Title: Seeing Is The First Step
Rating: K+ (There's a bit of blood, but not much – rated to be on the safe side – hey, I'm paranoid, cope with it!)
Summary: Seeing is the first part of acceptance, she knows that, but how can she accept it when she cannot see it?
Disclaimer: I don't own Firefly, or Serenity, and I made no money from writing this fic.
This was actually written and submitted for my school magazine, but I don't know if it's in it yet (would be cool if it was) and that's why there are no names.
And it's like a prequel to my other fic, Serenity Shattered, which is way longer.
Seeing Is The First Step
She dragged her leaden feet up the metal stairs, forcing her unwilling body to move. Her footsteps rung loud in the echoing space, the only sound in the place she had once called Home. The others had hung behind, bantering with one another, trying to replace the heart and soul that they had lost. The loss cut them all deeply, herself most of all. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, but she didn't let the tears fall – she had learned long ago that to cry was to be weak.
She turned the corner and looked along the corridor. A stretch of hallway and flight of stairs separated her from him. A spasm of emotional pain flashed through her soul. He had been so happy. Of course he hadn't shown it, but she could read him like an open book. The ultimate moment in his life had just been completed. From point on, surely, nothing bad would ever happen. Could ever happen.
Slowly, so slowly, she started to move along the corridor. The dim lighting barely illuminated anything, but she didn't have to be able see to find her way. She had walked this course every day for the past five years, it was second nature. Often he had strode beside her, when the alarms had blared and death was looming on the horizon. Her wrist would brush against his bare arm, and he would glance over at her. He would smile, his vibrant blue eyes sparkling with excitement and anticipation.
The tip of her boot bumped against the base of the steps. She looked up. Eight steps. She raised her leg and planted her foot on the first step.
One, she thought, her mind oddly detached.
His face swum before her eyes.
The second step. Two.
A laugh, bright, happy.
The third step. Three.
A twinkling azure gaze, full of bare emotion.
Four.
Corny jokes, spilling from his lips – her laugh in response.
Five.
Blond hair, shining under the harsh lights.
Six.
The utter focus on his features as he grappled with the controls.
Seven.
His foolish bravery, often stretching into apparent arrogance.
Eight.
Her mind stopped, frozen.
Silence.
Icy claws grabbed at her heart as she saw the back of the chair. She took a tentative step forward, trying not to break down, to keep her elaborate façade in place. Her eyes flickered downwards, and she swallowed. The floor was stained, rusty brown in patches, sticky crimson in others.
She pulled her gaze up. She slowly reached out, and her fingers brushed the smooth, worn leather. Get yourself together, she told herself. See the body. Accept it. Move on. Like you always do. She braced herself, and spun the chair around.
Her heart crumpled and died in that instant.
"Where is he?" she breathed.
The chair where that beautiful soul had been extinguished was empty.
Confusion flickered across her face. "What's happened?" she breathed. "Where are you?"
The world blurred around her. "Where are you?" she repeated slowly, breathily. She slowly sat down, the chair creaking beneath her. Who would do that? Who would take him from her?
She felt dampness on her face.
Tears?
Crying shows weakness, that was something she knew.
See the body. Accept it. Move on.
But seeing was the first step.
And she couldn't see her husband's body.
And she was weak.
And she wept.
end