I do not own Sons of Anarchy.
This one was a bitch to write. Just saying.
Want a song or two to go with this? Listen to In the Mourning by Paramore and Shadow of the Day by Linkin Park. (Songs I wrote this to)
Chibs was silent. Not out of respect, more as if he had nothing left to say.
He'd thought he'd said all he'd needed to. All he could. Now he was left with the regret of not saying more when he'd had the chance.
People walked past. Men in kuttes, women in black; all grieving. A few looks were cast his way, but he paid them no heed. They were nothing to him just as he was nothing to them; only a source of interest and vague curiosity.
Chibs had known. He'd known something and yet had done nothing. Was he meant to feel remorse? Guilt? Anger? Pain?
Grief?
But no. He felt nothing. Actually, he was curiously numb. Trapped in his own bubble where nothing affected him. At the moment he felt like a bystander, looking through glass, looking in from the outside at the pain reflected around him.
It would've interested him had he not lost interest.
It was set aside in a different room, like with Half-Sac. His brothers lined the entrance. They stood aside, saying nothing. They'd already paid their respects, stood above and whispered their sorrows to a man who had never heard them and was now hearing them too late.
He felt their eyes on him, of course. Worry and concern latched to him. They worried that he was feeling too much to feel at all.
Which could've been the case. But he lost the ability to care.
He stepped into the room, eyes laid upon the casket on the dais. He walked forward slowly, feeling disconnected. The kutte was laid on the casket, the patch of the reaper and Sons of Anarchy California staring up at those who gazed upon it.
Maybe it was disbelief that kept him from comprehending that there was a body in there. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't want to know. Either way, it didn't bother him. It was another body. Just another body.
Wasn't it always a body?
His eyes rose slowly to the picture depicted above the casket, grinning with amusement and joy. Chibs felt the glass separating him from everyone else crack slightly, and he pushed it away, shaking his head once and looking away from the picture, frowning.
He rested his hand on the casket, on the reaper. He felt nothing.
When was the last time he had felt something?
Chibs was wearing his kutte, of course. All of the Sons were. It was always that way.
He slid it off his shoulders without a second thought, and heard the murmuring behind him. He folded it and put it on the casket next to the other, both reapers looking up. He fingered the others kutte one last time, and stealing one more glance at the picture, made his way out of the room.
They tried to stop him. Tried to pull him aside and ask what he was doing. He ignored them and said nothing. He heard the orders to Tig to follow him, of course. It didn't bother him. Not at all, not really.
Why should it?
He made his way out of the building, past the grieving and the chattering. His eyes were drawn to every face though. They didn't know him. Who were they to be here and pay their respects when they knew nothing of who he was?
The anger rose, then fell quickly into nothing once more. He didn't know which he preferred. He didn't care.
"Chibs." He turned his head slightly at Tig's voice next to his ear. He felt his hand grip his upper arm but didn't move from his perch, staring at everyone. "What are you doing?"
Chibs turned to look at him, not really seeing anything at all. "I'm going home."
Gently, he removed Tig's hand from his arm and made his way to the bike. It wasn't Chibs' bike. No. Chibs' had crashed his in an accident when he had still felt; when the grief was fresh and the all-consuming pain was raw. Chibs' bike was gone; not that it mattered. Nothing really did anymore.
He was vaguely aware of Tig following behind him on his own bike. He didn't care. The cool air rushed through his hair, flying free without a helmet. It was a bit chilly without his kutte, but the difference wasn't vastly noticeable.
Finally, he made it to his destination. He cut the bike, and Tig pulled up beside him as Chibs stared at the building. Tig sat beside him for a long moment, both silent. "Why do you keep doing this?" Tig asked quietly.
Chibs needed to take a moment to breathe through the tightness in his chest. The sorrow settled in, heavier than anything he'd felt before, but more numbing than the indifference he had felt. It rested in his bones and clogged his airways, suffocating him and leaving him breathless.
"It's all I have left," he whispered. He blinked, eyes heavy as they stung. He felt languid and weighty, as if he were moving through water.
"Chibs. C'mon man, that's not true. You have us; you have the club."
"And when you're all gone too?" He asked, without even wanting an answer.
"We lost him too." Tig said at length.
Chibs shook his head slowly, still looking at the building. "No," he said. "No, you didn't. You lost a member. You lost a brother. You didn't lose him." Without another word, he climbed off of the bike and walked toward the staircase, leaving Tig behind him.
He had the keys. He'd had the keys for as long as he could remember. These doors were always opened to him. He used the keys now to step into the apartment, the place that had become a refuge to him. The door shut behind him as he gazed around the small living room, things exactly in the place they had been left in.
He knew it couldn't be healthy. But what else was there?
He pulled himself to the bedroom, feet heavier with every step he took. Everything in here was the same but not at all.
He knew this room better than he knew his own, especially within the last few weeks. He'd spent countless hours on and in that bed, in this room. He walked over and sat heavily on the edge, turning his head to the phone that had been left there purposely. Chibs hadn't been able to bring himself to unlock it and view the contents. Now, feeling as if there was nothing left to lose, he picked it up and slid his thumb across the screen.
45 missed calls
30 new voicemail
12 unread messages
Chibs gazed at the screen indifferently, knowing every last one of those were from him. Each more panicked than the last. Each more desperate than the last. Each more hopeless than the last.
He'd known. He'd known, hadn't he? And yet Chibs had done nothing. He'd done nothing.
And now the other man was dead. Because of him. Because Chibs didn't do more. Because Chibs didn't save him. He didn't help him.
So didn't that mean that Chibs had killed him?
The thought was too much and he rolled onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow, searching for a scent that wasn't there and wouldn't be there ever again. It had faded away within the first few days.
Chibs rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as he had done so many times after waking the other man from a nightmare, holding him close and trying to chase away all the fears that had plagued him.
Obviously, Chibs had failed at that too.
"I'm sorry," He whispered, staring at the ceiling and wishing he were dead too. His eyes filled at the same time his throat did with choked up grief and sobs. "I'm so sorry, Juice. I'm so sorry."
Yeah. I have a feeling I'm going to be getting a few 'I hate you's for this one.
I'm thinking of writing another chapter in here that is Chibs' voice mails and messages sent to Juice. Thoughts?