A/N: This story's title comes from the Greek myth of Orpheus
and his quest to regain his wife, Eurydice, from Hades and
Persephone's Underworld. He is allowed to rescue Eurydice, on the
condition that he must not look back at her until they reach the
mortal plane. However, he breaks this condition and Eurydice is lost
from him forever. I found it to be a fitting metaphor for Spike and
his longing for Julia. This story takes place post- Cowboy Bebop:
The Movie/post-series, following the question of what if Spike had survived? How would he exist?
Ballad for Eurydice
-irishais-
1. Diggin'
It was the only thing keeping him going these days, he realized, staring at the red and white cellophane package in front of him. Another day, another smoke. Another nail in the proverbial coffin. It was strange, though. Whenever he made a discovery like that, Julia usually wandered into his mind, all smoke and black leather and blonde curls.
She wasn't there. She hadn't been in his thoughts, even his idle daydreams, for a while now, and he wondered when she had first disappeared.
He couldn't remember. The thought annoyed him more than he thought it would, and he tapped a finger against the crinkled cellophane package. Did he miss her still? Or had he finally let go, let her slip back into oblivion?
He tried to think of Faye.
Nothing. He didn't even miss the rest of them, Jet and Ed and Ein...Hell, he hadn't even bothered to get in touch with them, except to call when he remembered (which wasn't often) and let them know he was still alive. Still had too much to think about. He had to think. That had been his excuse when he had asked them to drop him back off at Mars a month or two ago. Thinking.
More like self-mutilation. Spike honestly had never thought it possible to ingest as much alcohol as he had in the past few weeks and still be functioning. He had sucked down cigarette after cigarette, in an effort to feel something inside, to hope to sear flesh, to feel pain.
He was numb.
He was afraid he was dead.
Slowly, he brought her to the front of his thoughts, and tried to envision her, bright and happy and full of life despite her darkest secrets that only he had known.
Why couldn't he feel anything? It wasn't like he had known her or anything. She was just some girl, someone who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
With the wrong man.
Spike picked up the short, dented glass and stared at the inch or so of amber liquid coating a couple of half-melted ice cubes. He swirled it around, offered a toast to everyone and no one, and tossed back the remainder of his drink. He waited for the acidic burn of the alcohol searing his throat.
It didn't come.
Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong man.
Hell, maybe she had been the wrong woman.
Spike stared at the package of cigarettes and thought of blonde bombshells and dark-haired vixens and wondered how he had become trapped in memories. Trapped in memories and dreams and still couldn't feel anything. He'd never had much luck with women, anyway, so maybe it was a good thing.
It was definitely time for another drink.
Maybe Lady Luck had finally run out on him, and left him with nothing but goddamn memories of better times.
...Like a devilish angel, or maybe an angelic devil...
He had thought he had seen Julia that night, in the pouring rain.
A ghost between the graves, and he had lost her because his brain decided to play tricks on him. Hard luck woman, indeed. Julia had always been difficult to love, but he had loved her anyway, not knowing why or how or for how long he could love her, but knowing he had to love her. Had to have her, hold her, keep her for himself forever. Had to give up on the living to keep chasing the dead.
Had lost her to a stray bullet, no bigger than the tip of his finger.
He'd gone to Faye, but found little solace there. It wasn't the first time, and he wondered why he bothered. Maybe just for human contact, to see if he was still normal, still mostly whole. She loved him, or at least thought she did. Spike thought that maybe that was when he had stopped being able to feel properly. He scratched at the scar on his stomach absently as he tossed back another drink--maybe subliminally he was trying to stir up some sort of feeling, some emotion.
He'd settle for a painful memory. He had his memories, but it was like watching a movie in grainy black and white, like watching someone else's life. There was nothing there. No feelings. No ghosts of whispers of a woman's voice. No imagined touch.
Nothing.
I've gotta be dead, Spike thought. Can't carry that weight and feel nothing. Gotta be dead.
He asked the bartender for another refill.
Gotta be dead.