Disclaimer Lyrics to 'Answer' by Sarah McLachlan.
It's wet and damp as a stark, cold gale breezes through the eerie light of the dreary afternoon. Somewhere a bird chirps, but overhead the skies are dark with the promise of oncoming rain. She sniffs the air – and all she smells is the stringent, painful scent of mourning.
It's not supposed to be this way, she knows as her feet shift within her black pumps. Peyton Sawyer wouldn't have wanted to go out this way. Perhaps this is what some people might have surmised her final exit to be like – but Brooke knew otherwise. Brooke scoffs off the preacher and the person selected to deliver the eulogy. They're barely scratching the surface.
It's suddenly cold and Brooke Davis wraps her arms about her black-clad body and shivers. She feels clammy and sick and ill and would rather be anywhere but here but knows she has to be and all she wants to do is vomit and cry and sob and wail and scream and blame God and cry some more...
But if this terrible, tragic incident has taught Brooke Davis anything, it's that crying won't save anyone. There's no retribution – no retaliation – for what happened. And Brooke just can't bring herself to blame God.
She doesn't hear anything anymore, almost as if she's numb to the pain due to prolonged exposure - exposure to sadness, depression, and questions that will never have an answer. Like why this had to happen? And why to Peyton? If anyone had this coming, Brooke knew without a shadow of a doubt her karma was her damning downfall.
But – much like crying – pondering over the machinations of something that had already occurred would do nothing more than harbor and fuel resentment and anger. And she couldn't handle anymore of that right now. She was on overload.
Some pretty girl from school leads a small ensemble of students from Tree Hill High as they sing some melodious, haunting tune – Natalie Merchant's 'Kind and Generous', Brooke thinks, but she can't be sure. She fidgets in her chair. This whole situation is uncomfortable and Brooke isn't sure, but she thinks that she may be sick. That rancid, bitter taste is formulating in the back of her throat and all she wants to do is go home to her alcohol – her saving grace. At least that makes this whole situation seem bearable.
Brooke takes one long look around at those sitting near her. In front of her are Nathan, Haley, and Theresa, with Jake and his daughter a little further down the row. Haley and Theresa are both crying softly. Next to Nathan sits Deb and Dan – and Brooke can taste the palpable tension between the two. Apparently even death couldn't bring those two together. Brooke looks next to her and sees Karen, Keith, and him...Lucas.
He's been distant – his eyes are empty and Brooke knows this whole death thing has hit him especially hard. She'll never understand that to Lucas the triangle seemed almost like a betrayal to the blonde cheerleader – that he choosing Brooke left Peyton with nothing, no one, nada. And that he felt she died completely and utterly alone. Brooke's green eyes linger on his face and then she averts her gaze, staring ahead again. When she turns, he looks at her mournfully, his sapphire orbs full of liquid, his mouth quivering. And all he wants is to reach out to her and reassure her because he knows she's taking this harder than him – probably harder than any of them. But he feels this guilt burning in him like a knife in his side.
And he, too, looks back at the preacher before him.
The congregation dissipates as the two caskets stand like beacons amidst the green grass, trees, and concrete tombstones awaiting their plunge into the soft ground below. A soft, hazy drizzle falls as Brooke makes her way through the wet lawn beneath her high-heeled feet. She steps lightly so as not to sink – both into the muddy grass and as she tries to stay afloat surrounded by everything going on.
Something tells her she's failing miserably.
Larry Sawyer and the Smith family decided that the funeral services for Tim and Peyton would be simultaneous – as they shared a majority of the same friends. It saved them all a trip.
Brooke looks forlornly as Larry Sawyer's shaking hand rests on the closed casket, his shoulders heaving as he sobs quietly, a handkerchief held to his face to stifle the noise. Shari Smith and her husband look to be in roughly the same condition.
"I guess she's with her mom now."
Brooke turns quickly, caught off guard, and forces a smile onto her face at Lucas' approach. She's happy he's here but knows something is amiss. Things haven't been normal since the accident.
