Author's Note: I realize that "Gabriel's thoughts on Anna's death" is somewhat of a cliché, but this story was eating away at me, begging to be written. I am quite serious; this story would not leave me alone until I finished its tale. This is how most of my stories are written.
Warning: If you cannot handle depressing angst stories/tragedies, or you simply don't like them, I suggest you leave this story alone.
Anyway, if you decide to review, please don't flame me. Flaming really is just a waste of words and it really is just a waste of time. Constructive Criticism is, of course, always welcomed.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in "Van Helsing."
They say to murder, you must be cold, heartless; that you cannot regret your actions, for they are so cold in temperature, their frost is death to any emotion. But I cannot keep my grip upon apathy; it falls from my hands as the tears bleed from my eyes, eyes that are blind without you there to encourage their mischievous gaze, tears conceived of the chances we might have shared, if not for my bestial handicap, bringing ruin to your life.
The air, according to the seasons is bright, optimistic. I cannot bathe in that joy, its waters are far too insipid to breach my numbed state of being. That, and my mind is no longer able to settle, such as the leaves of autumn are born to do. My conscience wanders, lost among the clutter of your memory, a fog never deprived of its misguidance. Do you think of me still, up there in the heavens? Or am I some fairy-tale specter, summoned from the sinister nightmares subtly suffocating imagination, so easily discarded with one well laced weave of doubt?
I am drowning in the embrace of my unease, for I do not want to question your affections, and yet to save myself I must reach out for any possibility. It is something that cannot be helped, an action that Fate forbids, yet I ignore her desperate cries, running away from the common sense that seeks me. I am falling into recesses more terrifying than any demon I have had to face, for they are bent, twisted by the rugged howls of your pain, the fading echoes of your leaving.
And within the smirk of innocence lays your beauty, alabaster perfection, confined for eternity. Your eyes drape over my every dream; your voice is the heavens song, the melody dangling from remains of my heart. These marvels I want to pursue, only my knowledge that they are the imagery of your spirit keep my false hope in its coffin.
But these pleasantries quickly succumb to horrors thunder; they cannot withstand its truth, loud and reverberating, relieved against the passionate cries of lightning, tumbling drunkenly in miscellaneous motions. For what has pooled underneath your eternal splendor will not be ignored, it refuses to leave me be. My own hands won't acknowledge my presence; they know it is I who led them upon their path of monstrosity, betrayed them with the murder resting in the ashes.
Though I know my impulse beckoned your end, my memory holds no account for it; it remains blindfolded to your murder, pleading innocence as it weeps. Perhaps this may be the blessing of Fortune, at last on my side, but I'd rather cringe under her punishment, forced to watch the poison my curse bled upon you, an angel who gave her wings for my salvation. Guilt deserves my warm bed, deserves to scavenge every morsel I claim with my hunger. I would gladly toss it my life, rendered useless with the taking of yours.
My only guess to this unwanted reprieve is that I had to burn what you left behind, the hollow beauty your spirit abandoned to run into the moon's comfort, to unlock your family's grace. Perchance Fortune thinks it enough for the reflection of your funeral to hunt my thoughts. For when I have at last exorcised the tendrils of my sins, what is shown to me is your framework, so elaborated in tranquility, only to give in to the flames brutal demands. I see your paleness as it falls into ashes; I hear the pyre's giggle as it takes you down, greedily groping you in its cusp, the seduction of the light and her wicked chastity cleansing what lingered of your existence.
My exhaustion holds me here, a corpse in my own bed. For all I have is my body, my soul is being consumed by the confessions of my nightmares, their agreement to my truth, brining it to life as they admit to its existence.
I keep this burden to myself; no other should have to carry the blood I spilt. Though Penance summons me, I know I must ignore its call; for I am destined for damnation, the whore, she has stalked me since my heart gave way to the moon, collapsed under her lascivious charms. Irony chuckles in the background, I can hear her bittersweet joy as clearly as I can hear your lovely accent, crafted to a seducing perfection. But Irony has much to laugh about, for her influence bides within your haunting; the slayer of evil has succumbed to his passions, becoming the very evil he had once hunted.
