A songfic, kind of, based loosely on the lyrics to 'My Favourite Accident' by the hugely awesome and greatly underappreciated Motion City Soundtrack. My greatest qualm with songfics is that sometimes they seem like they're forcing the lyrics on you. What you see in italics is my altered version of a part of the song; just so it isn't as in your face and fits more with the story. Thanks again for reading!
Disclaimer: Characters/etc. belong to H., Stuart Gordon, Brian Yuzna, Jeffrey Combs, Bruce Abbott, and the song belongs to Motion City Soundtrack.
My Favourite Accident
"There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed."
- N. Bonaparte
"I'm going to rant now. You need it. We both do.
I knew. Sometimes I'm scared that I always knew.
It was so ridiculous...how I truly believed that we might actually work. All the time, I think you know what you were doing. You went along with it, because you had to keep me. I thought you wanted me so badly because you...
Turns out it was just because I was the loyal little dog I was, forever allowing you to control me. I thought that's what my duty was - not only because of the potential lives we could save, but because I was doing it for you. Everything, Herbert; everything was for you.
It's so obvious, really. We had no chance - none at all.
There was one time, even now, when I really can't believe that you were still pretending. One night, ironically enough, at that stupid place near the crematorium. It was a close one. We bolted the door, finding a few blankets and a large enough couch to sleep on until we could sneak out in a few hours, when the dust had settled.
There you were, pacing up and down as though your body couldn't bare the thought of being still. It was almost painful, watching you walk again and again to the same manic beat, your hands in your soft hair and your glasses alternating between falling off your nose or falling out of your breast pocket.
I didn't want to talk. Not the right time...it was going nowhere. Things had been like this for too long, but we never gave it up. Maybe we're both to blame.
Still, I spoke softly, the old near-burnt out lantern the only source of illumination possible. I'd placed your reagent under the couch; I'd grown to loathe that detestable green glow. If Satan created a colour, and decorated Hell with it, it would be yours. It would be you.
"Sit down," I sighed, and your cold eyes fell on mine. You kept on pacing, and I'd never felt more cold in my life. I watched you, and then tore my gaze away when it started hurting. I was hollow, and freezing. Maybe that's when the first real realization hit me.
I spent two years alone with you.
What was I saying...yes. Even now, looking back, I don't think what you did next was a lie. I don't know why you did it. Guilt, keeping up the pretense, annoyance, boredom, because you were as cold as I was...I don't know what the motive was. I'm sure I'll never know. But even to this day, something deep inside of me keeps telling me that everything you said and did was smouldering with sincerity.
You sat next to me. I turned to you, tingling, warm. Hopeful. Pathetic.
Just when I thought I'd forgotten. About this side of everything. For a few hours, I'd put it to rest, and here it was again to spit acid in my face. Us. This.
That's when you bit your lower lip, as I'd done in the past; gently, but at length. You stared at me - brave of you. Your glasses were removed, placed in the pocket, and you half tapped half caressed my shoulder for a fugacious second.
Your voice, so quiet. Soft. Almost as if you'd never made a sound.
Momentary silence. Splitting, painful. Your eyes are everywhere, do you know?
"We were an accident."
That's what you said. That we were an accident. I'd thought that long before you. And now you were there, admitting that you thought the same, finally throwing your lot of hateful, sinful dirt on my coffin lid. I felt each nail going in; one for each cadaver, each time I wanted you, trusted you, kissed you, continued to support you. There were a fuckton of nails, I'll tell you that for nothing.
But that's not it.
You turned, looked up. Kissed me, a hand in my hair.
Then you said three words, and even now I think you meant them. Sometimes I'm scared that you did.
You got up, shaking, exhaling deeply as though you were in shock. You left the house, back to our own no doubt. I didn't join you until a little later. You helped get me to bed, bringing a towel and a hot water bottle. You kissed me again, gently, and I fell asleep.
Sometimes I think that I felt a tear hit my face, and a quiet whisper of apology ghost through the room.
Even you never know what might have been. If we'd never started this, never done this. We hadn't meant to get tangled up in each others lives. Sometimes I felt like we were two instruments. I was a flute; simple, pleasant, you knew what you were getting. You were a violin; temperamental, versatile, never sure of what was going through your head. We were playing together, but rarely in harmony. I was playing Vivaldi's 'Summer'. You were playing Bernard Herrmann's 'Psycho' prelude.
When we did play in harmony, it was...well. I wasn't a flute anymore. You somehow made more more, like I was finally your bow. Because we worked, we got things done. Some days were so blissfully productive, so much so that I would wonder if it was all worthwhile.
So we were an accident. So what?
