[Fic] finitude
Title: finitude
Fandom: Project: Eden
Characters: Marco Polo, Kaliska | Marco/Kaliska
Word Count: 896
Rating: T
Warning/s: tragedy? ahaha me finding the need to break ships
Summary: Four years, three months, two weeks and one day after their marriage, Marco succumbs to a high fever. | marco and kaliska - death is the experience of the one left behind
Disclaimer: Marco is Karu's!
Notes: written for Secret Valentine 2013 for the prompt "someday when i stop loving you - carrie underwood", so yet again another of my years old writing i'm compiling here in my DW journal. I remember writing this during my Genetics class (ahaha haha ha...) after Philosophy class with a reading on the phenomenology of death. I wrote this to Eric Benét's Still With You while crying so hard it's disgusting =))
the end.
Four years, three months, two weeks and one day after their marriage, Marco succumbs to a high fever.
negative ten.
She wakes up in the middle of the night - a sudden, abrupt transition between sleep and consciousness that leaves her blinking in confusion. There is a dream that teases at her periphery, waiting to be recognized, but it slips through the gaps of her fingers before she can pause enough to turn it over and examine it. Her hand reaches out beside her, an automatic gesture that her body remembers-
The space beside her is cold.
She remembers.
Her vision starts adjusting to the darkness until she can make out the shapes of the pillows and blankets - the non-silhouette of the figure that should be beside her; and she closes her eyes tight, and breathes, because maybe if she believes hard enough.
negative nine.
There is a tangible discrepancy in her every day, as if the world had tilted more in its axis, and the fine line of equilibrium that held it all together has unraveled to a hundred different tiny threads that keep unfurling by the minute.
Her life had come to a standstill; and she goes through the motions of every day mechanically, almost automatically.
When sleep comes, she welcomes it with open arms. In sleep, she can dream.
negative eight.
He likes coffee brewed if they could steal it; she drinks tea, leaves steeped just the right amount of time so it is not too bitter or too bland. On mornings, she makes both. But she takes coffee now, as if the bitter taste at the back of her tongue will bring back the taste of him.
negative seven.
She has not cried yet.
negative six.
His clothes still hang neatly in the closet, though his scent has long since faded. But sometimes she can still feel it linger, just as
He lingers in the empty space in bed beside her, to the chipped mug he had used to drink from daily; to the dust and the motes and the corners of their house and their home.
He lingers in every inch of her he had taken and touched and loved beyond measure, silent and unyielding, lips sliding across body, skin fitting into skin, or the simple, uncomplicated act of their eyes meeting across the room.
He is like a piece to a puzzle, like the only key to a lock; the only way Marco can fit into Kaliska because their edges align and all their rough, sawed-off sides complement in the way no one else can fulfill. It is them, it has always been them - there is a he, as there is a she, but since he had kissed her for the first time, it had always been them.
negative five.
Come home, she whispers to a wildflower she blows into the breeze. Come back to me.
negative four.
It is in the relatively simple process of walking from the bedroom to the kitchen that she breaks.
A high, keening sound bursts from her lips because she cannot hold it back, not anymore, and the loneliness is too much. The solitude and isolation and the too quiet house where even her breathing sounds too loud, too fake, too overbearing. There are no cues, no memories that prompt her - something just breaks.
Why, she wants to tell him, why. But he isn't there to answer because he's gone and he won't come back, not even if she sits on the couch and waits for goddamn forever. He's gone to a place where she can't reach, to somewhere she can't follow. And the stupid asswipe left her with nothing but their memories-
Dickhead, wasn't it supposed to be forever? Wasn't it supposed to be them holding hands and arguing and calling each other names until they were old and wrinkled? How could he leave her alone how could he how could he. How.
It hurts, hurts, a palpable ache in her chest, like if she's opened up, they'll see this gaping emptiness in her where he had used to be. A part he had left; a puzzle piece gone missing; a huge chunk of her he had torn away with his passing-
negative three.
She’s lost him. He’s gone into the abyss of eternity; that place between space-time.
But forever stretches out just beyond her reach, like a butterfly that flits too high she cannot cup her palms around it - limited as she is by time and gravity and finitude, caught in the chasm of life that has turned to washed out grays and pale, frayed edges.
She’s lost too; and she wonders for everyday, what is out there when her life has ended when he left.
negative two.
She finds her reason in a little child, a boy barely ten with the eyes of someone aged, who tries to steal her purse when she walks through the streets of District 9.
They have the same, brown eyes.
negative one.
Forty-three years, two months and one week after Marco dies, she follows him.
“Hey, barbarian.”
“Where the hell- You…you asswipe!”
He smirks, “Tch. Get moving.”
She glares at him just as she slips her fingers into the spaces between his, and it fits as perfectly as it had always done so before.
zero.
