Who: Oliver [Narrative] Where: The Shed When: Early evening
Oliver wasn't really sure how long he'd sat there, legs stretched out across the floor of the shed, crossed at the ankle. He'd been fiddling with the rings for an eternity, absentmindedly fitting them both onto one finger, then seeing which digits each of them would slide onto. His own ring could be planted on any finger except the middle one of his left hand. Jason's fit on both pinkies, and just past the second knuckle of his pointer finger on the right. He liked how they sounded together, gently clinking and sliding, the metal warm from his own body heat. He thought of the day he'd bought them, the night he'd proposed, when they'd gotten married. The times each ring had gotten subsequently lost and then found again, been fished out of toilets and sinks, and the one time out endlessly hunted for in the infuriating ball pit of a McDonald's. The one grievous fuck up where a ring had ended up purposefully abandoned on the kitchen counter for two and a half days straight, with a short letter on a page of the stationary normally kept on the fridge for grocery lists accompanying it. Two lonely mornings following two painfully sleepless nights, leaning against the counter and staring at the circle of pretty metal as if one intent gaze could summon its owner back. The relief of watching Jason slide it back on again. Having to remove it when Jason's fingers got too thin to hold it in place. Slipping it onto the necklace for the first time, and fastening the chain around Jason's neck. Removing it from the chain only to slip it onto a cold, lifeless hand so others could say goodbye, knowing it wouldn't slide off because Jason wouldn't be moving. He'd never move again. Fighting with himself before taking it off that hand once more, almost at the very last moment, swearing he selfishly needed it more than anyone else, more than anyone would understand. Jason couldn't take it where he was going. The body didn't need it. Just a body. Only a body. Then the ring went back onto the chain. And then it was taken away.
And now here it was again, the smaller circle gently sliding against its larger counterpart as Oliver twisted his fingers. He'd known what he was going to do should the ring turn up again, had been decided for weeks, but only recently had They given him the means to do it. Now that it was a possibility, a necessity he'd been giving himself time to say goodbye. He was glad for Edwin's distraction earlier that day, knowing he never would have gotten through his work for the day if he'd gotten it done and over beforehand, but somehow he wasn't sure he had gotten through it entirely. The whole day felt like a dream, a haze he'd lumbered through on a bare-minimum setting. Not lethargic or lazy, but half of himself, operating on the most basic of emotions and desires. And probably a few bad decisions he could regret, maybe, later. Now he felt numb. Numb and lost.
And cold. Glancing up he was almost surprised to see just how dark the shed had gotten. The sun had set, but night hadn't quite set in. If he was going to do this he needed to do it now. Even waiting one day could cost him this last opportunity, knowing full well that tomorrow morning both rings could, and likely would, be gone.
He'd set the blow torch and protective gear on the worktable what had to be over an hour ago now. He stared at it as he pulled himself to his feet, the rings pressed so tightly in his fist that he could have sworn they cut into his palm. His hands shook so bad that one ring rolled in a wide circle on the work table as he set them down, only to return to its partner and rattle to a stop. He managed to get on the gloves, the apron, the mask, only to stop again, hands braced on the sturdy wood surface. More time passed, staring down at the gleaming metal behind the tinted screen, fingers clenching, drops of water obscuring his vision until he removed one glove to pick them up again. He rested them gingerly onto the concrete floor, looming above as the glove was returned, and the torch ignited to the most intense heat he could pull from it.
Melt. Hammer. Shatter. Gather the pieces. Melt. Hammer. Shatter. Gather the pieces.
It took time, and when he was finished he was sweating, pale and gasping for air. He tore the mask off of his head, letting it fall onto the floor. His body shook as he struggled with the gloves and apron, tugging and fumbling as if they burned, leaving them where they landed. When he paced he subconsciously made sure not to disturb the few twisted and mangled shards of metal that remained on the floor, and there was no way to be sure which piece had come from which object. Maybe that had been part of the original intent, but to know that they were gone, that the words inscribed had been erased forever, that the only real piece of Jason he had left had been destroyed caused a wave of regret and pain so acute that he doubled over, gasping for breath. It was over, wasn't it? Wasn't that the hard part? God, he hoped that was the hard part. When he could finally move again, he gently gathered each and every piece into his hand, cradling them in his palm like the remains of the precious objects they'd been only moments before. So many pieces, but so small for how incredibly important they'd been as a whole, as the last piece of Jason he had left.
He knew he needed to get to town, to the water, while he still had the strength and composure to finish it. Managing to steady his arms, he emptied the contents of his palm into the small plastic bag he'd brought with him, trying not to think how infuriatingly insufficient a container it was. It didn't matter. He only needed it for the time it would take to walk into town, and then it would be done. He could break after.