The Tomorrow Trilogy Fanfiction - Forgiveness: Chapter 1
Oops, I did it again. I need to stop writing fic so damn often, I swear. This will have multiple chapters and uh, will be fun to see what happens lololol
My mouth hangs open as I feel bile rising in my throat. Just what -- what did I just do?
I put a hand over my mouth and immediately regret it. Jazz’s blood. Jazz’s blood is all over my hands and I can smell it and it only makes my stomach turn worse. As much as I want to pull my hand away, I totally can’t. I can’t.
Because if I do, I might puke. Best trauma surgeon in the entire fucking Empire and the smell of my husband’s blood coupled with the image of my worst enemy crumpled to the fucking ground, unmoving, blood seeping through his clothes? Those are enough to do even my stomach in, apparently.
I shot him. I shot him. The gun’s still in my right hand and I toss it away from me as quickly as I possibly can. Push myself off the ground. I’m at Mitchel’s side before I can even think, turning him over onto his back.
No exit wound. That bullet’s still in him somewhere. Don’t have time to think about that, now. Still breathing. He’s still breathing. It’s labored. Must have punctured a lung. I’m ripping his clothes off him, on autopilot.
Need to stop the bleeding. Or at least bandage the wound on his back. Get him to the hospital. Mitchel groans, his eyes fluttering open.
Of course. Of course I shoot him with every intention of watching him die and now that he might? I fucking can’t. Not even after he fucking killed my husband right in fucking front of me.
There must be something fucking wrong with me.
***
The next few days are a fucking blur. Mitchel survived surgery. Ended up in prison for -- well, a lot of fucking things. I haven’t slept. Can’t sleep, with everything I have to do to keep myself and the Empire together. Totally don’t have a fucking clue how that happened. Don’t have the time to think. Don’t have time to grieve.
Mari’s been stopping by. Don’t have the heart to tell her that as much as I appreciate her company, it’s not enough. It just reminds me that I’m alone. Completely and utterly alone. Jazz won’t be coming back. He can’t come back. I called the time of death myself.
No matter how many times I fucking wash my hands, I still see his blood on them. Can still smell his blood everywhere. His funeral’s come and gone. Dead. He’s really, truly fucking dead. I just want to be alone and curl up in a ball and fucking die, myself.
And yet I can’t stop myself when I walk down to the Palace prison. Can’t stop the tears that keep running down my face, either, when I stand in front of his cell. I’ve done this every night since that day. First when Mitchel was in a hospital room -- now when he’s in his cell. He’s still recovering, usually sleeping when I come down here.
“Visiting me again, Emperor?”
His voice is like nails on a fucking chalkboard. Except it lacks its usual smugness. I sit down in front of the cell, crossing my legs and putting my head in my hands. I hear him groan as he gets up -- he shouldn’t be fucking moving around much, but I’m not about to tell him that. His footsteps move closer to me and I still can’t bring myself to look up at him.
I want to hate him. I want to hate him more than I ever have in my entire fucking life and I can’t. I can’t, because when I finally do look up, I see the same pain in his eyes that I know is in mine.
Guess he never meant to kill Jazz first, after all.
***
“It was never part of the plan.”
Mitchel’s voice breaks through my thoughts. This is the first time he’s even spoken a word to me aside from his casual, “Visiting me again?” since that first night. His wounds are healed, now. He moves around with ease in his cell and insists on sitting against the bars, his back to me with his legs bent.
Some nights he’s already sitting like that, as if he were waiting for me to come down. I just sit with my back to him, one leg bent as I rest my forehead against my knee.
“What wasn’t?” I ask, my voice hoarse. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that I haven’t dissolved into tears. Today has been no exception -- but at least they weren’t shed here, where Mitchel can see and hear me.
“I think you already know what wasn’t, Emperor,” Mitchel responds, his voice icy. There’s an unusual heaviness to it, too. Almost sounds like guilt. Probably is guilt, I realize after a moment. The next time he speaks, his voice shakes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it shake before. “I never meant to kill him.”
“I know.”
I know, but I haven’t forgiven him for it. Not yet. Not sure if I ever really will. The love of my fucking life and he’s gone, all because of the man I’m sitting back to back with. I can feel the heat of his body against mine, even if bars stand between us. Can feel it when he moves away from the bars; can hear his footsteps as he walks away from me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and I hear the stiff creaking of his cot.
As much as I totally don’t want to, I pull my knees to my chest and fail to choke back a sob. Of course he is. Knowing him, he’s only sorry because he got caught. Because he miscalculated and assumed I would shoot myself instead of him.
I almost wish I had.
“I’m sorry, too,” I manage, wiping the tears off of my face. “Maybe if I had been a better shot there’d only be one of us fucking suffering.”
He laughs -- a sarcastic, bitter sound. “Maybe, Emperor,” he says. There’s more creaking. I guess he’s trying to get comfortable on his cot. “I should have known you would be a lousy shot.”