"Yeah," Brooke replies quietly as she tilts her head, her styled hair falling in her face. But she can't take her eyes off of Larry Sawyer. She can empathize with him. "I miss her Luke."
"Yeah. Me too." She feels him take her hand as their fingers lace together. He pulls her hand up to his lips and softly kisses the back. Somehow the gesture stabilizes her. She looks into his eyes and finally feels like it's safe to break down, to succumb. That he'll hold her in this weakened state and guard her from whatever demons could consume her in her vulnerability.
But the reality is that he is just as frail as she is.
Her chin quivers and she quickly looks away, swatting a tear from the corner of her eye. But he takes her in his arms, resting his chin on her head, despite his languor.
"It's ok, Brooke. You don't have to be strong anymore."
She smiles tenderly against the soft linen of his polo shirt. He's trying to be tough, to be a man. Gotta give him points for his effort. But her stubbornness soon falters and somehow the tears start rolling slowly down her cheeks, then with a greater velocity. She doesn't understand how, because she thinks she's controlling it all – controlling her emotions and her pain. She was almost positive she had it in check. But finally the bloody obvious dawns on her ... it's not about her anymore.
"You should go say goodbye."
She looks up at him; her face is streaked with these tears she didn't want to shed here, resentful and angry and pissed off that she did. But she knows what she's got to do, what she's morally obligated to do...and what she came here to do.
Brooke Davis nods, and looks at the ground. She forces a smile and wipes her eyes. Playfully she punches his pectoral.
"You got it."
Lucas nods and leans in to kiss her forehead. Brooke closes her eyes, savoring the moment. Her hands go up to his soft cheeks. "Thank you, Lucas. I know how hard this is for you and I'm very, very grateful to have you here with me."
"It's what you deserve Brooke," he smiles. "You shouldn't have to be alone in something like this. And I'm sorry about the way I'm acting..." He pauses, as his eyes lock intently on hers, honed straight in to her soul. "I'll work all this out, I promise."
Brooke nods, holding her forced smile. "I know you will." She kisses him softly then turns.
"Want me to wait up for you?" Lucas asks.
"Nah," she grins despite it all. "Go on ahead; I'll call you later."
God, she's a good actress.
And since he has nothing more to say, Lucas Scott takes one look at the casket and looks at his loafer-clad feet, his face completely devoid of all emotion, even his despondency. He watches Brooke go, then turns down the sidewalk towards the car, hiding his tears from all those around.
For some reason the sun manages to permeate through the clouds, gravitating down to the small area that hosts Tim and Peyton's respective final resting places like a holy sanctum. Larry Sawyer has obviously finished everything, having lost everything he had left to live for. Brooke's heart breaks for him as she slowly walks onto the concrete dais.
Having been leaning against the wooden funerary box, Larry stands, his hand resting on the mahogany surface. He sees Brooke and smiles.
"Bet you never thought you'd see me like this, huh Brookey?" He laughs.
Brooke tries to smile reassuringly, to let the man know that everything hasn't left him. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Sawyer."
"Don't be, Brooke. You knew her better than I did. I worked so hard to make her happy that I missed seeing my own daughter grow up." His eyes travel from the bin back to Brooke. "But you were. And for that I couldn't be more thankful."
"Mr. Sawyer, I couldn't have been any luckier to have a person like Peyton to keep my in check."
He acknowledges her solemnly. "I know she valued your friendship more than anything in the world." He walks towards her and places his hand on her shoulder and leans in to kiss her on the cheek. "Thanks again for being there, Brookey. Don't be a stranger around the place. I don't know if I'd be able to stand that."
She hugs him and then he leaves, walking off into the surreal, hazy light beyond.
Brooke turns back to Peyton and clears her throat, high heels clip-clapping on the cold, hard landing beneath her feet. "Well girlfriend, looks like it's just you and me now." She stands against the large crate and caresses the top, imagining the beautiful girl beneath. "I hope they didn't make you out all froofy. I picked out your grungiest, punkiest clothes possible so you shouldn't have anything to bitch about."
