry it took me so long to get this up, but I lost my copy with the edits. I just found them tonight ^.^ The next part takes part in Christmas, so I'm going to upload it most likely on the 23rd, unless something happens and I don't. I doubt I'll forget though. Thanks for reading this!
Disclaimer: incase you were wondering: I don't own Gundam Wing.
//Call It In The Air
Leave home today.
escape your region.
It's in your head, keep moving on.
become your dad.
Live unquestioned.
It's in your head, nostalgia is death.
Choose starlight.
No way to retrace.
It is gone.
Choose star bright.
No way to retrace.
It is gone.
No way to retrace
All your good days, add them up
It is gone.
None of you knew any more then. leave it here.
It is gone.
Can't depend on honest answers from dependent hands.
Won't accept an honest answer from an open hand.
Say the words and I sign off//
There is nothing sadder than attending a three-year-old's funeral. Well actually I lied, there is: attending a join funeral for a three-year-old and the three-year-old's mother. I decided to have a Catholic funeral, a tribute to the time I spent in the Maxwell Church.
I wasn't wearing my usual clergy wear, although I was cloaked all in black. I sat alone in the front pew. Or, I would have been alone if Hilde's sister Gretchen and her family hadn't sat next to me.
"Hey Duo." She said kindly.
"Hi Gretchen."
"Hilde told me about that star gazing you did at night, that is so sweet."
I couldn't help a sad smile, "She always yelled at me for doing that, telling me that I needed my sleep."
"Oh she was just saying that, she really loved it. She told me how horribly romantic that was." Before we could continue the conversation the singing of the hymns began. I didn't even need the hymnal; I've remembered all the old hymns from my childhood.
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One thing I have never understood is the idea of a post funeral party. I guess that some people want to grieve with others. I've never felt this way; I've never had a choice but to grieve in private, to grieve alone. So when I had everyone over at our home- well I guess it was only my house then- that afternoon I wished that they would all just leave me be. What could I do though? Kick those people out? No, I couldn't do that.
I couldn't take those stories though. If I had to hear one more of Hilde's relatives reminisce in the nostalgic memories of days long since gone, I think I would of lost it, I would of broke down right in the middle of the living room sitting next to Hilde's Grandmother, or some nameless cousin whom I was supposed to remember.
I know they meant well. They were only trying to bring a light note to that senseless tragedy. I didn't want light, I didn't want happy, I wanted to be alone in a dark corner; deprived of light, warmth, and comfort, because that was how I felt.
As Hilde's aunt (whom I supposedly met at Christmas two years before) left, I was met by a familiar face, one of the few there. He sat down besides me, where the numerous friends and family of Hilde had sat before him, with crossed arms, "I'm sorry about them Duo." He said flatly.
"Thank you for coming Heero." I solemnly replied.
"You alright?"
"What do you think?"
"We're all use to death, that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. Stay in there though, these people don't need another loss."
"I doubt they would even notice if I took my life. I'll tell you one thing, my funeral wouldn't get this turn out."
"You're wrong."
"Huh?"
"You'll be missed Duo, so don't do anything rash." And with that he left, no goodbye, no see you around, nothing. He just got up and left. I told him years later that that little chat saved my life. I don't know, maybe he could see it in my eyes that I was contemplating suicide, or maybe he just had a feeling. It shocked me though; to have a guy like Heero, who acted like he didn't give a damn about me for so long, tell me that I would be missed.
It struck me so hard, that later that night, after everyone left, I burned the noose I had tied that morning, and left on my bed for after the post funeral party. I tried to forget that I ever even thought of putting it around my neck.
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After that day I grew reclusive. I went to work and went home. I declined invitations to friend's houses for dinner, and the boys at the yard's invitations for beers after work.
I hardly spoke to the guys at work after that. They tried to be sensitive about it, and offered their condolences. I remember one kid, who we called Charley, even though his name was Aticus, came up to me and told me how sorry he was.
