TM 275. Retrospect
"That's why I write, because life never works except in retrospect. You can't control life, at least you can control your own version." -- Chuck Palaniuk (Stranger Than Fiction: True Stories)
.You haven't got anything other than retrospect left. You don't have time to write, nor to seek to control the actions of others. All you have now is a bit of time.
The strangest thing of all is the lack of panic.
You were told once "weeks, a month at the outside," and you nearly passed out from panic and fear. You remember the nausea rising in you as you realized that this was really, truly it and you'd never have enough time to make things the way you needed them to be before you passed. Back then, it was all about the fleet. The abstract notion of the human race continuing after you. There was nothing but after you now.
You're told "enough for two days" now and you're nothing but grateful for that gift of time. It's enough, for what you need to do, what you need to say, and you start right at that very moment. You owe this man far more than you ever gave back to him. He treated you, defended you, went against his beliefs for you, and you know you may never see him again, so you reach out to him. The drugs have already begun to do their job and you feel somewhat disconnected from your rapidly failing body, but you've never been closer to your feelings than you are at this moment. When faced with saying goodbye to one of only a few who refused to say goodbye to you, you can't quite hold back your tears. He's only slightly more successful than you are.
You put the time you have left to good use. All the while, you think there are far worse ways to go out and remember the last time you died. The triage procedures are a b more complicated than you thought they'd be and you don't like the idea of simply leaving the mortally wounded, but the cold-blooded pragmatist in you hasn't died yet. You understand and you have no room to judge. But you can offer these men and women a little of the comfort you've been given in the past few weeks.
In a quiet moment, you also remember telling Gaius that you would most certainly die a quiet little death. You never claimed to be Pythia, after all.
In one more quiet moment in the corridor, you offer a prayer to whoever's listening to look after the man you love and see him to the other side of this battle.
And then and then and then... Hera...
There was a time you would have fought against the compulsion to seek out the child, but you know you know you know there is something bigger than you and you may be playing an indisputable role, but the child is at the center of it. You can barely see straight, you can barely walk, but you do. You're stumbling through corridors and walking through halls all at the same time and you see the child she was and the child she is and you see her mother. Your mind is too muddled with the metaphorical mixing with the physical and you're hardly surprised to see Gaius and Caprica take Hera. As the child's mother continues pounding on the door, you slip against the wall, knowing that your part has already been played and you're at peace with not knowing exactly what it was. You think again that there are worse ways to die.
You wonder again why you had to promise Gaius a quiet little death for yourself, because you know as well as everyone else does the best way to ensure that something does not happen is to promise it will. You take a breath and you wait for death to claim you. But it doesn't and you're helped to the CIC and you can't help but feel that for once in your life, you really have missed just about everything. The battle has stopped, but all the major players, including yourself, are still standing.
You're not left wondering for long, however, because the man who knows you better than you know yourself knows how impatient you can be when it comes to being kept in the loop. You ask and he answers. For a moment, for just one moment, you let yourself relax and hope (even if you don't really believe that Cavil and the others would give up their vendetta just like that) for the end of this war.
And the war does end, but as has become the norm lately, not the way you'd expected it. One moment, you're watching the final five Cylons downloading resurrection to the hybrids in the colony. The next, all hell has broken loose and you're on the floor, being cradled protectively by William Adama. You look back a few minutes later and admit to yourself (and only to yourself) that you're almost sorry your body didn't give out right there. It's been days since he's held you, only because the pain has recently become unmanageable.
You take that admission back almost immediately after Kara jumps the ship. You're fine, he's fine, we're all right, but where are we? Are we safe?
You put the next hours to good use. There aren't many people left for you to speak with personally, anyway. Tory is gone and you can't bring yourself to feel sorry about it. You mourn the woman who was once your friend and ally and you feel nothing but gratitude for the service she gave you, but you can't feel sorry. Not when she, given the chance to end everything, still tried to cover up the murder she'd committed. Gods, Cally. You know for a fact that there aren't many worse ways to die than the way she did.
Cally. Billy. Tom. Felix Gaeta. Emily. You can almost fancy you see all of them, and others, as your time grows shorter. Even farther back to Dad and the girls, as you'd teasingly dubbed them so many years ago, and Mother too. Even the ones you thought would bring discomfort, Tom and Abinell and Richard Adar and Sean... All who have gone before you, who are waiting for you to join them. You can't help but wonder what you'll find on the other side, even as you sit beside Bill on this new planet, this new Earth. You'd forgotten that there was such a thing as true beauty on such a magnificently large scale. There's life here, and their lives will flourish along with it. You wish you could see more of it, but you're a little past the two days Cottle gave you.
You're grateful. You're grateful for all of it. The pain that came before and after the attacks, the fears and the uncertainties, you're grateful for all of it, because it has led to this one perfect moment.
You're fading fast and you know it, because all you remember from the last time you died was that moment, that split-second of blessed freedom from the pain that had become such a part of your life you couldn't remember a time when it wasn't. There's very little pain now and what there is of it is muted, muffled, disconnected. Your breath is coming shorter and shorter, can barely support the energy it takes to hang on as Bill lifts you. You breathe in and out as your head falls to rest in his neck and you sigh contentedly. You could go now, and go happily, but something stays you. He wants you to see something before you and surely you can give him that much.
Hurry. The part of you that's still aware of such things as he lovingly buckles you in, brushes his lips against your temple, hums hoarsely. Can't last much longer.
Forcing to look... Lee... Kara... Gods... they shouldn't be unhappy. You don't want their grief, so you give them all the joy and love one look can possibly hold. They'll be fine and you know it. That's, after all, the only thing you wanted for so long. They'll live... on this planet with so much to offer... gods...
"So much..."
I love you, Bill...
"Life..."
Laura Roslin
Battlestar Galactica
1394 words