What Whispers in the Dark
The headstone was covered in weeds and grass.
It had pissed him off.
He had knelt on the overgrown patch of earth and tore away all of the debris that marked her name and the dates of her life and death. It was such a painfully simple stone; it didn't tell the world about who she was, only that she existed.
It didn't tell the world that she had been beautiful, in a girl-next-door way. Didn't tell the world that she was tough, too, but not to the point of giving up her femininity. She was funny, and witty and warm; she was angry and dangerous and ever devoted to duty.
She was so strong.
How does someone like that ever end up here"
Harry didn't know, exactly. Oh, he knew the facts, but he didn't know her thoughts. Didn't know what dark thing had so embedded itself in her mind that she felt this was the only way to escape it. It wasn't that he didn't know it was possible for people to die of grief; he'd certainly faced up under enough of it that he could understand.
It was always the "How?" that got to him, though.
It was always the, "I should have been there," that haunted him.
She had only been his friend, though he had carried a bit of a flame for her. He supposed back then, three years ago, that it wasn't likely a woman like her would give him so much as a second look. But he had been her friend; even after everything had fallen apart and she was fighting the inevitable death of the Rhy'Din Police Department, even as he was fighting the death of his law practice, they had tried to stick together. Share a cup of coffee, share a joke, bolster each others' spirits.
But then she stopped coming around, and days turned into weeks, and he ran across her on occasion. He asked her over to the office for coffee, but when he was turned down, he didn't push the issue. She would be all right, afterall; she just needed time to be alone and figure things out.
Except, the dark sorrow was still in her heart. And it never left her alone.
Still he asked how it could have overcome her; how someone so strong could break. Not because such a thing made her weak — he would never accuse her of that, because he knew her. But how did it happen" What final thought made her look and think that the only way out was death"
What was the last thing she thought, when she pulled the trigger?
They were questions that Harry never really expected to have the answer to. So, out of love and friendship and honor, he kept her headstone cleaned off. He brought her his first Browning when it was destroyed. He sat against her gravestone and talked to her....told her about his day, told her about the triumphs and tragedies, told her that he missed her. For years, he visited her headstone.
For years he asked the silent questions.
The last time he visited her headstone, three days out from the Ides of March and nine years after her suicide, he knew the answers.
((Retrospective; cross-posted to the Maritime's sub-forum.))
The headstone was covered in weeds and grass.
It had pissed him off.
He had knelt on the overgrown patch of earth and tore away all of the debris that marked her name and the dates of her life and death. It was such a painfully simple stone; it didn't tell the world about who she was, only that she existed.
It didn't tell the world that she had been beautiful, in a girl-next-door way. Didn't tell the world that she was tough, too, but not to the point of giving up her femininity. She was funny, and witty and warm; she was angry and dangerous and ever devoted to duty.
She was so strong.
How does someone like that ever end up here"
Harry didn't know, exactly. Oh, he knew the facts, but he didn't know her thoughts. Didn't know what dark thing had so embedded itself in her mind that she felt this was the only way to escape it. It wasn't that he didn't know it was possible for people to die of grief; he'd certainly faced up under enough of it that he could understand.
It was always the "How?" that got to him, though.
It was always the, "I should have been there," that haunted him.
She had only been his friend, though he had carried a bit of a flame for her. He supposed back then, three years ago, that it wasn't likely a woman like her would give him so much as a second look. But he had been her friend; even after everything had fallen apart and she was fighting the inevitable death of the Rhy'Din Police Department, even as he was fighting the death of his law practice, they had tried to stick together. Share a cup of coffee, share a joke, bolster each others' spirits.
But then she stopped coming around, and days turned into weeks, and he ran across her on occasion. He asked her over to the office for coffee, but when he was turned down, he didn't push the issue. She would be all right, afterall; she just needed time to be alone and figure things out.
Except, the dark sorrow was still in her heart. And it never left her alone.
Still he asked how it could have overcome her; how someone so strong could break. Not because such a thing made her weak — he would never accuse her of that, because he knew her. But how did it happen" What final thought made her look and think that the only way out was death"
What was the last thing she thought, when she pulled the trigger?
They were questions that Harry never really expected to have the answer to. So, out of love and friendship and honor, he kept her headstone cleaned off. He brought her his first Browning when it was destroyed. He sat against her gravestone and talked to her....told her about his day, told her about the triumphs and tragedies, told her that he missed her. For years, he visited her headstone.
For years he asked the silent questions.
The last time he visited her headstone, three days out from the Ides of March and nine years after her suicide, he knew the answers.
((Retrospective; cross-posted to the Maritime's sub-forum.))