Title: Had To
Rating: R for violence, maybe language
Author's Notes: A lil' angsty piece, sorta disconnected, it just popped up and refused to go away.
Summary: Darien does something that he can't take back nor change.
Feedback greatly appreciated!
I can't feel my fingers, my toes, my lips, my legs….
Can you move?
I try to lift a foot, I a try to move a hand, I can't, everything hurts but I can't feel a thing and all I want to do is go to sleep and forget what I just did and why am I holding this gun…
…and why the guy is dead at my feet and why there aren't any funny, moving, insightful quotations from other dead guys much more verbose than the guy at my feet with part of his brain sliding off of my shoe.
Of all the books I've read with famous dead people telling me what to think and say and how to analyze my actions who tell me it's not so bad, it's human nature, the only dead-guy quote I can think off is from the man I've recently filled with six bullets.
"Don't do it Fawkes." He told me, his eyes entreat
The chamber is still clicking.
I am moving. My finger keeps pressing the trigger, futile hope that one more bullet remains, that I don't have yet to face what I've done.
"Don't do it Fawkes."
That's what Dead Guy told me. Don't do it, don't do it, don't shoot me in the head, please oh god I'm begging you don't do it, don't do it…
Still pulling the trigger.
Suddenly I can feel-hear-see-taste myself breathing. It comes in a rush, pounds against my eardrums, makes my head throb, twist…hurt…
I hear something else. Someone calling my name, calling out to me, pushing my arm down, pulling the gun from my fingers, entwining mine within theirs.
I would turn my head and try to see who can care for me after killing and killing again, but when I do that, everything spins and twists and assaults the back of my head.
I try to speak, I try to say something anything…
That's not me, that's not me saying those words. That's her, with her British lilt of the tongue and her pitch-perfect comfort. That's her telling me that she's sorry, so sorry for putting me in this position.
"I'm sorry." She's apologizing as she pulls my head against her own, her lips moving over and over and suddenly no sound comes out, as she just breathes the words out, as her breath slides under my collar and cools my skin.
I guess I can speak now, I guess I can find my own words to whisper, barely above a whimper, Why are you sorry? Why are you sorry for what I've done?
"I-" She stops, as if to collect herself, as if searching, racking her brain for a reason of why the dead guy at my feet is dead because I shot him six times over and over and over and over again, and how it should be her fault "-Because you don't deserve this."
Do I? I've done plenty of bad things in my life, sister. I've robbed poor folks of hard earned cash and assaulted old men in bathrobes. I've been in jail and…can't think about that, don't want to think about that…and I deserve everything that's coming for me. At least that's what Tito said in Cell Block 6 as he…when he…I don't want to think about it.
"Don't-" I have to touch her hair, I have to thread it through my fingers and feel-see-if it's really there, if she's really holding me tight, but I can't bring my blood-fingers to touch it, so I let them hover, just centimeters from her, "-I shot him." I whisper over and over again as she cries into my shoulder.
"I shot him."
He was going to hurt you, he was going to do the same things Tito does, I couldn't let him do that. I needed my shot, I needed you, my shot, and you. God, I need you to get through this all and he was going to take it away.
"I shot him."
He was going to take it away, he was going to take you and I had to stop him, had to stop him and I had to…
"I-" She smothers my words, her hand, shaking, stained with blood of her own, dragging across my lips as she shakes her head.
"Don't, just stop it, Darien, just stop it," She pleads, looking through her tears into my mirror-eyes, reflecting her gory appearance back to her, her blood-blonde hair and blood stained blouse and everything is red and everything is suddenly funny in that red-noir sort of way, everything just a combination of two colors: red and silver.
It's always the fucking silver that gets me.
The lights flare red outside, on the cop cars careening down the boulevard, their siren screaming and reverberating in my ears over and over and over again. And she holds me even closer, as she pulls me away from the entrance begging me to come with her and sit down in the corner for a while, just sit down and catch my thoughts.
She knows best. She's the Keeper, she always knows best and so I sit, with my head in my hands, leaving red streaks in my hair and making it stand on end.
She smiles sadly, wiping a tear I didn't know I had, with a bloody fingernail, torn and twisted from her ordeal. The intention was nice, but she left a red, inflamed mark where it tore at skin.
I had brought her case with me, so she can give me the shot, so she could make me normal again and I wouldn't do the things I had been doing for the past week; snapping at Bobby, leaving him unconscious with a broken arm at the office where I broke free to find you and desperately looking for you, hoping you were alive.
She pulls out the syringe, the one I had been waiting for, but the light must be affecting my eyes because it looks clear and translucent and I can see her face through it as she taps the needle.
But she gives me the shot and I take the time to smile, happy that she could do me this one favor after…what…she…went…through.
Sleepy….tired and eyes droop and I see through them before they close that she's fingering the gun, holding it and wiping her sleeve across the bloody handle and gripping it tightly, her finger lovingly tracing the trigger.
Can't stay awake and wonder why…
Cops burst in, Bobby leading the forefront and Clair holds her hands up, with the empty useless gun, shouting, "I'm sorry! I did it! He was going to hurt Darien…I had to-"
Bobby looks my way, a worried look crossing his face briefly before he takes in Claire, with her torn bloody blouse and rumpled skirt; understanding.
He was going to hurt her, I want to shout, I had to stop him, I had to stop him, I had to-
"-stop him." She whispers.
And I can't keep my eyes open any longer.
Feedback greatly appreciated!