[PREVIEW] Original Fiction
Why is it that I always end up writing about that which I fear the most?
Like the end of the world, and massive amounts of death, and people I love and care about dying in horrible, tragic ways. And the cities and places I love being destroyed, empty, desolate wastelands, and all of it being the fault of the government in a secret ploy to try and rid the planet of those deemed 'undesirable'?
I honestly don't know, but it's all that's been cropping up in my mind lately. Other than Red/Jason flavored moosh.
In other news, I was watching a slideshow set to Pink's "Dear Mr. President", and one of the pictures that cropped up was two biker dudes hugging each other in front of some kind of memorial. And then I got bitten by a rabid plot bunny that forced me to run with it and threatened to go Monty Python Killer Rabbit on me if I didn't.
I've tried to write a story like this for the longest time, and each time it always ends up vague and annoying me. Each time it's been totally different, too. Like completely so. Also each time, I've always thought 'this is the one, this is the one that I'm going to finish and be proud of' and each time it hasn't.
So no garuntees with this one, either, but hopefully...
It wasn’t like he’d meant to happen upon a moment this private, this sincere, this heartbreaking. It wasn’t like he wanted to see this, to see two strong men in tears, embracing. Normally, this would be fodder to him, would mean money in the bank, and possibly a significant amount.
After all, was it every day that you saw two Hell’s Angels crying on one another.
But then again, this day wasn’t a normal day. This day was the day commemorating that night that everyone had lost someone, that everyone had felt each other’s pain, had heard one another’s fears and cries floating into the long, long night.
Even he, too, had lost someone that day. His best friend since high school, the only one to look at him and see him as he was, not as the long haired freak who played his guitar just a little too loud, spoke a little too soft, said things a little too weird for normal people. The only one to actually see him inside, to know his secrets, and the only one to have his love.
Jonas dropped his camera-not HIS camera, actually, but a camera that belonged to the damnable gossip magazine he was forced to work for to pay the bills-hearing it smash on the dirty sidewalk and spill its dirty contents all over the concrete surface. He walked over to the two bikers, crouching down beside one.
“Hey, man, mind if I join ya?” he asked one of them in his old way, his quiet way, not the forcibly loud way he had to talk to be heard nowadays. The man, no more than forty but too damned old looking for his age, looked up. He glanced at the young man suspiciously for a moment, taking in the clean cut of his hair, the lack of stubble on his jaw, the haunted look in his bloodshot eyes, and nodded. Jonas nodded back, feeling his eyes begin to water and his lower lip begin to tremble. He pressed his lips together and forced his eyes shut, but the tears came all the same, and he felt a thick arm with enough strength behind it to render someone incapable of eating solid foods for the rest of their miserable lives, felt that arm wrap around his shoulders and hold him close, share his grief with the world as the three crouched in front of a large piece of black stone, tiny names etched and outlined in silver on it. Across its glossy top it read “IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO DIED ON 04/11/09,” and somewhere towards the bottom, somewhere where the last names began with C, was the name Daniel Franklin Caraway. His only lover, his only friend, his only confidant in this whole goddamned world. Dead.
Jonas cried harder than he had the day that Danny had died, into the denim vest of some guy who he didn’t even know that normally would have bent him into a pretzel and thrown him out a window. He cried until he couldn’t breathe, was gasping for air and finding none entering his constricting lungs. The other Hell’s Angel whapped him on the back several times and he finally found a way to force oxygen into his lungs.
The three stayed like that for a long while, just crying and embracing one another tightly, until the sun went down and the street lights went up, and the names were thrown into a harsher light.
The first Hell’s Angel stood up, taking Jonas with him.
“Ya gonna be all right, li’l man?” he asked gruffly. Jonas shook his head.
“No. Don’t think so. Not really.” He let out a small sob. “Doesn’t matter. World’s gonna end soon, they’re sayin’.”
The Hell’s Angels looked at one another and said nothing. Instead, the second one tilted Jonas’ head up with a surprising amount of gentleness.
“C’mon, where d’ya live? We’ll take ya home.” Jonas nodded and somehow ended up on the back of one of their bikes, speeding down the street to his apartment. Upon arriving, he got off of the monstrosity, nodded his thanks, and went up to his apartment as quickly as he could. The two bikers rode off into the night with a roar of heavily souped up engines.
Warnings: Just...general idiocy on my part. It's late, I'm tired, and the damned plotbunny won't let me sleep. Minor cursing and emotion displayed by normally tough masculine men. Of which I've had the fortune to never run into. Which is probably a good thing. Hell's Angels'd eat me alive.
And those two in question end up being giant pussies who aren't your normal Hell's Angels. So...shh...
Oh, and by the way, Zoe: remember when I said I'd name a character Angie for you? Here he is.