I knew this kid well; I knew that he had grown up on a neutral colony, one free from the hardships of war. I also knew that the only person he had lost to the wars was some cousin. When Charley came up to me and said, "hey man I'm really sorry to hear about your wife and kid. I remember when we lost my cousin Mel." I snapped.
I grabbed him by his collar and pulled him right up into my face. "You know nothing about loss." I said though my clenched teach. I threw the startled boy to the ground and raised my voice; "I've lost more people near to me than every member of your extended family, and all of their spouses families." I pointed to my chest, "I'm a survivor of the Maxwell church tragedy!" I yelled. "What do you know about losing loved ones? You know nothing, so don't go offering me your half- hearted sympathy."
I left work early that day, right after I lost it to Charley. That wasn't the first time I left work early. I owned the yard, so no one could tell me when I could, or couldn't leave. Old Francis automatically took over when I felt like I couldn't be there any more. Come to think of it, he wasn't really old, only about forty, but that was older than any of the kids I employed to work the yard, thus the prefix old was added to his name.
There was no instructions given to him to do so, so I was very proud of him for taking it upon himself to look after the kids. He got a nice raise for his work; and retired into a nice area three years back, after being diagnosed with lung cancer, thanks to all those years of chain smoking. We lost touch after his retirement; I don't even know if he's still around, I should try giving him a call.
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One of the hardest things after their deaths was grocery shopping. That was something I didn't expect to be hard. I found myself buying all of Gwenny's favorite foods. One day I came home with a gallon of apple juice, and I can't stand the stuff.
It was hard to break old habits. Once I almost bought a pack of tampons for Hilde. Right after I put them into the cart I realized what I did, and quickly put them back. It was the little things like that, which continually tore me apart.
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I felt like I had to give my unborn child a name. He or she hadn't even lived long enough to develop organs, but they were still a live- and now dead- to me. I didn't like thinking about him or her as 'my unborn child'. So I did the only natural thing to do: I named them.
Taylor is what I decided on for two reasons. First of all the name could pertain to a boy or a girl. The name seemed fitting since I never even thought to ask the doctors if they could tell what the sex of the baby was. The second, and most important reason was, that Hilde loved that name. She suggested it for Gwenny and kept by her guns. I talked her out of it; I know she wished I didn't though. Thus the little guy or gal was deemed Taylor.
I thought about them all; Hilde, Gwenny, and little Taylor occupied my thoughts day in and day out. For hours every night, as I lay in my cold and lonely bed, without Hilde's comforting figure by my side, I would just think about them; remember all the wonderful times we had.
I thought about them so much that my memories would roll into my dreams. Night after night for years on end I dreamt about them. The dreams always started off so happy: me pushing Gwenny and Hilde on the swings in the neighborhood park on a sunny Saturday afternoon, or that trip Hilde and I took to that beach on earth, the same trip where Gwenny was conceived.
Sure the dreams started out filled with smiles and laugher, but they all turned dark. In every dream they would die the same way. The red pickup would come careening from out of nowhere and kill them. In every dream I couldn't do anything but watch: and stare into the cold, bloodthirsty eyes of that killer.
That killer had a name; he had a family. Marv Jukes was his name; it said so right on the side of his truck, 'Jukes Pool Cleaning,' that was what it said. The man, who had a wife and two small children, was on his way to his first client's home that morning. He was speeding because he was late, and old Mrs. Steward hated when Marv was late. So as he drove with reckless abandon, he punched in Mrs. Stewart's number on his cell phone, to give her a heads up that he was a few minutes behind schedule.
The paper with her number on it slipped out of his fingers, a hundred yards or so from the intersection. He didn't even see the light turn yellow, and then red as he searched for the last two digits in the number. He didn't even see Hilde's accord until it was to late.
I guess that guy was truly innocent. It was an accident; he didn't mean to shatter my life by taking away all that mattered to me. He only didn't want to lose old Mrs. Stewart as a client.
