Sid is (ex_seeingred41) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-09-03 05:12:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | rose red |
Who: Sid
What: Narrative: Reaction
Where: Vegas → Out in the middle of nowhere
When: After learning about this
Warnings/Rating: Miserableness? Mentions of suicide?
Sid got the call midway through a double-shift.
He didn't pack it in, and he didn't tell anyone that he was going. He got into his truck, and he turned the engine over, and he didn't even register doing it. He'd been running numb since Lucien, and maybe he still was. Point was, he didn't remember getting down to the station, and he didn't remember the drive down to the coroner's office to ID the body.
The letter had been opened by the cops by the time it made it into his hand, and he tucked it into the back of his jeans without looking when the cop handed it over. No way was he reading whatever that had to say there. Instead, he just stood still while they drew back the curtain to let him see what was left of his older brother. He didn't even look. He didn't need to. Letting them think he had was enough.
He signed what needed signing, and he bought himself a six-pack, and he got back into his truck and drove out as far as he could go and still make it back on the gas in the tank, just in case. He didn't have the luxury of putting a gun to his head, not these days, not without setting things in motion first, and he envied Drake the ability to just walk away from it.
Because Sid understood. Hell, Sid wasn't even surprised. That made it worse somehow, though he didn't understand why, precisely. And it felt wrong, being alive, when he was the last one left. Everyone else - Lucien had taken every damn person in his life, and even dead he was still taking people. And Sid had no damn clue what he was going to do now, because Drake was the only person who really understood, and he was the only damn person who had always been there, and Sid could be a damn selfish coward beneath the skin.
Maybe it wasn't right, siblings being so close, but most siblings didn't grow up in the back of a damn car with a dad that had a death wish the size of Texas.
He didn't know what the fuck to do now.
He cut the engine, and he popped the truck's bed, and he set the six-pack down beside an old Smith & Wesson that had belonged to his dad. He sat himself down, and he downed three beers, and then he pulled the letter out of his back pocket.
It took him five times to read the damn thing through, because he kept stopping after a few sentences and putting the thing aside, crumbling it between shaking fingers, his eyes too blurry to continue. But if that fucker took the time to write a letter, he was going to get through it, even if it killed him.
He didn't say a damn thing after, not for hours. The sun set, and there wasn't even the glimmer of a light as far out as he was. There was nothing, and he didn't even know how much time had passed.
He wondered if this was what being dead was like.
He was yelling before he even realized it. One long, long, loud and guttural yell that wouldn't change a fucking thing, but that echoed in the night and left him breathless and scratched his throat bloody from the sheer force of it.
He finished off the six-pack; it stung.
The sun was rising by the time he called the old number he had for Zari, and he left a message. And then he dialed the only other person he could think to call, the gun already warm between his fingers.