You'll always be my favourite one.
OK, so we were on different planets.
Those two years were pretty much you on some insane road, through sepulchres and green haunted houses, and me drowning in an ocean that was too real for my liking. Far from your mind, your warped dreams.
Even those nights when we were on a planet that was vagulely similar, I was drowning. You're like a siren, Herbert. And not an alarm...like one of the women who made you brave the rocks you knew you'd die on just to get a little closer. You were like poison, but I still wanted you. Needed you.
You were still everywhere.
Your silent, unmoving skin...so damn pale. I was drowning in it, couldn't breathe in the deafening quiet.
I needed you to let me in.
Forget the majority of those two cold, lonely years I spent with you.
You did. I don't know whether you wanted to or not, but you did nevertheless.
Alone, tired, afraid, guilty, needy, insecure, uncertain...they all summed up how I felt for two years. Two years of my life. You gave what you stole. Unevenly, yes. You rarely loved me, but when you did...
It was enough. Just.
Just enough to get us both through alive. Sane.
Well. You can't be helped on that front.
But I'm relatively unscathed. A few minor scars, but nothing more. Cuts and bruises.
I think the largest one is...well. You won't know where it is. It's on my chest, just over my heart. You probably wouldn't understand.
I remember everything you said. Almost.
Far-fetched promises of always being there.
It wasn't all lies, then.
When I think about it carefully, it was all the same underneath. Somehow planned.
Somehow, we needed it. One of those things that kept us going - me, you, us - was that underlying fear of being without each other. Maybe that's what love really is; depending on someone, and thinking that you need someone, to such a crippling and scarring extent that you can't bare to be without them. As if their very being somehow maintains you as much as oxygen, or food.
Herbert, are you listening to me? You're quintessential to my life.
That fear, that reigned over every second, was needed.
Without it, nothing changes. Without it, we don't need each other.
I know all of this is a lot to take in, but I don't really care. We both took a lot, me mostly, but you need to be put in your place every so often. I'm kind of talking to you like you're dead, when you're right here, but sometimes I feel like you're neither. You aren't dead, but you aren't in the room. Your so far away. I just wish, once in a while, you'd come back. I still need you.
I still want you.
If that makes any difference at all."
There was silence, for the best part of the hour that moved past after the one I'd spent stood in front of you ranting. I told you that was going to happen. We both needed it, and I was already glad.
You were staring somewhere far away. No change there.
I sat next to you. I felt so old. I didn't look a day older - two years didn't change us in that respect - but we somehow seemed like sages. Sit a child down in front of us, and we could tell them all about the wondrous milestones that make up life. I could, anyway. You'd do what you're doing now...stare ahead, blankly. Don't respond, be pale.
That skin of yours.
I was about to get up, to let go of my lifebelt, when it turned around and pressed it's hand down on mine. Softly. Like a poisonous leaf, an addictive leaf; probably from a heroin plant.
How is silence so loud?
I sighed. This will have been a waste of -
"I understand, Dan. I do understand."
We stare at each other, for a long time. Too long. Another two years, and four years still refuse to change us. Weak, weary, and carrying on. It's like a car journey; all you can do is drive. There's some sense of security in knowing that. Everything goes on.
I nod. I know you do. Maybe I was scared you'd understand all along.
Nothing could be more reassuring.
You squeezed my hand, looking away briefly after kissing my cheek. It hurts you. I appreciate that.
You understand that one.
I nod again. Content enough.
"We were an accident," you say. I think part of my soul dies.
Until you turn to me, and smile weakly. Like everything hurts you; smiling even slightly pains you like nothing else. But you do smile. I can see the corners of your mouth twitching.
"You're my favourite," you promise, echoing my words, squeezing my hand lightly again.
I let you press your head against me, my arm around you, the two of us sat alone and somehow together on the couch. Everything else is dark, except from that one spot. The miracle of lighting.
I'm a bow again. For a short while.
So I hold you, and nod. And I know you mean it.
We've been through hell. Even in unity, we're worlds apart. Maybe we'll die that way, but somehow I know we'll die young. You tortured and wearisome, and me grasping your hand. Even when life's over, and our final exhausted sigh left our lips, you anchor me. Hold me. This time, to death.
We're bound. It seemed an accident. We both seemed to think it was, or maybe we were scared of what else it might be. Fate. That seems more appropriate than destiny. Destiny seems optimistic...fate is something you're stuck with. Whether you like it or not, it's there. It grows, organically, inside you, so that after so many years of dust and tears, you need it. Even if it caused the dust. Even it it made the tears flow faster.
Maybe that's what they mean by 'fate'. Maybe that's what they mean by 'love' in general.