(…) she stares, stares at nothing
I can help her but won't, now she hates me
Did she call my name?
I think it's gonna rain
When I die
She won't let me hide
She don't want me to cry
Will she keep on the ground, trying to ground me?
Slowly forgive my lie, lying to save me
Could she love me again or will she hate me?
Prob'ly not, I know why, can't explain me
Did she call my name?
I think it's gonna rain
When I die
(C) 1992 Alice in Chains, song: Rain when I die, album: Dirt
#
It always rained.
For the last several days, ever since he stepped out of the jet, the island had been surrounded with a canopy of thick clouds that made everything gray and wet.
He looked to his right; the huge glass wall, the layer of tiny drops on it turning the outside view into an impressionist painting; the blue plane of the pool glimmering in the distance, surrounded by the wooden flooring, bright wood now darkened and shiny. The glass in his hand empty. He flicked his hand to refill it, and snorted. That was how much powers he had left. Just enough to get hammered without leaving the couch.
Why the fuck did he even come here? Once he'd known she wasn't coming, he should've — he should be in Vegas now, getting laid and high, not rot in some dump in the middle of the ocean where — wherever he looked, she was there, everywhere, all of it, every single detail triggering.
He should face it and let go. And it shouldn't be this hard. It wasn't like it was the first time.
Only that it was. The first time when he knew she felt the same. She didn't need to say a word; it was in her touch, her eyes, every little twitch of her mouth.
And she'd still deny it. That was her, same as always. Denying them, consumed by that fucked up sense of guilt that never allowed her to let him in.
Back in Greece, it used to infuriate him, he used to fight to break through. Right now, he was too tired even for that. Now, it just made him huff.
He left the couch and wandered around the house for a bit, aimlessly.
Stepping lazily, he headed outside, the floorboards of the terrace warm and wet under his feet; till it came into view, the teal water of the reef, waves lapping softly at the shore, dense, humid air filling the lungs with every breath, the urge to call her getting insane, as always when he drowned in that view, her words in his mind; a dim, drunken memory of her saying she'd love to live by the ocean.
Well, she'd made her choice. He wasn't going to drag her here against her will.
Not that he hadn't been close to. But this time around, he had his dignity. He wouldn't chase after her like he had in the past; the very memory of it made him cringe.
It was time to snap out of it. He had a life. He was a god, for fuck's sake. He could do whatever he pleased, be wherever, with whomever, anytime, as he'd done for centuries. She was just a little interlude, entertainment; a mortal. In several years time she'd be gone, anyway.
Maybe it was better this way. He wouldn't stomach having to watch her grow old and die.
His hand went to the pendant on his chest, stroking absentmindedly, the cylindric, metal vial feeling so tiny between his fingers.
And maybe it was time for him, too.
He was the last one left.
He didn't have long, anyway; he could feel it. A hundred years, maybe two; of which the final decade was going to resemble dying more than living. Having watched his sister wither away for years he swore to himself this would never be him. In a century or two, when the time would come, he would meet the end on his own terms, with dignity, not wait for it to turn him into a zombie, the way the last of his family had chosen to go.
Though, at this very moment, a hundred years didn't just feel long — it felt like eons, an endless drag, the perspective of spending it feeling the way he felt now — this wasn't what life was supposed to feel like.
Would've probably been different if he hadn't abandoned his mantle; war had given him drive and sense of purpose as nothing else.
He barely remembered what it felt like.
Until recently.
Until, for those past two weeks, he felt and sensed and lived more than he had in his whole damn life; and realized a terrible truth he wished he never had — so, that was what life could feel like. Did it feel like that for mortals? So breathtakingly intense it made your skin crawl? Was it why they got so easily agitated about just anything? He'd always found it pathetic.
The ache to feel it again was killing him. Was it like this for her? It was a first for him.
A curse, the poison he should've never known.
Or maybe that was it, the beginning of the end; maybe he was just dying already. Because life shouldn't feel like this. He was a god, for fuck's sake — not a worshipped one anymore, but still — when he looked around, at the world, the mortal plane that was theirs — the gods', his ancestors' — proud creation, he should watch it and feel powerful.
