Repose Memories (reposememories) wrote in repose, @ 2017-06-11 20:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | atticus mcvickers, matt devlin, ~plot: memories |
[Memory]
What: Memory.
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing.
Warning, this memory contains: Mentions of war, chronic illness, some dysmorphia, death of a loved one.
The church is old. Rebuilt, you think, since London was pulverized to rubble and Thames silt, then built back up. You can see places where the seams of stone don't quite match up. You remember helping remove stained glass from sealed sills, like gathering precious gems in grubby, thin blankets. They were stored in cellars and basements, in fragments, like some holy jigsaw puzzle. Ah, but that's you getting lost in the past again. You do that a lot. Especially when your mind is jarred by some minuscule detail, like discoloration of mortar. And especially when you're already there a little, mired in the flotsam of your memories. Especially at a funeral.—You've been to countless funerals. Less than one might imagine, but most of your dead friends, they died in blood. A precious few made it to old age. But, that's the norm for your generation, you know.
You sit in a pew, close to the front, where family gathers ringside. You're too big. You feel too big. But, that feeling always accompanies memory. The suit you have on is stiff at the joints. It's not rented. It's yours. You had it made decades ago. But, you only pull it out for funerals. You thought about your greens. You almost wore them for this, but you couldn't quite make yourself. So, you sit, sweltering in black-and-white, like an old film star sweating on a forgotten screen of silver. No one knows who you are. To them, you're a stranger. But, they're British and polite, and no one asks you how you knew the deceased. You don't offer it up, even though the words want to springboard from your lips. I loved her. I love her.
BEFORE. In your mind, there's a BEFORE and an AFTER, all centered around the cataclysm of a single day a long time ago. Your rebirth ensured a man's death, and you thought about that a lot. You don't here. You just think that she knew you BEFORE. You would've been too chicken to say you loved her BEFORE, but you did, unuttered. You hardly knew each other, really, but that's youth. She was beautiful, brave, strong, intelligent, and compassionate. She was like a whip. She shot at you once, but you probably deserved it. She was smarter than you'll ever be. Stronger too. Kinder. She wasn't perfect, but you wouldn't have changed her. Never. She changed you, though. Always for the better.
Even AFTER. After she was the last voice you heard before you died. And you'd wanted to tell her then, that you loved her, but you still couldn't. You hadn't even gone on your first date yet. Not really. You'd kissed her. Well, she'd kissed you. You'd felt her chest against yours as you leaned down over whipping speeds. You'd danced before. She'd found you in a bombed-out shell of a building, trying (and failing) to get drunk, and you'd danced with her there. You told her your ma would've loved her. She would've too. This woman, going against the world, when the world didn't want to listen to a word of it. You'd heard of how she kept on, after you died. You didn't dare mar her achievements with your own wish to have been there to see them. You were lucky enough to have come back to hear of them. You told her that when you'd visited her a few years ago.
Sometimes, people say they don't realize they're crying. It just happens. But, you can tell. You always can. It comes on strong, almost painfully, searing. One of the pallbearers is unable to serve, so you step in gladly. You think you're lucky for this too. And as you carry her to the hearse, then from the hearse to the plot, where she'll be lowered to rest next to her husband, you think the same. He was too. Everyone gathered in their stormcloud black. They are. Lucky to have had her, to have been touched by her, in whatever capacity. You had a couple years with her. Young. And you wonder at those around you, who knew her when she was older. You have a card. It's paper that's so brittle you've kept it in your wallet, behind your driver's license. You found in online. You know she would've loved it. It bears the name of the little place you were going to meet for your date on yellowed stock.
After the funeral, you don't try to get drunk. Not this time. It never works. You get on the plane back home. You try not to get lost in a moment, in a very different plane, eighty years ago, but you don't seem able to help it. Bombs explode around you, each one promising death. It shouldn't be thrilling, but it is. Dangerous, but thrilling. You order them to turn the plane around as soon as you jump. Of course, she defies you. But, you smile at her as the plane judders, shudders from a new shockwave. But, you remind her, you're a captain, and the last thing you see before you jump into the darkness, knowing you might die, or they might, having brought you here, is her smile on lips a perfect red. At some point, they became home. She did. You laugh and you're gone.
She's gone. You miss her.