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Jul. 13th, 2006 11:56 amOkay, so this is the reality of it: she's not here. He can either sit around and feel sorry for himself, or he can cut that shit right the fuck out and do something. Hell, if he could find his way back, maybe fate or the universe or whatever will let Beth find her way back too, and when it does -- when she manages to find a way back -- he has to be ready for it, not sitting around like he's about to die even if he almost did, still could. This is the first time he's had broken ribs in the back of his body; they've always been in the front before and damn, it sucks in a completely different way. Makes everything about three times as hard: breathing, sitting, lying down, walking, moving, thinking about moving.
But he has to keep busy, and even if the side of him that's a complete and utter acknowledged fatalist won't admit it, he has this tiny flame of optimism locked away deep inside and he tends to it and nurtures it. In the dark of night when no one's here, he feeds that flame just enough to keep it going. Just enough, the name Beth always in the forefront of his thoughts.
Here in the room, there's something he knows he has to do so with great caution he gets onto his feet (promised Elaine I wouldn't go wandering very far and shit, it's not like I could if I wanted, but as soon as I can, I'm going out that door to find my woman) and walks slowly to the closet. Taking in a deep cautious breath, he reaches for a box on one of the shelves. Good damn thing it isn't heavy. Moving back to that chair by the bed and table, he sits neither leaning back nor too far forward because he can't, he just fucking can't. But he sets the box down on the bed and opens it up, and it's all still here from the last time he cleaned up and the time before that, when he kind of first got the idea for doing this.
It's all their pictures from all their trips: on the Bebop, on Venus in Galileo City, in Ganymede, on Europa, on Earth, at both spas on Mars, on the interplanetary shuttle, in New France, at Nike's Mars headquarters. There's Beth feeding the lava birds; there's Beth with that green-handed monkey; there's Beth swimming in the blue-green waters off Eleuthera, there's Beth with Doohan. Various stages of pregnancy, and that makes it easy to sort the pictures into some kind of chronological order.
At the bottom of the box, there's a notebook he brought back a long time ago from the Bebop. It's not fancy like some photo album, but it'll do; he got some of those adhesive picture corners from Bar one sneaky day a long time ago when Beth was still here
(she'll be back, she has to come back)
and he first got this idea.
Pictures first, and then he'll write about them. Because when she does come back, no idle wanderlust is going to make him take her and Junior back through that damn door. Not a fucking chance: if they're safe here, they stay here. This way, though, Junior will know all the places they've been. And all the places he's been.
The one thing he never anticipated was how long it would take to do it: every picture's a memory and here, alone in their room, he allows himself the luxury of reliving every goddamn one of them no matter how much it hurts. He has to keep that fragile flame alive.
But he has to keep busy, and even if the side of him that's a complete and utter acknowledged fatalist won't admit it, he has this tiny flame of optimism locked away deep inside and he tends to it and nurtures it. In the dark of night when no one's here, he feeds that flame just enough to keep it going. Just enough, the name Beth always in the forefront of his thoughts.
Here in the room, there's something he knows he has to do so with great caution he gets onto his feet (promised Elaine I wouldn't go wandering very far and shit, it's not like I could if I wanted, but as soon as I can, I'm going out that door to find my woman) and walks slowly to the closet. Taking in a deep cautious breath, he reaches for a box on one of the shelves. Good damn thing it isn't heavy. Moving back to that chair by the bed and table, he sits neither leaning back nor too far forward because he can't, he just fucking can't. But he sets the box down on the bed and opens it up, and it's all still here from the last time he cleaned up and the time before that, when he kind of first got the idea for doing this.
It's all their pictures from all their trips: on the Bebop, on Venus in Galileo City, in Ganymede, on Europa, on Earth, at both spas on Mars, on the interplanetary shuttle, in New France, at Nike's Mars headquarters. There's Beth feeding the lava birds; there's Beth with that green-handed monkey; there's Beth swimming in the blue-green waters off Eleuthera, there's Beth with Doohan. Various stages of pregnancy, and that makes it easy to sort the pictures into some kind of chronological order.
At the bottom of the box, there's a notebook he brought back a long time ago from the Bebop. It's not fancy like some photo album, but it'll do; he got some of those adhesive picture corners from Bar one sneaky day a long time ago when Beth was still here
(she'll be back, she has to come back)
and he first got this idea.
Pictures first, and then he'll write about them. Because when she does come back, no idle wanderlust is going to make him take her and Junior back through that damn door. Not a fucking chance: if they're safe here, they stay here. This way, though, Junior will know all the places they've been. And all the places he's been.
The one thing he never anticipated was how long it would take to do it: every picture's a memory and here, alone in their room, he allows himself the luxury of reliving every goddamn one of them no matter how much it hurts. He has to keep that fragile flame alive.