To me though he was a cold-hearted killer, and the press ate it up. It was a high profile case to begin with because of who was killed. Adding more fuel to the flames was my history as a Gundam Pilot. That wasn't anything compared to the drums of gasoline I added to the media furnace when I first met Mr. Jukes.
The first time I saw this man was on the first day of the trial, which started three months after the deaths of Hilde and Gwenny. I couldn't keep it in any longer. Right before they got underway I hurtled myself over the gate and into the front of the courtroom, where the lawyers and judge were. I charged Jukes and threw him to the floor. Before the guards were able to pry me off of him I broke his nose and knocked out four teeth.
As they drug me away I was quoted in the papers yelling, "You baby killing bastard, she was only three-years-old! My wife was pregnant you coldhearted son of a bitch! I hope you burn in the deepest pits of hell and I, Shinigami will torcher your soul for all eternity!"
I spent the night in jail. The charges were dropped, but I was banned from the courthouse for the remainder for the trial. After that there were daily recaps of the trial on every local newscast, all of which included the artists rendition of me beating the crap out of that man.
Three months after the courtroom brawl the trial was over. It was already spring, and yet I still felt cold with the absence of my family. Marv got eight years in prison for two counts of involuntary vehicular manslaughter. At the time I thought they were being lenient. He took away everything I loved, in a sense; he took a way my life, and all that was taken away from him was five years due to good behavior.
Even six months after the accident, when the jury results were in, and Marv was sporting a lovely orange prison jumpsuit, I was reclusive. I never went out. All I knew was work, all I ate was take out and delivery pizza. It was bad; I had the restaurants' numbers on speed dial, and I knew all the delivery boys' and girls' names.
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A month after their deaths I had a very startling dream. I awoke in a cold sweat, like I did every night before, and every night after that. This dream shook me more than the others though. We were at that beach in Florida, a favorite for my post-accident dreams. This time it wasn't only Hilde who was there with me: so what Gwenny and her little brother Taylor.
Taylor had never been out of the womb in one of my dreams. He was about one in the dream, with his thick, nappy black hair, and big, hazel eyes he looked as much like Hilde as Gwenny looked like me. What startled me most about that dream came the next day: when I finally got around to cleaning out the garage. It was a task Hilde wanted me to do the Saturday after their deaths, and because so, I postponed until then.
While moving the dusty old boxes out of the back corner one caught my eye. "Hilde's Pictures ages 0-5." The collapsible, cardboard moving box boasted in black permanent marker.
I sat on the cold concrete and started flipping though the photo albums of her youth. The shocking discovery sent a chill down my spine, and formed goose bumps on my arms. I stared at one picture in particular.
In the picture little Hilde was building a sand castle on one of earth's beaches, which had an eerie resemblance to our vacation spot. She looked just how I had envisioned Taylor, right down to the smile and chubby, dimpled arms. "Hilde, August AC 181." The calligraphy like writing said at the bottom. She was only a year old in that picture: the same age as Taylor was in my dream.
A week after my chilling dream I found Quatre on my front porch; He didn't even fake a smile that afternoon when I opened the door. "Quatre what are you doing here?" I too made no attempt to pretend the visit was on happy terms.
Quatre looked me over. I hadn't washed my hair for a week, and it showed. Loose strands of hair, which had fallen out of my braid, hung heavy with dirt and oil. I had dark circles under my eyes from my fitful nights, and a rough beard growing.
I also saw him take a look at my clothes, not that I blamed him. Who knows how long I had been wearing that black shirt, I didn't bother to put on pants that Saturday morning. What was the point? I wasn't going out, and I wasn't expecting company. I probably looked rather silly standing there in my red boxer shorts. "God you look terrible." Quatre said truthfully.
"You should go." I said solemnly.
"What for?"
"I don't want you to die like the others."
"What are you talking about?"
"If you value your life you'll leave."
"I'm not leaving you in this state. Don't let me in fine, I'll stay out here until you do."
