Title: Confessions (1/1)
Category: Anybody for Angst?
Rating: G
Archive: Anytime, any place. Just let me know
Disclaimer:  Not mine
Spoilers: Anything after Requiem I guess, but who 
hasn't seen it by
now?



Kim McCarthy
Confessions

The wind tugs the car-door from his grip, 
swinging it back to the limit of its hinges with 
a crunch. When he stands, his long coat fills
with air and draws him backwards. The man shivers 
as he squints up through grey afternoon light at 
seamless clouds heavy with promised rain. He 
struggles with the door before head down, he 
begins his trek across the bright green lawn. He 
is breathless with the cold. ‘Don't walk on the 
grass' his brain supplies and the ghost of a 
sardonic little smile quirks one corner of his 
mouth.

His path weaves between the rows of headstones, 
eyes flitting over each until he stops before the 
one he is searching for. He leans forward to 
brush stubby fingers over chiselled lettering, 
the precise carving clean and sharp. He imagines 
that he could cut himself on the edges of the 
name as he reads them like a blind man.

It has started to rain.

Long minutes pass and the rain becomes sleet. He 
berates his lack of hair as almost-frozen water 
slaps onto his head and slides down his skull. 
Despite the quagmire that has formed, the man 
lowers himself to a crouch, his knees popping to 
betray he, despite his muscular physique. Drizzle 
has settled on the lenses of his glasses, so he
removes them, only to discover that his vision is 
worse without them.  He can no longer read the 
lettering before him. No matter, he knows the 
words. They circulate in his head until he can 
mutter them in his sleep at night. He slips the 
glasses inside his trench-coat.

It has rained a lot in recent days. The water has 
all but destroyed the single wreath that rests 
before the headstone, its sunset colored flowers 
battered into submission. He lifts the unhappy 
little garland, giving it a shake before hooking 
it over the corner of the stone. It slips to the 
ground.

The man ignores the ache in his muscles as the 
cold leaches through his skin. He glances around 
to check that he is alone. He feels silly and 
self-conscious as he forces himself to speak out 
loud. He has seen so many actors deliver insipid 
monologues to headstones that he wonders if this 
is a thing that people really do.

Mud has crept up over the tops of his black 
shoes, insinuating itself in the cracks of the 
leather and seeping through the eyelets around
the laces. His socks are soaked.

"This still feels crazy, standing here talking to 
you…" He always begins the same, feeling stupid. 
He gives a low gruff laugh in an attempt to 
dislodge the lump in his throat.

"Not that it does any good. I just feel like you 
should know." The unease creeps in, curling a 
thin mist around his insides and squeezing
his stomach. The words come out in a rush, eager 
to have it said so that he can leave.

"She isn't coping well, in fact, I don't think 
she's coping at all." The man stops. Standing, 
talking to a headstone, he feels as though he
has committed an infidelity. But his guilt urges 
him on to his real concern. "She isn't looking 
after herself…nor the baby." He has watched her 
for too many nights, pushing food around her 
plate, unable to put the fork into her mouth. 
Morning sickness has plagued her since the 
beginning and her grief has manifested itself in 
strange ways. She cannot bear to be near certain 
foods. She can no longer eat in public.  More 
than once she has fled from the table. Experience 
has taught her to be secretive and she thinks 
that he has not noticed.

The man thinks back to the day, five long months 
ago, when he stood with his feet pressed against 
the chrome bars that flanked the grave. He 
watched the mahogany coffin drop out of sight. He 
recalls her shocked disbelief, her anger, how she 
refused the post-mortem. She cried on his 
shoulder that day, the sky white as the snow 
beneath as her tears bled through his thick 
overcoat.

He turns his attention back to the grave, 
blotting the memory from his mind as tears prick 
his eyes. His stomach heaves and guilt settles
alongside the unease. 

"Its too late for this, I know its too late. But 
it's you that she needs, more than she could ever 
tell you." His mind spins dizzily, making him 
drop a hand into the mud to catch his balance. "I 
think that's my fault somehow." At the admission, 
he stands and wipes his muddy hand. "But it's 
always been you. I hope you know that." Finally
finished, the man draws himself up to is full 
height. The sleet has thawed to become pelting 
rain once again.

With one final glance at the grave, the man turns 
and runs back to his car.