And he saw nothing. Felt nothing; just blunt, deafening emptiness. Cool, humid air in his lungs, another meaningless breath.
Would she care? Would she try to talk him out of it?
He grunted bitterly.
Of course, she would; just as she would if it was anyone else.
Well, he wasn't going to find that out.
He walked back to the house; he needed to sleep, turn the mind off.
Producing an already lit cigarette in his hand, he fell back on the pillows, sighing and staring at the giant, wooden fan swirling lazily against the white planks of the bedroom ceiling, losing himself in following the intricate patterns of smoke he made when he blew it out slowly.
She was out there, somewhere; maybe. With her line of work, it wasn't a given.
As always when he did that, his hand trembled when he reached for the phone, the thought she might no longer be there to pick it up freezing him in his tracks, his thumb a hair-width away from the green button.
He tossed the phone away and squeezed his eyes shut, the storm in his mind growing unbearable.
Nothing that another bottle of bourbon wouldn't fix.
He threw some pants on, slid the glass door open and stepped out onto the warm, wooden floor of the terrace; half of it dry, the area covered by the canopy; the other half darker from the constant downpour. Floorboards creaking softly under his feet — he tried to focus on it, on anything; on the freshly lit cigarette that slipped out of his fingers, falling to the floor, leaving a black burn on the bright wood.
He stepped off the terrace, the neatly trimmed grass of the lawn pleasantly damp against the soles of his feet. Looking up, he caught a brief glimpse of the swarm of raindrops before they stung his eyes and his eyelids clamped shut in a reflex, the soft waves of rain washing over him. He reached to his chest, fingers closing around the little piece of smooth metal.
Seconds. That was how long he needed. For it to be over.
The rain dying down, he breathed it in, the last of it; the rich, earthy smell of damp soil. Tiredly, he collapsed where he stood, sprawling on the ground, his back sinking into the wet grass, his lids weighing a ton, falling shut.
He must have dozed off, because when he blinked his eyes open, he was squinting against the sun in the clear-blue sky.
The quiet; deafening almost. Then, there was a sound, sounds; of people, far away, or not; he wasn't sure until he raised his head, squinted and caught focus of several colorful silhouettes passing by in the distance; a woman and some kids, the joy and laughter reaching him, making some bitter anger rise in his gut.
He raised himself on his elbows and frowned at the sight — one of the kids was rushing towards him — and he just stared, dumbfounded, at how fast the little feet carried the dark-haired little girl, and more dumbfounded by the smile that lit up the tan little face when she stopped right at his feet, panting and giggling.
"What do you want?" he asked harshly.
The girl's brown eyes widened, the smile on the flushed face fading; but it was when he saw the big eyes well up with tears that something tensed in his chest, making him feel he should say something; but not knowing what, he just watched as the girl's back kept shrinking in the distance as she sprinted back towards the happy crowd in the distance, leaving him with some ridiculous guilt and more anger.
The sun was back, full on, the sky blue, even a fucking rainbow on it; as if this whole damn landscape wasn't sickeningly idyllic enough.
He inhaled; a long, deep breath in, his eyelids heavy again, clamming up; the image of the girl's beaming face coming back to haunt him. Funny; had to be the first time in his life when someone was happy to see him, the stupidly miserable realization came to him. For a second; before she knew who she smiled at.
The girl's hair was just like hers, long and black; would their daughter look like that? Would she smile at him like that? Would her mother ever look at him like that?
He would never know.
If he went on with what he was about to do, he would never find out.
He dug his nails into the skin of his palms, the sudden urge to see and feel her so wild it cut his breath off.
With a sharp inhale, he produced a glass in his hand and downed it in one swig, all of it, his face twisting in a grimace as the burning bitterness of the liquor trickled down his throat. He tossed the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, wishing the grass was dry so he could watch it all go up in flames; and watched the opposite instead, ridiculous and pathetic, how fire, the element so fierce and powerful, would succumb to something as soft as water.
"Damn you to hell…" he muttered, closing his eyes with a frown; gods, he really was wasted.
The kids' voices still echoed in the distance. The sun blinding him even with his eyes closed, he couldn't produce a single thought; not for a long while. And he was glad, because what he was thinking led him nowhere.
And it ended now.