This is not a normal fanfic.
This is disturbing, hard to read. It won't be pretty, or easy.
Keep in mind, you've been warned.
On that note, please leave a review telling me what you think. Even if it's to just tell me how sick and twisted i am and how I need a therapist. Though, just so you know, I already have seen quite a few.
WARNINGS: Character death. Mature issues about grief and fear of mortality. Gundam Wing is not my series, these are not my characters, but this is my story and the manner in which I present this idea is mine also. Thanks.
"Amoris de Mortis"
The wind moans around me almost sadly. I guess a part of me appreciates it; the sunny skies above seem to mock everything within me - and to mock her, too.
She's dead, you see.
I kneel at her grave and put the flowers down that I brought. She always said giving flowers to a girl was silly, old fashioned. I think she thought I was cute and quaint for being an old fashioned kind of guy. When I was down and low, sometimes she would bring me flowers . . . a joke and a thoughtful gesture all in one.
As I glance up at the tall statue carved into her gravestone, I catch my breath a moment. This is the part that makes me feel the most whole, out of everything.
The angel looks just like her; sprite-like, wide-eyed, the tiny girl smiles out from a heart-shaped face, framed by that pixie-cut dark hair . . .
Well, it's stone, so the hair isn't dark, but a grayish-white. Yet, when I look at it . . . somehow, it turns a midnight blue in my mind.
I lean forward, brushing my hands along the smooth features of my angel. My breath shakes a bit, and boy am I relieved that there's no one around to hear me. This is just for her.
"Hey, baby," my voice catches, thin as a reed. All the strength that used to be in my voice left with her. "Have I told you how good you look with wings?"
My eyes are suddenly flooded, and I free a hand from touching the statue to wipe at the tears ineffectually. "I missed you, today," I continue, listening painfully to the own baritone of my voice as it cracks and wobbles, making me sound like I'm going through puberty again. "Look what you can do to me, Hilde," I chuckle, and it almost becomes a sob - almost. "You always had a strong effect."
Gently wrapping my arms around the statue, I can almost pretend that the sun-warmed stone is flesh, and I close my eyes against the monochromatic nature of rock, seeing her in my mind. "I know what you're gonna say," I tell her softly. " 'Duo, stop hugging that damned statue. It's not me.' But . . . it's all I've got left, baby." I start to weep, this time - can't keep it at bay. "I know - you'll understand -"
It takes me a while to compose myself.
The God of Death shouldn't cry.
Then again, no one he loves should die, either.
God, I hate sitting at home alone.
It started to rain after I sat for a few hours at the cemetery. I walked home in the summer downpour, feeling pretty much the most miserable person in the Earth Sphere. People passed by me, but I don't even think I registered them at all. It's difficult to think of someone besides myself, these days.
Odd, you might say, that I am totally aware of how selfish I'm being. Well, frankly, I don't fucking care what anyone thinks. Maybe I am wallowing in my own self pity because Hilde is gone. But see how you react when the person who means the most to you dies.
Right now I'm staring at the television, not really seeing it. There's some stupid talk-show on right now. It's a Saturday, but they can't manage to put anything good on during the afternoon. Go figure. At least all these bastards have the one they love. They're all fucking wonderfully happy –
In a sudden rage, I turn off the television, sick of the smiling faces. The only smiling face I want to see will never stand before me again. I want to crush their joy between my bare hands, give them a taste of what I feel, not that even their worst suffering would even scratch the surface of mine –
You see, I was always a selfish person, I suppose. I sit on the couch, fists clenched, and all I can here is Hilde's voice, telling me how selfish I'm being. Totally selfish.
"What do you know," I say aloud, and am almost defeated by the cracking of my voice . . . again. "You're dead." It breaks, and I bite back an angry sob. "Who even knows that there's a heaven. Are you in heaven, baby? Are you happy?"
I lie back on the davenport and wonder how long it will be until Quatre comes to visit me today. That thought brings me to the other thought that had begun to bother my mind again – a memory, recent, of the memorial that he put in the local papers. It makes him feel better, I know, but damn, do I really not believe in God and certainly not in a heaven. It's almost amusing, seeing the ad. Except for the fact that I know Hilde believed in the whole damn shebang. Hook, line, and sinker.
As I cover my face with my hands, I ask myself, again, why then have I started to pray lately? I haven't prayed since . . . well, I have vague memories of my parents taking me to Sunday school when I was very little . . . before they died.
Fuck, if everyone doesn't die on me.
I roll towards the couch back, weeping again, and wondering when I'm scheduled to die.
It wouldn't be the first time I've thought of advancing my appointment.