"Is it really Vash?"
"Yes, son. It's really him." Or what's left of him. And couldn't they find a better photo?
Tokens left by mourners, admirers—and enemies—surround the stone of simple gray granite. Bullets here, bottles of cheap beer there…a faint scent of urine, everywhere.
"Rest in peace, you—Daddy, what does 'SOB' mean?"
He tousles his son's hair, black and fine.
"Go to the car and help your mother, Nicholas." This calls for a toast. Kuroneko…warm, but palatable.
Hate me, he thought, leaving the empty bottle. Hate me and live.
"Rest in peace, you sonofabitch," Vash said.
(Apologies to John Henry "Doc" Holliday…or what's left of him!)
Author's Notes
Dueser: You are kind, perhaps kinder than I deserve. Every time I try to outsmart myself I usually succeed. ;)
I live in western Colorado, about eighty-five miles from Glenwood Springs. A short (but very steep!) hike from the city is the little cemetery that is the final resting place of one "Doc" Holliday. (If you've seen the movie 'Tombstone', you'll know who he was.) His monument bears his picture and is usually surrounded by trinkets left by visitors: poker chips, playing cards, and the like. His original headstone was stolen by vandals and no one knows the actual location of his grave.
I suppose what I wanted to convey is that Vash is saying goodbye to his old self, that it didn't matter if people hated him because they're alive to hate him.
Sometimes writing a drabble is like squeezing a handful of Jell-O...