Shot Down Twice
Author: Oro
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: The Crackpots and These Women, In the Shadow of Two Gunmen, Noel.
Disclaimer: Sorkin's.
Notes: Thanks Tobias Charity for previewing and telling me to KISS. :)
Josh!
Sirens puncture his brain in a monotonous sound as his surroundings melt into disarray. Behind his fluttering eyelids, his eyes are fighting to see the enormous crowd begin to scatter, people running and crying in hysteria. Toby's voice intermixes with the general buzz of the people and the sirens. The light breeze is somehow in contrast with everything else, enhanced as it brushes against his skin, his wounds, his blood. In the back of his mind, he wonders if it's supposed to be this cold.
Didn't you hear me shouting for you? I didn't know where the hell you—
Didn't hear, won't hear. He can't hear. Too cold to hear and it's only 60 degrees, he was told earlier. The cold permeates into his body, flows there, switches places with his blood, now drizzling down his dress shirt in thin, red lines. He gave up trying to see what's going on since what seems like ages ago; no sense of time. Where the hell is he, and what's with all the violins. No, wait. Sirens. Violins. It's all the same to him. His head somehow makes its way to the concrete pavement as his eyes water and everything goes red.
I need help!
It has to be Toby but it sounds nothing like him. Different, childish, familiar. Feminine. Reminds him of cinnamon, he used to say. Not Toby; Joanie. His big sister. Her hair is long but not as messy as his, though she used to run her fingers through his and look at him sympathetically, for he was a little boy and she had held in her possession the power of seniority, which automatically determined how silly he was in comparison to her. He's taken to the hospital now.
Josh, I'm here.
She holds him against her to shield him from the flames, her hand over his mouth to keep him from inhaling the smoke. It's hard to breathe with all the smoke in the room; he coughs on her hand. Joanie says to stay still but his survival skills say otherwise, and so he childishly gives into those, kicking himself free and running out of the house. She lets him go; doesn't run after him. She's only twelve; the next time he sees her, her lungs no longer function and she is put inside a body bag.
Ave Maria. Gratia plena. Maria, gratia plena. Maria, gratia plena. Ave, ave dominus. Dominus tecum.
It's a Jewish funeral, but afterwards they play her favorites to honor her memory. They all sit and remember how her delicate fingers moved the bow over the violin; they take more chicken from the buffet table his mother had arranged for the funeral. They chew the food and wipe their eyes with a cheap paper napkin. Such a shame. Even at his age he knows he should've been there with her, for her, until her last breath and maybe his. They tell him it's alright, but he knows it's not. He may have been a little kid but she was his sister. He should be dead, too.
Why aren't you dead?
Yeah, so he broke his apartment window. It's twisted and strangely comforting to see his blood flow so easily from his body, a bitter shade of red spills on his now pale skin. A pilot who shared his birthday committed suicide; it doesn't mean anything. The pilot's been shot down once; Josh has been shot down twice. The second time, he feels, was his opportunity to make amends with himself and join her. He isn't that lucky. His super is already at the door, shouting for him, pounding on the door. Sigh; he won't be joining her anytime soon.
What's next?
FIN