Philo Zoticus, Jr. (dr_philo) wrote in kobols_legacies, @ 2008-03-23 14:53:00 |
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Current location: | The Wall |
Entry tags: | (completed scene) |
Confirmation (prompt)
Some time ago.
There was a memorial on the ship. Not a statue, or anything that might have constituted a memorial back on any of the Colonies, this memorial had been thrown together by the passengers--no, citizens--of the Shangri-La, and consisted of pictures and letters to the beloved departed. It was impossible to say that even a notable fraction of those killed or left behind in the Cylon attacks were represented, but they had made a pretty fair try.
Even so, with all the faces who haunted that stretch of corridor, Dr. Philo Zoticus, Jr., had never hung that photograph that he now clutched to join them. He had held out hope far longer than he should have, unfounded and silly hope, that perhaps Colette had made it off-world when he did. He had hoped that maybe one of the evacuation team had spotted her and taken pity. Never mind that the Raptor he'd been ushered into had been filled to the gills with "useful" adults. Never mind that his few spotty memories of the evacuation were entirely free of children at all. Colette was different. She was special. They had to see that.
And so when the orphanage had been set up, when the schools had gone into session, Philo had haunted them. He'd examined the children, made sure they were healthy, it was a valuable service and no questions were asked--even though the doctor was taciturn and at times even cold. Everyone knew his motivations were good, everyone wanted to help the children. Philo did want to help the children, but more importantly, he prayed that in the orphanage he would find his daughter. He never had.
He didn't give up right away. It was a slow process, letting go. Months. Really, he'd known deep down all along that she was dead. The universe felt different without Colette in it, there was a sort of hollowness to the days, to the air, that hadn't been there before. But as the days went by, and even his memories of her started to fade, the reality of it started to settle on him like dust.
He'd taken out her picture, stared at it for hours just trying to reconcile the image in his head with the one on paper. It had been tucked in his wallet for the past year, and it didn't even resemble the person that he'd kissed goodbye that morning. He'd put the photograph in a drawer and not looked at it since then. Until today.
He still hadn't looked at it, not really. He'd simply plucked it from the drawer and pocketed it, walked down slowly and alone to that little stretch of corridor with all the faces, that place he hadn't dared go. He was relieved to find it empty of the living. His footsteps echoed jarringly, the place was quiet as a tomb which, in its way, was precisely what it was. He stood there clutching the photograph, eyes on the wall of endless faces, passing long moments in complete silence before he finally raised the picture and taped it to the memorial. Adding his daughter to that faceless mass of death.
"You must have been really scared, Colie, and I'm sorry for that." His voice was soft, but it felt enormous in that quiet place. "I guess that I probably should have had you with me, and I would have, I..." he trailed off in frustration, shook his head, and started again. "I really wish I could have gotten the chance to tell you one more time that I love you. I wish I would have had the chance to take another frakking picture, I can't....I can't even remember what you looked like, what you really looked like." Quickly, he ran a hand across his face, trying to smooth away the odd wrinkles that presaged tears, as if this action could somehow ease the sorrow.
"I guess I just hope..." his face broke then, and he did cry, and it wouldn't have mattered in that moment if anyone was there to see him. There was no stopping it. "I hope it was over fast. I hope you didn't suffer." His voice was wobbly and tear-soaked, and he covered his face with one hand. It took him time to rein himself back in, to reassert his control over his emotions. When he looked back up at Colette's picture he was a contained and self-possessed man once more.
He wanted to say something else to her. He wanted to say goodbye, but he couldn't form the words. He only stared at the photograph forlornly for a few endless minutes, and finally turned and walked away, leaving the memorial--and Colette--behind him.