Brooke Davis swallows as a lump formulates in her throat. "I don't have much time – but I guess I just wanted to thank you. Without you, I don't know if I'd be here today." Her fingers travel down the intricately carved ridges of the burgundy casket as she stares at nothing in particular. "You're really the first person I ever truly loved."
She steps away – nothing is left to say. Her head bobs as she remembers something.
"Oh – I almost forgot." She reaches into her Louis Vuitton and pulls out a framed picture – the same picture Brooke gazed into that night her mother informed her of Peyton's death ... the one with 'Best Friend's' scrawled across the top. Their faces are priceless.
"We are some hot bitches," she giggles despite the barrage of tears. Brooke places the picture on top of the casket. "And just for frosting on the cake..." She places the Beyoncé Knowles CD beneath it. "Sorry – I just thought maybe you'd be haunted by my music forever in eternity." Brooke laughs as she imagines Peyton cringing at her friend's shallower taste in music. Regardless, Brooke kneels down and kisses the top of the casket.
"Thanks again," she says softly, sadly, as her voice catches in her throat. "You're the best, ever."
Finally, she turns to Tim's casket and smiles. "You too buddy – you're the one guy I never got around to scoring with. Boy you missed out," she chuckles. "You always seemed to make everything more light-hearted. And, what with all this drama we sure as hell needed that."
"I'll have to agree with you on that one."
Brooke turns again, startled for the second time today.
"Nathan." She smiles slowly, sadly. "People have got to start telling me before they sneak up and scare the shit outta me." She reaches into her purse again and dabs at her eyes, smearing her mascara.
"That was sweet, I didn't know you were capable of being that compassionate," Nathan beams sarcastically, not unkindly.
"Yeah – neither did I," she laughs quietly. "Didn't mean to go all Oprah in front of you."
"It's no problem, Brooke. I guess it's good to know someone's going through what I'm feeling."
"I guess. How have you been?" she inquires softly, her face sympathetic.
"I'm ok," the tall, dark-haired boy replies. "You?"
"Been better."
Nathan nods, and then turns to look at both of the caskets. "You know, the one thing I regret the most out of any of the shitty, terrible things I've ever done was the way things ended with Peyton."
"Don't regret it, Nathan." Brooke places a reassuring hand on his broad shoulder. "If Peyton couldn't make a man out of you, I know for a fact she was glad you found someone who could finally come through in that department." Brooke smiles at Nathan, who returns her gaze and smiles hesitantly in turn.
"Tim was a really good guy, you know. I know a lot of people think he was just fun and games, living for the moment – and I know sometimes I took him for granted... But the guy was really the only constant in my life. And now that that's gone I'm getting so much closer to being alone..."
Brooke can barely believe what she's seeing: Nathan Scott, the quintessential epitome of machismo, big shot bad boy's lip shaking. He's on the verge of tears and Brooke's stunned, but manages to regain her composure.
"Nah, Nate. I know this is corny as hell but they're only gone if you let them be. And I don't know about you – but I'm not prepared to do that." Her hands dig into his shoulders as she stares at him hard. "Peyton's made me the person I am now, like she did to you. The same with Tim. They're a part of us."
Brooke embraces Nathan Scott and they stand, clasping eachother and crying for what seems like an eternity. As they finally let go of each other Nathan laughs. "Thanks Brooke."
"You're welcome."
"Let's get outta here," Nathan declares as he descends the steps into the lawn.
"Sounds like a plan," Brooke says, following in step.
But not before a final goodbye; she looks over her shoulder one last time. "You're angels – both of you."
And then it's over, and Brooke feels a weight lifted off of her shoulders.
But sadly – it's a weight she's not sure she wants gone.
...Until the stars have all burnt out, you'll still be burning so bright, cast me gently into morning, for the night has been unkind...