And infinity goes on.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/19580.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Project: Eden
Characters: Marco Polo, Kaliska | Marco/Kaliska
Word Count: 896
Rating: T
Warning/s: tragedy? ahaha me finding the need to break ships
Summary: Four years, three months, two weeks and one day after their marriage, Marco succumbs to a high fever. | marco and kaliska - death is the experience of the one left behind
Disclaimer: Marco is Karu's!
Notes: written for Secret Valentine 2013 for the prompt "someday when i stop loving you - carrie underwood", so yet again another of my years old writing i'm compiling here in my DW journal. I remember writing this during my Genetics class (ahaha haha ha...) after Philosophy class with a reading on the phenomenology of death. I wrote this to Eric Benét's Still With You while crying so hard it's disgusting =))
the end.
Four years, three months, two weeks and one day after their marriage, Marco succumbs to a high fever.
negative ten.
She wakes up in the middle of the night - a sudden, abrupt transition between sleep and consciousness that leaves her blinking in confusion. There is a dream that teases at her periphery, waiting to be recognized, but it slips through the gaps of her fingers before she can pause enough to turn it over and examine it. Her hand reaches out beside her, an automatic gesture that her body remembers-
The space beside her is cold.
She remembers.
Her vision starts adjusting to the darkness until she can make out the shapes of the pillows and blankets - the non-silhouette of the figure that should be beside her; and she closes her eyes tight, and breathes, because maybe if she believes hard enough.
negative nine.
There is a tangible discrepancy in her every day, as if the world had tilted more in its axis, and the fine line of equilibrium that held it all together has unraveled to a hundred different tiny threads that keep unfurling by the minute.
Her life had come to a standstill; and she goes through the motions of every day mechanically, almost automatically.
When sleep comes, she welcomes it with open arms. In sleep, she can dream.
negative eight.
He likes coffee brewed if they could steal it; she drinks tea, leaves steeped just the right amount of time so it is not too bitter or too bland. On mornings, she makes both. But she takes coffee now, as if the bitter taste at the back of her tongue will bring back the taste of him.
negative seven.
She has not cried yet.
negative six.
His clothes still hang neatly in the closet, though his scent has long since faded. But sometimes she can still feel it linger, just as
He lingers in the empty space in bed beside her, to the chipped mug he had used to drink from daily; to the dust and the motes and the corners of their house and their home.
He lingers in every inch of her he had taken and touched and loved beyond measure, silent and unyielding, lips sliding across body, skin fitting into skin, or the simple, uncomplicated act of their eyes meeting across the room.
He is like a piece to a puzzle, like the only key to a lock; the only way Marco can fit into Kaliska because their edges align and all their rough, sawed-off sides complement in the way no one else can fulfill. It is them, it has always been them - there is a he, as there is a she, but since he had kissed her for the first time, it had always been them.
negative five.
Come home, she whispers to a wildflower she blows into the breeze. Come back to me.
negative four.
It is in the relatively simple process of walking from the bedroom to the kitchen that she breaks.
A high, keening sound bursts from her lips because she cannot hold it back, not anymore, and the loneliness is too much. The solitude and isolation and the too quiet house where even her breathing sounds too loud, too fake, too overbearing. There are no cues, no memories that prompt her - something just breaks.
Why, she wants to tell him, why. But he isn't there to answer because he's gone and he won't come back, not even if she sits on the couch and waits for goddamn forever. He's gone to a place where she can't reach, to somewhere she can't follow. And the stupid asswipe left her with nothing but their memories-
Dickhead, wasn't it supposed to be forever? Wasn't it supposed to be them holding hands and arguing and calling each other names until they were old and wrinkled? How could he leave her alone how could he how could he. How.
It hurts, hurts, a palpable ache in her chest, like if she's opened up, they'll see this gaping emptiness in her where he had used to be. A part he had left; a puzzle piece gone missing; a huge chunk of her he had torn away with his passing-
negative three.
She’s lost him. He’s gone into the abyss of eternity; that place between space-time.
But forever stretches out just beyond her reach, like a butterfly that flits too high she cannot cup her palms around it - limited as she is by time and gravity and finitude, caught in the chasm of life that has turned to washed out grays and pale, frayed edges.
She’s lost too; and she wonders for everyday, what is out there when her life has ended when he left.
negative two.
She finds her reason in a little child, a boy barely ten with the eyes of someone aged, who tries to steal her purse when she walks through the streets of District 9.
They have the same, brown eyes.
negative one.
Forty-three years, two months and one week after Marco dies, she follows him.
“Hey, barbarian.”
“Where the hell- You…you asswipe!”
He smirks, “Tch. Get moving.”
She glares at him just as she slips her fingers into the spaces between his, and it fits as perfectly as it had always done so before.
zero.
And infinity goes on.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/19580.html. Please comment there using OpenID.