COMBO FIC. WRITTEN BY BECKA AND MYSELF DURING LUNCH. ENJOY.
DON'T OWN JL.
Why?
Have you ever thought of that word? I mean, really thought about it? It's a simple word and almost anyone can use it, but can you define it?
I can now. Because I use it everyday when I wake up, still confined to the same bed I was six months ago.
Multiple broken bones, contusions, torn muscles, a hairline fracture in my skull.
The nurses won't come to see me unless it is necessary. Oh, they were friendly enough when I was first brought in, trying to comfort me, telling me stories of people they had lost.
But they don't know. They have no idea what it is like to enter a place with six people and being the only one to get out.
My wife is dead, my best friend is dead, and my teammates are dead. How the hell can they relate?
How dare they even try!
I still cannot understand why I was the only one who lived. If you can call this living, reduced to depending on strangers, forced to have every aspect of my life reviewed.
Survivor's guilt, that's what the psychiatrist calls it. And supposedly, it happens to everyone who has to deal with this sort of situation.
Right.
How many people have seen their friends shot down one by one by an alien bent on taking over the universe? The blasts meant for me missed and I was sent off the cliff, landing on rocks and ocean water below.
I should have died with them.
It doesn't take a genius to see what people are saying. I am a coward. I jumped off that cliff to save myself. And, I think, a part of me did or at least wanted to.
I have never had a fear of death; I don't think anyone ever does. What I fear is dying. Dying, not death, there is a difference.
But no one knows. No one knows the difference. People become so afraid of death they forget to fear dying.
Death would be the eternal peace that I shall never receive…I don't deserve it.
This is my punishment for not dying with them. Why didn't I?
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A young nurse walks in carrying a tray of pills and a somber attitude. She must be new. The older nurses love to send rookies to my room, just to give them a run for their money. I can't help but smirk, she looks as if I'm going to bite her head off, crush her bones, grind it all together and drink the fluids with a bendy straw. I've had way too much time to myself.
She places my pills on the table where I can reach them and looks around,
" Uh…do you need anything?"
" Yeah." Her eyes went wide.
" Oh ok. What do you want?"
" You to leave." Her eyes snapped closed in shock and slowly they reopened. She stood up to her full height, an unimpressive five foot one, and clicked her heels as she spun around, walking out of the room with her pointy nose in the air.
I must have a record by now. Hell, I know I have a record by now.
Almost as soon as the door closes, it reopens and in comes Mister 'Let's talk about our feelings' Hawkins with his false smile and his annoying little bowler hat.
God I hate that hat. Is that even possible? I mean it's not like it ever did anything to me. But…gahh…I hate that hat. He smiles widely, revealing a gap between some of his bottom teeth. He once told me he lost them in a bar fight. One day I'll ask who did it, not that I care; I just want to shake the hand of the drunk who helped to make my day every Tuesday. He tips his bowler in my direction and places a hand on his gut.
To say he is fat is an understatement. The man is his own continent.
He walks the length of the room and takes his usual seat,
" I see you've dismissed yet another nurse."
Here we go again.
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Hawkins left me a notebook this time and instructions. Whenever I think, whenever I breathe, whenever I wake up screaming, I should write or sketch in the book. He used the word draw, but I don't draw. My best friend drew, not good drawings mind you, but he tried and you had to respect a guy who at least tried.
I opened the book and gazed at the off white blank pages. Picking up a ballpoint pen, I click it out and draw a line across the page. The line seems to glow, as if forming a new picture in my head. A laser blast.
"Somebody! Help!"
"John! Get down!"
"Shayera!!"
"Where is she?"
"I can't find Diana!"
"She's gone."
"Run."
"I can't"
"Leave him. He's gone."
"Lantern!"
"Superman!"
"Flash?"
"Diana."
"J'onn…"
"Batman!"
"…Hawkgirl…"
The book sails across the room and I can feel the tears build up in my eyes.
"Why! Why! WHY! WHY!!" I scream. "Why did they die? Why am I the only one…"
A knock at my door silences me and I attempt to regain myself.
" Come in." My voice cracks and I wipe at my eyes. The same young nurse comes into my room, her face blank,
"Mr. Stewart, your son is here."