muses_gonewild: 125. compunction: anxiety or unease from guilt
"Haec credam a deo pio, a deo justo, a deo scito? Cruciatus in crucem. Tuus in terra servus, nuntius fui; officium perfeci. Cruciatus in crucem. Eas in crucem."--President Josiah Bartlet, The West Wing, "Two Cathedrals"
translation here
Daniel's family, from what Billy had heard, was absolutely furious at the fact that they had been initially denied a traditional religious service on the grounds that it was a suicide. It was just something else Billy couldn't understand and probably never would--why Daniel would have opted for something so against his own belief system. Eventually a 'friend of the family' type priest accepted to do one as a favor. Something about there being exceptions sometimes in cases of mental instability or repentance, Billy didn't know, and he didn't really care. Except that what he did know was that it was not the case either way. Maybe they didn't know that.
It was sunny and warm, which made the mass of black outfits and long sleeves and suit jackets uncomfortable to say the least. The parents were there, a grieving mother and father, and a younger sister who looked too old for her years. A handful of aunts and uncles, and a grandparent. About a dozen of Daniel's friends. The woman he remembered from the shooting.
He got a few odd looks and glares when he even brought Greta along, but somehow it felt appropriate. She sat on the grass by his feet and gazed at the ground, as somber and distraught as the rest of the immediate family.
Some of them tried to talk to him, and vice versa, people sharing their condolences and talking in low voices about a lost beloved member of the living, but all of his words felt like they weren't his. He was on autopilot, quiet and internalizing everything. He should have felt out of place. The woman and he shared a knowing, haunted look, never needing to share any words.
A spark of anger danced on his insides, small, but still there, as he tried to ignore everything the priest said. It didn't matter. It didn't make any sense. He wasn't here to help put a troubled soul to rest or any of that bullshit.
The priest made a cross in the air. "Réquiem æternam dona ei, Dómine. Et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen. Anima ejus, et ánimæ ómnium fidélium defunctórum, per misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace. Amen."
A murmur rose, but no more than that, when things were squared away, nice and tidy and done. The mother, eyes wet, wrinkles starting around the mouth, dark veil over her face, took one of his hands in hers. "If Daniel liked you," she said, hardly above a shaky whisper, "then I consider you like family. Thank you for coming."
He nodded, and she moved on. After a while, everyone started to leave. He hadn't moved from his spot since he arrived, and he didn't really feel like moving even now. Greta laid by him, seemingly determined to stay however long Billy planned to as well.
Why couldn't he just tell them? "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I let your son kill himself," or, "You're too kind, you should hate me, because I didn't care enough," or, "He died because I couldn't see what he was doing." Was he afraid of the accusing looks he would then receive? He fully deserved them. Was he afraid of letting them know that there was a way this could have ended differently? They deserved some sliver of peace, even if some of it was false, or just swept under the rug.
Cars drove away, and the sun began to sink, and he was left alone. Hands balled into fists. Something in him said that he was, as usual, being an idiot. He hardly knew the guy, what possible signs could he have seen? He didn't know Daniel well enough to notice what might have been out of the ordinary with him.
Billy had, out of morbid curiosity, researched suicide online, just to see if he could start piecing things together. There were signs. There were always signs, and he missed them. Maybe he was too distracted by his bigger problem.
There were a lot of 'maybe's regarding the entire situation. Maybe if Billy had stayed the day before. Maybe if he hadn't skipped some time going to see Rachel. Maybe if he'd asked more about Daniel's personal life. Maybe if they had actually gotten to know one another. Maybe Billy had just subconsciously been using the kid for some stupid answer.
Even his solace in science was shattered, but only because he couldn't concentrate. Because he wasn't sure if anything was certain. His precious logic didn't even make sense to him anymore. Nothing did.
He'd work it back together. There were things to be done, as always. Creations to build, banks to rob, people to try to murder but fail to--Billy physically winced at the thought of any death, by his hands or not, and pushed that train of thought away.
He still blamed himself, even if it wasn't true, even if it was expecting too much of himself--he'd hate to think he couldn't even count on himself anymore, but there were the facts lying in front of him.
"You're a cold-hearted son of a bitch." Greta lifted her head to look at him. He wasn't sure who he was talking to. He knew--he knew--that God wasn't there, that his words were hollow notions to lines of silent graves. But he talked as if someone was there anyway.
