This came to me awhile ago, while I was listening to a Nickel Creek song. It's different from my usual, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. It might be a one shot; it might not be, dunno yet. It depends on if you like it. Read and review please
Disclaimer: Still don't own any of the Characters, they belong to Joss Whedon, and I still don't make any money off of this. If I did, I would be richer and not have to catch the bus.
Dead and Not Knowing It-
By Cero Morrigan Yuy
"So, like, I told daddy that he shouldn't buy the red car, but does he listen to me?" a girl babbles to a guy, as a young man with a guitar looks on.
It's another night in a bar. Which bar, he doesn't really know, nor care. When you got down to it, bars are bars, the only difference being what state they are in and whether they served strictly human or demon clientele. He'd visited bars across the world, and none of them made a slight difference. All of them had the bartender, the barstools, and dark tables in the back, a dartboard, some people, and the requisite group of youngsters slumming.
Nothing really made a difference to him, he just wanted to escape. Escape life, escape his memories, escape himself, it didn't matter. He earned enough money playing guitar, at darts, or pool to get him to the next bar. The next drunk, the next city, the next girl that looked like her. Her, the one person he'd hoped to understand what he was. He hoped she would care more about whom he was, rather than what he is.
He was a fool. How could someone care for a demon? The bouncy, young woman with all of her life before couldn't care for him. He was the broken down third grade teacher, who lost at everything, Love, life, genetics. He lost before the game even began, before it was even thought of.
One year ago, his life ended. He was dead and knew it. The only problem was his body was refusing to admit it. One year ago, he'd done the big hero thing, and died. He'd confessed his parentage to her, and been rebuffed. She'd turned away, in fear, or scorn, he couldn't tell. He'd saved the half breeds, and left without a backward glance. His visions had moved on to the next person, but his memories weren't as kind. He remembered her with clarity un-blunted by the alcohol he drowned his sorrows in nightly. He knew he was killing himself slowly, his liver turning to rock, but he didn't care. He just wished he had the courage to finish it quickly. All it would take is taking his dagger, and running it down his forearm. All he needed was the courage to do it.
All it would take is what he didn't have, had never even had to begin with. He was the sidekick, the funny secondary character. He wasn't the lead who could do such a thing. He was the momentary relief between acts and he should have remembered that. He didn't deserve the heroine, the vivacious young woman with a pure heart. The one who, in the end, gets the hero, weeping crystal tears, and lives happily ever after.
If only he'd remembered that, he wouldn't be dead. He would be happy with what the secondary character gets. The endless supply of faceless nameless females who will love him until they become important enough to become the lead female, and get the hero. That's what he deserved.
He strums his guitar, sitting in the corner, and looks over the crowd observing them. Everyone looks so young to him, like they shouldn't be there with their happiness, and promise. Don't they understand that life is nothing but tears and sorrow?
His eyes are drawn to the girls who had been speaking before. A blond girl and a redheaded boy are shooting darts into a target. He watches as the third in their group walks up. The requisite dark brooding third part of their party walks up. He wonders if the redheaded boy knows he will lose her to the brooding hero or if he still cherishes hopes of attracting her. He watches as she hugs the brooder, and the redhead hands the darts over after missing the target, smiling lightly, and pulls his laptop out. The two continue playing their game, not noticing the pain in the redhead's eyes.
He can't help it as tears drop down his cheeks, as over the trio his memory superimposes himself, and his friends, a year ago. He as the redhead, his Queen of Hearts as the girl, and Champion as the broody one. The Champion's boyish grin appears as he drops back into his memories of when he was alive. He wishes her face would come into focus, so he could see her smile, but it refuses to. It's just a blur. Her beautiful, expressive face is just a blur, and won't come clear, just like it used to.
He wonders if they miss him, if they even realize that he's gone. He wonders if they are alive, if they know he's dead. He knows he's still moving, but he's dead. He just never had the sense to lie down, to stay where he was. He wonders what it would be like to be alive. He wonders what it would be like to feel. He couldn't anymore. Dead people can't feel.
He slowly packs his guitar up after his stint at playing finished. He sits the rest of the night at the bar, nursing his alcohol along and watching the people move in their patterns of life. He can remember when he was allowed to participate in that dance. But he didn't dance anymore. He wondered how far he could move before tomorrow. He never stayed in the same spot anymore. He would be at another hotel, playing for another crowd again the next day or playing darts, or playing pool long enough to get him to another city the next day. The pattern would extend until his body died, and he could leave. He probably would continue that pattern into eternity and beyond. It didn't matter though. He was content.
At closing time, he walks to his hotel and falls between the sheets. He looks at her picture, and places it where he can see it, first thing in the morning. So that he sees her, Cordelia Chase.
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