It's wet and damp as a stark, cold gale breezes through the eerie light of the dreary afternoon. Somewhere a bird chirps, but overhead the skies are dark with the promise of oncoming rain. She sniffs the air – and all she smells is the stringent, painful scent of mourning.
It's not supposed to be this way, she knows as her feet shift within her black pumps. Peyton Sawyer wouldn't have wanted to go out this way. Perhaps this is what some people might have surmised her final exit to be like – but Brooke knew otherwise. Brooke scoffs off the preacher and the person selected to deliver the eulogy. They're barely scratching the surface.
It's suddenly cold and Brooke Davis wraps her arms about her black-clad body and shivers. She feels clammy and sick and ill and would rather be anywhere but here but knows she has to be and all she wants to do is vomit and cry and sob and wail and scream and blame God and cry some more...
But if this terrible, tragic incident has taught Brooke Davis anything, it's that crying won't save anyone. There's no retribution – no retaliation – for what happened. And Brooke just can't bring herself to blame God.
She doesn't hear anything anymore, almost as if she's numb to the pain due to prolonged exposure - exposure to sadness, depression, and questions that will never have an answer. Like why this had to happen? And why to Peyton? If anyone had this coming, Brooke knew without a shadow of a doubt her karma was her damning downfall.
But – much like crying – pondering over the machinations of something that had already occurred would do nothing more than harbor and fuel resentment and anger. And she couldn't handle anymore of that right now. She was on overload.
Some pretty girl from school leads a small ensemble of students from Tree Hill High as they sing some melodious, haunting tune – Natalie Merchant's 'Kind and Generous', Brooke thinks, but she can't be sure. She fidgets in her chair. This whole situation is uncomfortable and Brooke isn't sure, but she thinks that she may be sick. That rancid, bitter taste is formulating in the back of her throat and all she wants to do is go home to her alcohol – her saving grace. At least that makes this whole situation seem bearable.
Brooke takes one long look around at those sitting near her. In front of her are Nathan, Haley, and Theresa, with Jake and his daughter a little further down the row. Haley and Theresa are both crying softly. Next to Nathan sits Deb and Dan – and Brooke can taste the palpable tension between the two. Apparently even death couldn't bring those two together. Brooke looks next to her and sees Karen, Keith, and him...Lucas.
He's been distant – his eyes are empty and Brooke knows this whole death thing has hit him especially hard. She'll never understand that to Lucas the triangle seemed almost like a betrayal to the blonde cheerleader – that he choosing Brooke left Peyton with nothing, no one, nada. And that he felt she died completely and utterly alone. Brooke's green eyes linger on his face and then she averts her gaze, staring ahead again. When she turns, he looks at her mournfully, his sapphire orbs full of liquid, his mouth quivering. And all he wants is to reach out to her and reassure her because he knows she's taking this harder than him – probably harder than any of them. But he feels this guilt burning in him like a knife in his side.
And he, too, looks back at the preacher before him.
The congregation dissipates as the two caskets stand like beacons amidst the green grass, trees, and concrete tombstones awaiting their plunge into the soft ground below. A soft, hazy drizzle falls as Brooke makes her way through the wet lawn beneath her high-heeled feet. She steps lightly so as not to sink – both into the muddy grass and as she tries to stay afloat surrounded by everything going on.
Something tells her she's failing miserably.
Larry Sawyer and the Smith family decided that the funeral services for Tim and Peyton would be simultaneous – as they shared a majority of the same friends. It saved them all a trip.
Brooke looks forlornly as Larry Sawyer's shaking hand rests on the closed casket, his shoulders heaving as he sobs quietly, a handkerchief held to his face to stifle the noise. Shari Smith and her husband look to be in roughly the same condition.
"I guess she's with her mom now."
Brooke turns quickly, caught off guard, and forces a smile onto her face at Lucas' approach. She's happy he's here but knows something is amiss. Things haven't been normal since the accident.
