[fic] you didn't ask for this. nobody ever would.
it can't be true that I'm losing you. Sun cannot fall from the sky.
Jeremy Gilbert has been doing research on this universe. It is important to be prepared, to not be left unknowing, to not be hit over the side of the head with a truth that you should have known all along.
She was getting really sick. Angels of death, we--
Even if it is a truth that you may have guessed at, that you should have guessed at but refused.
But it's what she wanted. She wanted to die before she lost her mind.
It was easier to explain it away when it wasn't her. It was her friend. It was something that had happened to her friend, and even knowing that she was an angel of death, seeing what it was like to see her (angel louder than human), it didn't prepare him for this.
The truth hadn't sunk in.
How old was your friend?
Eighteen.
Sarah had her 17th birthday not long ago.
That fact keeps repeating like a resounding drum, crashing through the whole of him, leaving him shaken
It's one day, one day after the stalker has been absent for a few days, and he can focus again on reading through the many books that have been found on the subject, some more accurate than others. He starts with werewolves and vampires, moves on to demons, finishes with angels.
Almost all angels of death die or lose their minds before the age of 21.
It's like being shot, and Jeremy should know what that feels like. It is like being shot in the stomach, and the feeling of it slides up through his chest. He blinks, eyes burning sharply. Jeremy shakes his head.
"No." It's a soft sound at first, and then it's tearing through his head. No, no, no, no, no, no.
It can't be. It can't
Not her too. Not her. Please.
He reaches for the other books, each of them, flipping them open but it's all he sees again and again
95% of angels of death lose their mind or die by 23
99% of angels of death succumb to the insanity of their calling or die
89% of angels of death lose their mind to their Calling by 20
93% 98%
insanity
death dying sick
Every single one. Every single one.
The truth of it flies through him, and he throws the book against the wall. The tears that had been burning at his eyes slip down his face, and he pushes himself to his feet, punching his fist into the wall with a crack. He closes his eyes again, swallowing tightly.
He should have known. Why didn't he know? It wouldn't have made a difference, it wouldn't have changed anything, but it hurts. It hurts that it is always the same, every time, every single time.
Does everyone lose this many people? Is it just a Gilbert curse? Where everyone around them will die? Are they drawn to people who die too young, too early or is it something about them that leads people to their death?
Is it him? Death is a part of him, and he should have died when he was shot but he didn't, and that can't be right. And Sarah. Sarah deserves so much more than this. Fuck this universe. Fuck the entire universe and how it was built and how it was made and what it does to people.
It's a stupid irrational train of thought, but he can't stop thinking it as he stares at his fist, pressed into the wall, hardly strong enough to make a dent. Jeremy swallows, wiping his face clean with a shaking hand before he shoves it all from his desk, crashing the items from it on to the floor. It's not fair.
If someone comes knocking, he doesn't hear, he doesn't listen, can't listen to anything above the sound of the pain rushing through his head like a hurricane, ripping him apart. She's-- she'll die too. Everyone does. It's a fact he needs to learn. No one waits, no one gets old and then dies, they all die too soon.
He pulls away from it, pulls away from is room, shoving the door open and heading out of the house without stopping, without looking behind him, without thinking, trying not to think, shoving it all somewhere deep inside.
Cover my eyes, cover my ears.
But it still reaches him.
Tell me these words are a lie.
It won't leave him alone.
Jeremy Gilbert has been doing research on this universe. It is important to be prepared, to not be left unknowing, to not be hit over the side of the head with a truth that you should have known all along.
She was getting really sick. Angels of death, we--
Even if it is a truth that you may have guessed at, that you should have guessed at but refused.
But it's what she wanted. She wanted to die before she lost her mind.
It was easier to explain it away when it wasn't her. It was her friend. It was something that had happened to her friend, and even knowing that she was an angel of death, seeing what it was like to see her (angel louder than human), it didn't prepare him for this.
The truth hadn't sunk in.
How old was your friend?
Eighteen.
Sarah had her 17th birthday not long ago.
That fact keeps repeating like a resounding drum, crashing through the whole of him, leaving him shaken
It's one day, one day after the stalker has been absent for a few days, and he can focus again on reading through the many books that have been found on the subject, some more accurate than others. He starts with werewolves and vampires, moves on to demons, finishes with angels.
Almost all angels of death die or lose their minds before the age of 21.
It's like being shot, and Jeremy should know what that feels like. It is like being shot in the stomach, and the feeling of it slides up through his chest. He blinks, eyes burning sharply. Jeremy shakes his head.
"No." It's a soft sound at first, and then it's tearing through his head. No, no, no, no, no, no.
It can't be. It can't
Not her too. Not her. Please.
He reaches for the other books, each of them, flipping them open but it's all he sees again and again
95% of angels of death lose their mind or die by 23
99% of angels of death succumb to the insanity of their calling or die
89% of angels of death lose their mind to their Calling by 20
93% 98%
insanity
death dying sick
Every single one. Every single one.
The truth of it flies through him, and he throws the book against the wall. The tears that had been burning at his eyes slip down his face, and he pushes himself to his feet, punching his fist into the wall with a crack. He closes his eyes again, swallowing tightly.
He should have known. Why didn't he know? It wouldn't have made a difference, it wouldn't have changed anything, but it hurts. It hurts that it is always the same, every time, every single time.
Does everyone lose this many people? Is it just a Gilbert curse? Where everyone around them will die? Are they drawn to people who die too young, too early or is it something about them that leads people to their death?
Is it him? Death is a part of him, and he should have died when he was shot but he didn't, and that can't be right. And Sarah. Sarah deserves so much more than this. Fuck this universe. Fuck the entire universe and how it was built and how it was made and what it does to people.
It's a stupid irrational train of thought, but he can't stop thinking it as he stares at his fist, pressed into the wall, hardly strong enough to make a dent. Jeremy swallows, wiping his face clean with a shaking hand before he shoves it all from his desk, crashing the items from it on to the floor. It's not fair.
If someone comes knocking, he doesn't hear, he doesn't listen, can't listen to anything above the sound of the pain rushing through his head like a hurricane, ripping him apart. She's-- she'll die too. Everyone does. It's a fact he needs to learn. No one waits, no one gets old and then dies, they all die too soon.
He pulls away from it, pulls away from is room, shoving the door open and heading out of the house without stopping, without looking behind him, without thinking, trying not to think, shoving it all somewhere deep inside.
Cover my eyes, cover my ears.
But it still reaches him.
Tell me these words are a lie.
It won't leave him alone.