Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, not getting paid for this, wish I did, wish I was. This hasn't been beta-ed, because it wasn't long enough for me to actually worry about. Any errors are therefore mine, and mine alone.
Authors note: Ok, this little bit of melancholy has been sitting
around on my computer for about a month while I waited to see if anything
else would come out of it. Apparently not. It's so short I
almost decided not to post it, but well... it's finished, so here it is
::shrugs:: Like it? Hate it? Want to take it out and play with
it? Just let me know: firstname.lastname@example.org
Itís quiet today, but then it's always quiet here. Thatís why I like to come sometimes- to sort out my head- but I'm not here to think today. No, today is Thursday, and every Thursday I watch. And wait. I used to wonder why she chose Thursdays, what the significance of that day was. It took me a while to figure it out; they never come on Thursdays, so she does. And because she comes on Thursdays, so do I. I could get closer, but I never do. I don't want to see her. I donít want to hear the things she says to him. I donít want to know. So I stay out here and watch over the door. Wait for her to finish. When she does, I leave my hiding place and walk through those heavy doors, into a cold, sterile place I have no business being. No business except hers. Itís all stone and metal here, polished white marble and thick bronze plaques. Even my footsteps are loud here; I hate it.
Itís always the same; a bouquet of tulips placed gently on the cold marble floor. It breaks my heart. Thereís not another Brixton in the Mausoleum. I know; I checked. I wonder if they chose this place to finally put him out of her reach. I pick up her offering and place it in the bronze vase clamped high onto the wall. It tears me up that I should have to do this for her, give flowers to her dead lover because she canít. I spend a moment arranging the flowers, the way I know she would.
"You werenít good enough for her," my voice is soft, but it fills the room anyway. It makes me uncomfortable, but some things need to be said. "You were never going to be." Iíve taken to bringing a small cloth with me, and I pull it out now. First I wipe down the marble panel mortared over his ashes. "But I guess no one is," I admit. How can the dust coat this place so much in only one week? And the fingerprints... youíd think they brought school tours through here. Thereís one set, though that I donít touch. Itís amazing that I can pick out her hand print among all the others, but I can. Itís right there, at the end of her reach, barely a breath away from the bottom of his plaque. "You were stupid, and you died stupid." It takes along time to polish away the weekís worth of dullness, and I wonder darkly if it isnít just attracted to his memory. "She deserves someone better. Someone who wonít stand by while his parents cut her Ďtill her heart bleeds." I move my attention to the plaque. I hate the way the raised letters feel under my fingertips: Wade Taylor Brixton, In loving memory. Still, I do this for her. Because she would, and canít. "Someone who wonít take her home to monsters." Or take the monsters home to her. "Still," I concede finally, the words bitter on my tongue, "You tried, and thatís more than I can say. I guess that makes you one of the good guys." I stop my polishing and stare at the cold wall in front of me, barely able to make out my pale reflection. Heís dead, but Iím the ghost. "That takes guts, and donít ever let anyone tell you different." I make one final pass with the cloth. "I still hate you though," and I do... but I love Barbara, so every Thursday I come here. I watch and wait, and then I do the things she canít, even though it kills me a bit more each time. Because itís my fault. "See you next week."
I think Iíll head over to Gibsonís for a drink. The Dark Horse is closer, but there are some things that Gibsonís is better for. Thursday is one of them. My footsteps echo hollowly on the marble tile; maybe next week Iíll wear trainers. Maybe next week, she wonít come. Maybe. Iíd better get a new cloth though, this oneís gotten dirty.