"Yeah," Brooke replies quietly as she tilts her head, her styled hair falling in her face. But she can't take her eyes off of Larry Sawyer. She can empathize with him. "I miss her Luke."
"Yeah. Me too." She feels him take her hand as their fingers lace together. He pulls her hand up to his lips and softly kisses the back. Somehow the gesture stabilizes her. She looks into his eyes and finally feels like it's safe to break down, to succumb. That he'll hold her in this weakened state and guard her from whatever demons could consume her in her vulnerability.
But the reality is that he is just as frail as she is.
Her chin quivers and she quickly looks away, swatting a tear from the corner of her eye. But he takes her in his arms, resting his chin on her head, despite his languor.
"It's ok, Brooke. You don't have to be strong anymore."
She smiles tenderly against the soft linen of his polo shirt. He's trying to be tough, to be a man. Gotta give him points for his effort. But her stubbornness soon falters and somehow the tears start rolling slowly down her cheeks, then with a greater velocity. She doesn't understand how, because she thinks she's controlling it all – controlling her emotions and her pain. She was almost positive she had it in check. But finally the bloody obvious dawns on her ... it's not about her anymore.
"You should go say goodbye."
She looks up at him; her face is streaked with these tears she didn't want to shed here, resentful and angry and pissed off that she did. But she knows what she's got to do, what she's morally obligated to do...and what she came here to do.
Brooke Davis nods, and looks at the ground. She forces a smile and wipes her eyes. Playfully she punches his pectoral.
"You got it."
Lucas nods and leans in to kiss her forehead. Brooke closes her eyes, savoring the moment. Her hands go up to his soft cheeks. "Thank you, Lucas. I know how hard this is for you and I'm very, very grateful to have you here with me."
"It's what you deserve Brooke," he smiles. "You shouldn't have to be alone in something like this. And I'm sorry about the way I'm acting..." He pauses, as his eyes lock intently on hers, honed straight in to her soul. "I'll work all this out, I promise."
Brooke nods, holding her forced smile. "I know you will." She kisses him softly then turns.
"Want me to wait up for you?" Lucas asks.
"Nah," she grins despite it all. "Go on ahead; I'll call you later."
God, she's a good actress.
And since he has nothing more to say, Lucas Scott takes one look at the casket and looks at his loafer-clad feet, his face completely devoid of all emotion, even his despondency. He watches Brooke go, then turns down the sidewalk towards the car, hiding his tears from all those around.
For some reason the sun manages to permeate through the clouds, gravitating down to the small area that hosts Tim and Peyton's respective final resting places like a holy sanctum. Larry Sawyer has obviously finished everything, having lost everything he had left to live for. Brooke's heart breaks for him as she slowly walks onto the concrete dais.
Having been leaning against the wooden funerary box, Larry stands, his hand resting on the mahogany surface. He sees Brooke and smiles.
"Bet you never thought you'd see me like this, huh Brookey?" He laughs.
Brooke tries to smile reassuringly, to let the man know that everything hasn't left him. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Sawyer."
"Don't be, Brooke. You knew her better than I did. I worked so hard to make her happy that I missed seeing my own daughter grow up." His eyes travel from the bin back to Brooke. "But you were. And for that I couldn't be more thankful."
"Mr. Sawyer, I couldn't have been any luckier to have a person like Peyton to keep my in check."
He acknowledges her solemnly. "I know she valued your friendship more than anything in the world." He walks towards her and places his hand on her shoulder and leans in to kiss her on the cheek. "Thanks again for being there, Brookey. Don't be a stranger around the place. I don't know if I'd be able to stand that."
She hugs him and then he leaves, walking off into the surreal, hazy light beyond.
Brooke turns back to Peyton and clears her throat, high heels clip-clapping on the cold, hard landing beneath her feet. "Well girlfriend, looks like it's just you and me now." She stands against the large crate and caresses the top, imagining the beautiful girl beneath. "I hope they didn't make you out all froofy. I picked out your grungiest, punkiest clothes possible so you shouldn't have anything to bitch about."