I sighed and let him in. Sadly, the house looked no better than I. Half finished Chinese take out boxes covered every available space. The smell was rank from the food in their different stages of decomposition. Clothes littered the floor as well. "Sorry for the mess." I said with embarrassment, "I've been meaning to clean it up."
"Don't worry, I understand." He said. He picked the neglected newspapers and mail off a chair and took a seat. I fell into my regular spot on the couch.
"I'm sorry I missed the funeral, I was in the middle of an extensive colony tour, and I couldn't get away. I'm so sorry you had to loose them Duo, I know you must feel like hell."
"You have no idea."
"I know I don't. I lost my father, but I'm sure that's nothing like what you are enduring. I'm sure if Amelia and Arika were to die. I don't know what I would do."
"You should go now."
"Duo, why are you pushing everyone away?"
"I just don't want to kill anyone else."
"What are you talking about? There was no way you could have prevented that. I know this may sound silly coming from me, but blaming yourself isn't going to do anyone any good."
I shook my head, "No Quatre, I'm cursed."
"You mean the GPC?" The Gundam Pilot Curse, or GPC for short, was established between the pilots due to the massive amounts of death each pilot had endured, and their tendency to survive it all. Nowhere in the curse did it mention anything about being to blame for the death that surrounded us, which is why it didn't pertain to me.
Again, I shook my head, "No my curse runs much deeper than the GPC; I'm Shinigami after all."
"Stop that, that's not true. That's only a nickname: like Perfect Solider is to Heero."
"No it's true. It was true when I was four and my whole family died from that damn plague, it was true when I was five and Solo died." I sighed, trying to maintain composure as I continued, "It was true when I was seven and all 245 people at the Maxwell church died, it was true when I was nine and the street gang I joined was gunned down by our rivals.
"It was true all though out the war, when all those countless soldiers died at the hands of my scythe. It was true ten years ago when my friend Brent died from cancer. And it's true now. They were lucky to make it so long with me. So you see it's not just the GPC, I am the true Shinigami because everyone close to be dies, and that is why you have to leave. I don't think I could live though the loss of one more friend."
"Don't forget that I'm cursed as well, Duo. The GPC may not run as deep as yours, but I do survived against incredible odds, and this is no different."
"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you." We were silent for a few moments, until I numbly began to speak again.
"Our five year anniversary was to be tomorrow, you know. I saw Hilde eyeing a bracelet in a store window; I bought it a few days before the accident. It's silver with little hearts on it; she looked great in silver. It's still in the box, hidden in my sock drawer. She would of loved it, I just wish I could of seen her face when she opened it, and how it looked on her dainty wrist."
"I'm sure you will find another woman worthy of that bracelet Duo."
"I could never love someone like I loved Hilde." I looked up at Quatre, for the first time in our conversation. "She was pregnant, you know."
"Who? Hilde?"
"Three weeks. We were trying for over a year. What a cruel twist of irony: she died the very same day she was going to tell me. Why didn't I see it? I mean, she was showing all the signs: the sickness, the breakouts, the weird foods. I guess I wasn't as good of a husband as I could have been, not to not recognize the signs."
"Oh Duo."
"Taylor, that was what I named him."
"I know you two wanted a boy."
"He had black hair and hazel eyes, just like Hilde."
"How."
"I saw him in a dream. He was so beautiful, Quatre, he was so beautiful, so why? Why did he have to die? Why did I have to find out from the doctor that Hilde was carrying this tiny miracle in her womb? Why couldn't he of lived? Not one breath, he never got to take one breath. He hadn't even developed the lungs to take that breath. Where is the mercy in that Quatre?"
"There is none Duo."
*sniff* break out the tissues. Sorry it took me so long to get this up, but I lost my copy with the edits. I just found them tonight ^.^ The next part takes part in Christmas, so I'm going to upload it most likely on the 23rd, unless something happens and I don't. I doubt I'll forget though. Thanks for reading this!