"Rachel says you test us all. And I said if this was one, you could go fuck yourself. I'm sure you heard that one. That's not a test. That's torture. That's like...that's like dangling a carrot in front of a horse and making him walk off a cliff to get at it." He waved his hands around emphatically, feeling stupid. "Or something a lot worse than that, but I feel like I've been jerked around enough. Enough!"
He let the word settle in the graveyard before continuing. "He could've done so many things with his life. It didn't have to be a dead end like mine. He could've been a teacher or a philosopher. He could've been a scientist, a priest. He could've, would've done what you asked him to. Because he had that much faith. He had so much faith in you, and the afterlife, and the mental image of some white and fluffy utopia, that he blew his brains out in a place where he worshipped you. He had so much faith in you, and now what happens now that that's gone? He's just a body in the ground now. There's no rebirth, no resurrection, no peace in death. There's nothing. He died for nothing. He died for nothing because I was too busy looking for you to notice him. I could've made a difference for him."
He felt the shame and the guilt and the despair roll around in his stomach, and he clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut until he could contain it. His voice dropped even lower in volume, reflecting the saddened tones of the mother. "I should have done something than give him someone to talk to out of boredom or out of...maybe he just needed to dump thoughts on me, or...something than just be someone to take care of the damn dog when he's not here. I should have been more. Done more. I was just an outsider he took in like maybe he could do something for me before he left. Getting back on your good side, I don't know. I should have. I should have done more than debate. I was there. For all the good it did him. He still did it. He smiled, and he smiled, and he shot himself, and he kept on smiling, because I didn't do enough to matter, and you meant so much to him. Look where that got him. Look where all his love for you got him. And where was yours? Where was all that love you're supposed to have when he needed it most?"
He was talking to nobody. He wasn't talking to anyone, alone in the middle of a graveyard. Maybe he was going insane. He let out a slow stream of air. "Rachel also says this isn't my answer, but I was waiting for a sign. For something. Anything definitive. That's as close to a sign as I'm ever going to get, I think, and it was a pretty clear one, thanks. I may never know why she saw what she saw, but...for once, I'm comfortable not knowing. I have theories. They work for me. You... I can't go back. This is why I don't go back. I should never have gone back to New York. I should never have gone back to Scott. I should never have gone back to you. I can't do this. I can't backtrack. No more blasts from my past. I'm done. I'm just...I'm done."
He turned on his heel, storming away, and Greta shyly followed suit. None of it was ever his place to begin with. "Fuck you."
There was no God, that he knew, so he decided he should stop talking to himself like that. He had nobody to blame for this but himself.
translation here
Daniel's family, from what Billy had heard, was absolutely furious at the fact that they had been initially denied a traditional religious service on the grounds that it was a suicide. It was just something else Billy couldn't understand and probably never would--why Daniel would have opted for something so against his own belief system. Eventually a 'friend of the family' type priest accepted to do one as a favor. Something about there being exceptions sometimes in cases of mental instability or repentance, Billy didn't know, and he didn't really care. Except that what he did know was that it was not the case either way. Maybe they didn't know that.
It was sunny and warm, which made the mass of black outfits and long sleeves and suit jackets uncomfortable to say the least. The parents were there, a grieving mother and father, and a younger sister who looked too old for her years. A handful of aunts and uncles, and a grandparent. About a dozen of Daniel's friends. The woman he remembered from the shooting.
He got a few odd looks and glares when he even brought Greta along, but somehow it felt appropriate. She sat on the grass by his feet and gazed at the ground, as somber and distraught as the rest of the immediate family.
Some of them tried to talk to him, and vice versa, people sharing their condolences and talking in low voices about a lost beloved member of the living, but all of his words felt like they weren't his. He was on autopilot, quiet and internalizing everything. He should have felt out of place. The woman and he shared a knowing, haunted look, never needing to share any words.
A spark of anger danced on his insides, small, but still there, as he tried to ignore everything the priest said. It didn't matter. It didn't make any sense. He wasn't here to help put a troubled soul to rest or any of that bullshit.
The priest made a cross in the air. "Réquiem æternam dona ei, Dómine. Et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen. Anima ejus, et ánimæ ómnium fidélium defunctórum, per misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace. Amen."
A murmur rose, but no more than that, when things were squared away, nice and tidy and done. The mother, eyes wet, wrinkles starting around the mouth, dark veil over her face, took one of his hands in hers. "If Daniel liked you," she said, hardly above a shaky whisper, "then I consider you like family. Thank you for coming."
He nodded, and she moved on. After a while, everyone started to leave. He hadn't moved from his spot since he arrived, and he didn't really feel like moving even now. Greta laid by him, seemingly determined to stay however long Billy planned to as well.