I rummage through my reminiscence to find it is not only regret who makes her home there. My curiosity is what blankets my sorrow, which cuts away at my heart, wanting it to bleed. After all, my skepticism of your kisses are somewhat hypocritical; why should you love the one who burdened you with murder as you tried to spare him from his fall?
The only Hope that will not spread its wings from my clutch has tarnished to gray; soon I know its grave will be alongside my Faith, abandoned and uncared for. But with every breath it still breathes, it is pushing me ever closer to the cliff side of my sanity, every moment threatening to push me over. It whispers to me, telling me the secrets of the silhouettes, that really, they are your eyes, always watching. It steals away my obscurity, showing me your footprints, embossed within my own, always to guide my path.
My thoughts of your guardianship are grateful, but those thoughts alone cannot salvage a life tattered by time, torn by ignorance. My breath seems weak without yours there to support it, my smile empty without you to fulfill its demanding needs. I had tried to shy away from any style of romance. My career, my life had been built around the premise that only fools and the weak fall in love; that they became the victims that I was to defend. I see now that my hypothesis was wrong, fools never fell in love. Love is what turned them into fools.
And I have become biggest fool, for imprisoning my heart, crying for the reality I know; my love is dead, and I am the one who responsibility holds accountable. This recurring truth is what poisoned my tears, stirring their hearts, just before they stopped beating. I am desperate to keep them in their slumber, but as time goes on, I find my tears are immortal; for you, they will never die.
I wonder, the moment you took your last breath, did your affection for me dwindle, the light of candle sentenced to its end with one caress of the wind? What has become our kiss; have you so easily erased our only moment, the one display of affection we were able to achieve with your time on this Earth? I would pray that the answer to all of these were no, that you have not forgotten me, but I do not pray any more.
And so I am left with this hunger, this curiosity snatching, trying to take away the only medicine to stop my growing disease; thoughts of you. I cannot control what is happening to me, just like I could not prevent my involvement in your murder. Time insists on moving on, but I don't have the will to conform to his wishes. I want to stay by your side, until the day I find myself looking out at the world through the numb eyes of the coffin.
At times I find that I am preparing for my departure, burying my reflections, sheltering them away from the unforgiving gaze of mankind. For I cannot let anyone see, I will not let them see. They would think me mad, beyond the grasp of reason. And so I put on a facade, living my life as if it were a performance merely for the entertainment of others. I am certain you can see me, the hollow skeleton of who I once was, through the stitches of my costume. Only you can bring me to life from the grave I fear I am falling into. Only you can save me.
I remember the sky that day, weeping macabre tears of crimson and bleeding violent indigoes. The clouds had darkened with the ever incandescent light, dressed for mourning, all embracing each other, grieving a loss that would never be fulfilled. It was a broken portrait, one stubborn in any attempts to be fixed. I was to leave, when I felt it, a shift in the breeze, once the cold caress of the dying day; it had metamorphosed into a tender lukewarm temperature, tugging at me, a man distracted with his silent cries.
I had let awe turn me, lead my gaze to the miracle unfolding itself in the sky. It was nothing short of a miracle, to deny that would be unorthodox, an insult to your memory. Enthralled, I could not turn away from the opalescent alabaster, gradually consuming the feral emotion of the sky, calming the mist of sorrow, if only for a moment. You appeared then, the pearl hidden within the oyster. Contentment was written in your eyes, you were at peace, with your family behind you, bliss illuminating your smile, as soft and as delicate as the wings of angels. But you had needed no wings as evidence of your innocence. It was declared in your fallen form, the figure drained of life, now eternally at rest.
You had met my gaze, and it numbed every other sensation, stopping the blood in my veins from breathing, suffocating my heart in its own echoes. Your smile held me, much like a mother would cradle her newborn, and it was then I realized just how far away your love was, just how far away you were from me. That moment resembled our kiss, a bewitching charm that not even the most experienced of warlocks could conjure, the only difference being the venomous pain underlying it all; the double edged knowledge that you were watching over me, and I could never touch your spirit, never hold you in my arms again.