Brooke Davis swallows as a lump formulates in her throat. "I don't have much time – but I guess I just wanted to thank you. Without you, I don't know if I'd be here today." Her fingers travel down the intricately carved ridges of the burgundy casket as she stares at nothing in particular. "You're really the first person I ever truly loved."
She steps away – nothing is left to say. Her head bobs as she remembers something.
"Oh – I almost forgot." She reaches into her Louis Vuitton and pulls out a framed picture – the same picture Brooke gazed into that night her mother informed her of Peyton's death ... the one with 'Best Friend's' scrawled across the top. Their faces are priceless.
"We are some hot bitches," she giggles despite the barrage of tears. Brooke places the picture on top of the casket. "And just for frosting on the cake..." She places the Beyoncé Knowles CD beneath it. "Sorry – I just thought maybe you'd be haunted by my music forever in eternity." Brooke laughs as she imagines Peyton cringing at her friend's shallower taste in music. Regardless, Brooke kneels down and kisses the top of the casket.
"Thanks again," she says softly, sadly, as her voice catches in her throat. "You're the best, ever."
Finally, she turns to Tim's casket and smiles. "You too buddy – you're the one guy I never got around to scoring with. Boy you missed out," she chuckles. "You always seemed to make everything more light-hearted. And, what with all this drama we sure as hell needed that."
"I'll have to agree with you on that one."
Brooke turns again, startled for the second time today.
"Nathan." She smiles slowly, sadly. "People have got to start telling me before they sneak up and scare the shit outta me." She reaches into her purse again and dabs at her eyes, smearing her mascara.
"That was sweet, I didn't know you were capable of being that compassionate," Nathan beams sarcastically, not unkindly.
"Yeah – neither did I," she laughs quietly. "Didn't mean to go all Oprah in front of you."
"It's no problem, Brooke. I guess it's good to know someone's going through what I'm feeling."
"I guess. How have you been?" she inquires softly, her face sympathetic.
"I'm ok," the tall, dark-haired boy replies. "You?"
"Been better."
Nathan nods, and then turns to look at both of the caskets. "You know, the one thing I regret the most out of any of the shitty, terrible things I've ever done was the way things ended with Peyton."
"Don't regret it, Nathan." Brooke places a reassuring hand on his broad shoulder. "If Peyton couldn't make a man out of you, I know for a fact she was glad you found someone who could finally come through in that department." Brooke smiles at Nathan, who returns her gaze and smiles hesitantly in turn.
"Tim was a really good guy, you know. I know a lot of people think he was just fun and games, living for the moment – and I know sometimes I took him for granted... But the guy was really the only constant in my life. And now that that's gone I'm getting so much closer to being alone..."
Brooke can barely believe what she's seeing: Nathan Scott, the quintessential epitome of machismo, big shot bad boy's lip shaking. He's on the verge of tears and Brooke's stunned, but manages to regain her composure.
"Nah, Nate. I know this is corny as hell but they're only gone if you let them be. And I don't know about you – but I'm not prepared to do that." Her hands dig into his shoulders as she stares at him hard. "Peyton's made me the person I am now, like she did to you. The same with Tim. They're a part of us."
Brooke embraces Nathan Scott and they stand, clasping eachother and crying for what seems like an eternity. As they finally let go of each other Nathan laughs. "Thanks Brooke."
"You're welcome."
"Let's get outta here," Nathan declares as he descends the steps into the lawn.
"Sounds like a plan," Brooke says, following in step.
But not before a final goodbye; she looks over her shoulder one last time. "You're angels – both of you."
And then it's over, and Brooke feels a weight lifted off of her shoulders.
But sadly – it's a weight she's not sure she wants gone.
...Until the stars have all burnt out, you'll still be burning so bright, cast me gently into morning, for the night has been unkind...