Why couldn't he just tell them? "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I let your son kill himself," or, "You're too kind, you should hate me, because I didn't care enough," or, "He died because I couldn't see what he was doing." Was he afraid of the accusing looks he would then receive? He fully deserved them. Was he afraid of letting them know that there was a way this could have ended differently? They deserved some sliver of peace, even if some of it was false, or just swept under the rug.
Cars drove away, and the sun began to sink, and he was left alone. Hands balled into fists. Something in him said that he was, as usual, being an idiot. He hardly knew the guy, what possible signs could he have seen? He didn't know Daniel well enough to notice what might have been out of the ordinary with him.
Billy had, out of morbid curiosity, researched suicide online, just to see if he could start piecing things together. There were signs. There were always signs, and he missed them. Maybe he was too distracted by his bigger problem.
There were a lot of 'maybe's regarding the entire situation. Maybe if Billy had stayed the day before. Maybe if he hadn't skipped some time going to see Rachel. Maybe if he'd asked more about Daniel's personal life. Maybe if they had actually gotten to know one another. Maybe Billy had just subconsciously been using the kid for some stupid answer.
Even his solace in science was shattered, but only because he couldn't concentrate. Because he wasn't sure if anything was certain. His precious logic didn't even make sense to him anymore. Nothing did.
He'd work it back together. There were things to be done, as always. Creations to build, banks to rob, people to try to murder but fail to--Billy physically winced at the thought of any death, by his hands or not, and pushed that train of thought away.
He still blamed himself, even if it wasn't true, even if it was expecting too much of himself--he'd hate to think he couldn't even count on himself anymore, but there were the facts lying in front of him.
"You're a cold-hearted son of a bitch." Greta lifted her head to look at him. He wasn't sure who he was talking to. He knew--he knew--that God wasn't there, that his words were hollow notions to lines of silent graves. But he talked as if someone was there anyway.
"Rachel says you test us all. And I said if this was one, you could go fuck yourself. I'm sure you heard that one. That's not a test. That's torture. That's like...that's like dangling a carrot in front of a horse and making him walk off a cliff to get at it." He waved his hands around emphatically, feeling stupid. "Or something a lot worse than that, but I feel like I've been jerked around enough. Enough!"
He let the word settle in the graveyard before continuing. "He could've done so many things with his life. It didn't have to be a dead end like mine. He could've been a teacher or a philosopher. He could've been a scientist, a priest. He could've, would've done what you asked him to. Because he had that much faith. He had so much faith in you, and the afterlife, and the mental image of some white and fluffy utopia, that he blew his brains out in a place where he worshipped you. He had so much faith in you, and now what happens now that that's gone? He's just a body in the ground now. There's no rebirth, no resurrection, no peace in death. There's nothing. He died for nothing. He died for nothing because I was too busy looking for you to notice him. I could've made a difference for him."
He felt the shame and the guilt and the despair roll around in his stomach, and he clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut until he could contain it. His voice dropped even lower in volume, reflecting the saddened tones of the mother. "I should have done something than give him someone to talk to out of boredom or out of...maybe he just needed to dump thoughts on me, or...something than just be someone to take care of the damn dog when he's not here. I should have been more. Done more. I was just an outsider he took in like maybe he could do something for me before he left. Getting back on your good side, I don't know. I should have. I should have done more than debate. I was there. For all the good it did him. He still did it. He smiled, and he smiled, and he shot himself, and he kept on smiling, because I didn't do enough to matter, and you meant so much to him. Look where that got him. Look where all his love for you got him. And where was yours? Where was all that love you're supposed to have when he needed it most?"
He was talking to nobody. He wasn't talking to anyone, alone in the middle of a graveyard. Maybe he was going insane. He let out a slow stream of air. "Rachel also says this isn't my answer, but I was waiting for a sign. For something. Anything definitive. That's as close to a sign as I'm ever going to get, I think, and it was a pretty clear one, thanks. I may never know why she saw what she saw, but...for once, I'm comfortable not knowing. I have theories. They work for me. You... I can't go back. This is why I don't go back. I should never have gone back to New York. I should never have gone back to Scott. I should never have gone back to you. I can't do this. I can't backtrack. No more blasts from my past. I'm done. I'm just...I'm done."
He turned on his heel, storming away, and Greta shyly followed suit. None of it was ever his place to begin with. "Fuck you."
There was no God, that he knew, so he decided he should stop talking to himself like that. He had nobody to blame for this but himself.