The Sceptic's Prayer
Disclaimer: A girl can dream, but unfortunately I own neither The West Wing, nor any of the characters presented below. They are all the property of NBC, The Warner Brothers, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Author's Note: This is my first WW-fanfic, so be as kind as possible... Also, I should probably add that English isn't my first language, so if there are any unnecessary grammar or spelling mistakes, I apologize. It's a J/D fic, post-"Memorial Day".
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"Dear God..."
I give a small laugh, against my will. Not because it's funny, but because of the irony of the moment. I don't think I've ever begun a sentence, or even a swift thought, with those words.
"Dear God..."
I wasn't raised in a deeply religious family, and I'm not a religious man myself. This doesn't mean that I'm an ateist, nor is it to be said that I'm someone who keeps inner discussion with myself, questioning His existance. I've just never really reflected on the matter. Until now.
"Dear God, how can this much shit happen to a guy in a lifetime?"
I know, it's an abrupt question, and probably not one you should ask someone you've never even spoken to before. But to hell with it, I want an answer.
"Dear God, if you exist, why do you hate me so much?"
I know, I have an ego which outclasses even Texas and sometimes Alaska in size. I know, I can be an elitist, a jerk, a jackass and a lot of other things. I'm – believe it or not – well aware of the fact that I rarely listen to anyone unless they're not, well... me.
"But, God, I swear that most of the time, I'm really not a bad guy."
First He – if there is such a He – killed my sister Joanie. Then my father. And now... he wants my Donna.
"Dear God, if I may be so bold to ask... why?"
She's in surgery right now. A Pulmonary Embolism, a blood-clot. The same thing that killed my father.
"Why, God? Did it work so well last time that you decided to do it again?"
My Donna? Did I just call her my Donna back there? Yeah, I suppose I did. She's my assistant, my right hand. She is my friend, my help in need. And she's my heart, my soul, my very being. My lungs, my entire self, the air I breathe. My Donna.
"Dear God, I don't know if you exist or not, because I've honestly never bothered to bother about it. But Donnatella Moss? She almost makes me believe in angels."
Donna once quoted the Robert Herrick poem to me. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may." At that time, those lines concerned another woman, but now, as I'm sitting here outside the operating-room with my hands clasped into some silly prayer to a god I don't even believe in, I come to think of them again. So many chances I've had, so many moments I've missed, being too scared, too terrified, to tell her how I feel. But something has always come in between. Republicans, militaries, photographers...
And now. Now, I might have lost my very last chance to "gather my rosebuds". And, as I remember her face, her voice, her smell, her everything, I also recall how the poem continues. "This same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying."
I'll tell her when she wakes up, everything I've never told her. That to hell with all photographers in the whole damn world – she's my Donna. I'll tell her that. Just as soon as she wakes up. If she wakes... no, I don't want to think about what will happen if she doesn't... no.
"Dear God, I hate feeling helpless. I've always been able to fix anything. Why can't I fix this?"
"Dear God, I don't believe in you. If this much shit really can happen to one guy in a lifetime, then how can I do that? However, you're my last hope. I can't fix my Donna. I couldn't save Joanie, I couldn't save my father. And I can't save her. So I'm clinging on to a small hope of a greater force somewhere out there. Dear God, if you are out there, if you hear me... help her."
I lean backwards in my chair and close my eyes.
"Dear God... don't kill my Donna."