I believe (a rusted practice, on my part) that moment is what drove me to the most inner depths of myself, my hope still vibrant that I could reach you, hold your hand and know its touch was not weary of warmth. I kept seeing the sky, your sky; it was the pillow that I slept on, the gentle surface necessary to lay to rest my inspiration, the chain that protected me from what the Night had to offer.
But I no longer have a pillow, for it has been too long since I last believed the gossip of your presence around me; all I have for the moment are dreams, dreams that are never blessed with satisfaction, only empty handed images seem willing to listen to my pleas. But I cannot give up, I have to see you again, know that you still believe in me, and that you still crave what once was ours upon this Earth.
Nothing but reassurance can calm me, even the gentle melody of the quickened footsteps I make cannot slow me down; they simply evaporate as I go along, victims of mutiny by the verses of the songbird, mocking my existence as its path soars through mine. I should be bedded down in slumber, but I cannot find the heart to give myself over to sleep's temptations, another choice I shall come to regret as I approach Dawn, coming closer with each minute running off.
The air is scattered into brittle pieces, breaking as they come into contact with my face, a myriad of shards cutting into me with their icy blades. Perhaps the origin is the river, slithering alongside, for the moment my only companion in the obscure guidance of midnight. I cannot avert my focus to the environment I find myself in, for every time the wind whistles, it seems that it is you who is calling my name.
I see that I am beside the river at the moment; it is never ending in its faithful journey, it will always return from where it came. But can you hold onto what you are learning up in the skies and still remember the time before? Will you ever come back to me? I need to get away, your influence is my sweet disease, and it is consuming what remains of my good health. But furthermore, it is my addiction, my relief from this world. If this madness does not end, I see no other alternative than to bring the end myself.
I must battle my psyche, it seems determined to keep you within its collection, the most prized of its treasures. My attempts now fare no better than their ancestors, I cannot put your book back upon the sill, and I cannot bring to ruin the words of your story. Yet I cannot completely accept this state of being that I have become; a disturbed sculpture, molded by anguish, twisted by the lingering torment of who I once was.
I fall to my knees, my surrender to this war. I look into the rivers reflection, knowing that it speaks only the truth. The waves, so miniscule to the naked eye, they cannot be seen without the guidance of tears, tears that take my sight into sin. This dance of water pantomimes my figure, enjoying the anxiety seeping from my sorrow. It manipulates itself, teasing its form into the imagery that has yet ceased to hunt me, and now I am kneeling before it. Your skin is the shade of pale not even Death herself can color, mutilated by the impish will of the water. But still, it is you I see my love, you poised before the inferno's wrath overcame your marvel, cooled by the tears of eternal rest.
Suddenly, the water shifts, and on display is a wolf, anger enflaming it to nothing less than brutal. I can feel my heart, once so steady in its beats, gradually give away its sanity, upon the recognition that the monster is me. The night itself has lent me the echoes of its heart, the unforgiving pulse of everything around me as you fall, trivial to the living world.
My sight is dizzied by the whirlwind of the trees, the glen in which the river makes its daily visits. Everything around me is turning to dust, rotting away before me, leaving me chocking in their bittersweet ashes. I force my hands to obey; I demand that they clutch the ground to steady my damaged mind. But even as they comply I can feel the insecurity of the Earth, pushing my grip away, shoving my breath down my throat.
I must not give in to Her abandonment, I must find a way to hold on. As I think, my thoughts inflicting the sharpest of pain, my consciousness fading to blend with the dark, I hear the symphony of the river, and I turn as it summons me forth. I crawl to it, weakened by my visions, running from suffocation, to see you, beckoning me with your hand, an imprint crying for my release. I place my hand to the water, and my doubt has fled; I can feel your flesh locked within my own! While holding your hand, I bring myself to you, diving into the darkness of your kiss. It is sweet rapture I discover within the obsidian current, for there is warmth within the kisses of the waves, and I can breathe again, at last freed from the captivity of reality, at last free to rediscover your halo.