Summary: Bo is lost once again and this time, there is nothing capable of bringing her back on track… is there? Sets in a few years after the series finale, episode 516. Pure Doccubus. Rated M for language/brutality, as well as sexual content in later chapters.
This story is dedicated to the open and the true.
May you find and be your true self.
Hey folks! It's finally here and honestly, this feels surreal to even write. It took me over a year to create this piece, and boy, has my life been a rollercoaster since I typed the first words. There were several moments, when I felt so low and so full of despair that I didn't believe I could ever finish it. A notion which hurt like hell, because this story is my most personal one to date – even more so than Undone, which is saying something. I poured my heart and soul into it, I love it dearly, I'm incredibly proud of it, and I consider it my best to date. That being said…
TRIGGER WARNING! Please note that this is very different to my other works, as its tone, especially initially, is extremely melancholic and dark. If you react sensitively to drama/hurt, I suggest you either skip this one altogether until you're in a better place, or at least wait for the release of chapter 3, before you start reading. I'm aiming to upload every Sunday, so the wait will be manageable. Last, not least, I'd like to mention that the foundation for this piece was inspired by a beautiful X-Files fic I read many, many moons ago: "Eleventh Hour" by Rachel Anton.
And now, I very much hope you enjoy!
A Matter of Time
Chapter 1 – Prologue
It was quiet, where she lay. Surrounding her was an all-encompassing silence, only disturbed by the wind – a faint whisper that barely reached her senses. The perfect tranquillity of the surrounding space was almost soothing. Almost. Something was not right…
She felt the cold air lightly caressing her face. The weather had changed over the last weeks. A warm autumn had turned into a cold one. The calm December chill was slowly creeping into her pores, the frost gradually eating her up from the inside, sinking its icy teeth into every single one of her cells. She welcomed the harsh bite – the remaining, ghostly part of her, that, for no reason at all, desperately clung to a life she no longer desired. It was all that was left of her. She was nothing but a shell. Her once enthralling features and body were exhausted and spent. Not that she cared. She wasn't even aware, as the last time she'd looked into a mirror – back when her life had a purpose – seemed a lifetime ago. Back when there had been something to live for. Now, she was but an empty vessel, filled with an indestructible void, that was incessantly suffocating her, while at the same time persistently denying her the grace of death.
Ah, death. Sweet Reaper, why had he still not come for her, when she was starting to miss him like an old friend? She would welcome his rotten stench and gratefully sink into his cold, merciful embrace, the prospect of imminent release coaxing from her a last genuine smile before surrendering to blissful oblivion. But he never came. Why wouldn't he relieve her? Was it her cursed nature that condemned her to enduring this non-life for all eternity, the darkness ever-looming, watching over her like a hate-filled sentinel guarding a detested prisoner?
Her body was weak and drained, her mind numb and blank. She only vaguely noticed the sharpness of the tiny pebbles digging into her tearstained cheeks. When had she started crying? And when had she stopped? She didn't remember. Another breeze grazed her skin, drying the wetness the tears had left behind.
You must get up. You are not finished here.
The voice in her head. Or maybe it was just the wind. It accompanied her, lately, like a nagging intruder she couldn't shake – someone, something she couldn't shut out the way she'd shut out the remaining people in her life.
"But I am", she told the disembodied echo, her quiet voice nothing but a scraping rasp – a hollow, meaningless instrument, hoarse from hours and days of desperate cries and screams.
She shifted slightly, nestling to the loose earth beneath her as if snuggling close to a lover, digging her fingers into the dirt that had become the place where her heart lay. The place that was soon going to be the home of the rest of her dying flesh. Very soon. Death would come eventually, that much was for certain.
You are not finished here, the voice repeated.
This time, she didn't grace it with an answer. Instead, a low growling noise made her way up her throat, resulting in a humourless chuckle breaking free. Oh, yes, she was finished. The voice was wrong. There was nothing left for her in this world, and nobody would convince her otherwise. Not even the people closest to her had succeeded, so why would she listen to this random quarreller?
This was the end. Her end.
Content with her renewed resolution, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, her ultimate faint thought dedicated to the hope that this was going to be the last time. That finally, finally she wouldn't wake up ever again… Wake up to deal with the things she couldn't bear to face. Wake up to people's pleas and reasoning and anger and despair. Wake up to the unreal, the unthinkable fact, the unbendable truth… that her love had died.
It was true. Certainty was once again dawning on her, crushing her ruined soul to crumbs.
Lauren was dead. Forever gone. And it was all Bo's fault.