My eyes widen and the tears stop. I can feel my jaw fall to the floor as I turn to face him. His eyes are focused on me, just for a second, before he fucking looks away.
“You wanted me to kill you,” I breathe, and my chest feels tight all over again. I don’t say anything else as I run my fingers over my hair and get up from the floor. My stomach’s turning just like it did when I tossed the gun out of my hands and I totally feel the bile rising in my throat again. “Why?” I ask, grabbing at the bars of his cell.
“Because, Emperor,” he answers, his eyes meeting mine again. When he looks away, he turns them towards the ceiling of his cell. “I have nothing left to live for.”
“You have nothing left to live for?” I cry. For the first time since Jazz’s funeral, I feel my hands clench at my sides and my teeth are grinding together. “You killed my husband!”
“But you still have an Empire to run,” Mitchel says smoothly. Irritatingly so. Almost as if he were back to his normal self in just those few words. “You clearly aren’t so selfish to let the entire Empire fall apart.”
“How the hell am I supposed to run the Empire by myself? I don’t have a fucking Council -- you’ve managed to take all of them from me -- you took my husband from me -- the hell do I have left?”
I’m panting when I’m done shouting. I have to hold back the urge to kick the bars -- or to throw my glasses, which I ripped off my face at some point because they’re now in my hand. Mitchel just remains on his cot, his eyes never leaving mine.
“The hospital. Your medical career. Mari,” Mitchel lists off, getting up from his cot. I glare at him, my fingers tightening around my glasses.
“I’m quitting my medical career,” I spit. I twist my glasses in my hands, wishing the words didn’t make my chest tighten so damn much as I talk. Fucking Christ, why am I even telling him this? I haven’t even -- I haven’t even told Jazz that, yet.
I haven’t visited Jazz’s grave since I buried him. And the thought that I haven’t is the final straw. I’m collapsing against the fucking bars, my hands tearing at my hair as I sink back to the floor.
Everything I do now is for the best for the Empire. But what about what’s the best for me? I’m giving up everything that makes me me just so I can run the fucking thing.
And the look Mitchel’s giving me now? That totally can’t be pity. He can’t possibly fucking pity me.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, kneeling on the ground in front of me.
He can say it all he fucking wants; it’s not like it’ll bring Jazz back.
Next Chapter
My mouth hangs open as I feel bile rising in my throat. Just what -- what did I just do?
I put a hand over my mouth and immediately regret it. Jazz’s blood. Jazz’s blood is all over my hands and I can smell it and it only makes my stomach turn worse. As much as I want to pull my hand away, I totally can’t. I can’t.
Because if I do, I might puke. Best trauma surgeon in the entire fucking Empire and the smell of my husband’s blood coupled with the image of my worst enemy crumpled to the fucking ground, unmoving, blood seeping through his clothes? Those are enough to do even my stomach in, apparently.
I shot him. I shot him. The gun’s still in my right hand and I toss it away from me as quickly as I possibly can. Push myself off the ground. I’m at Mitchel’s side before I can even think, turning him over onto his back.
No exit wound. That bullet’s still in him somewhere. Don’t have time to think about that, now. Still breathing. He’s still breathing. It’s labored. Must have punctured a lung. I’m ripping his clothes off him, on autopilot.
Need to stop the bleeding. Or at least bandage the wound on his back. Get him to the hospital. Mitchel groans, his eyes fluttering open.
Of course. Of course I shoot him with every intention of watching him die and now that he might? I fucking can’t. Not even after he fucking killed my husband right in fucking front of me.
There must be something fucking wrong with me.
***
The next few days are a fucking blur. Mitchel survived surgery. Ended up in prison for -- well, a lot of fucking things. I haven’t slept. Can’t sleep, with everything I have to do to keep myself and the Empire together. Totally don’t have a fucking clue how that happened. Don’t have the time to think. Don’t have time to grieve.
Mari’s been stopping by. Don’t have the heart to tell her that as much as I appreciate her company, it’s not enough. It just reminds me that I’m alone. Completely and utterly alone. Jazz won’t be coming back. He can’t come back. I called the time of death myself.
No matter how many times I fucking wash my hands, I still see his blood on them. Can still smell his blood everywhere. His funeral’s come and gone. Dead. He’s really, truly fucking dead. I just want to be alone and curl up in a ball and fucking die, myself.
And yet I can’t stop myself when I walk down to the Palace prison. Can’t stop the tears that keep running down my face, either, when I stand in front of his cell. I’ve done this every night since that day. First when Mitchel was in a hospital room -- now when he’s in his cell. He’s still recovering, usually sleeping when I come down here.
“Visiting me again, Emperor?”
His voice is like nails on a fucking chalkboard. Except it lacks its usual smugness. I sit down in front of the cell, crossing my legs and putting my head in my hands. I hear him groan as he gets up -- he shouldn’t be fucking moving around much, but I’m not about to tell him that. His footsteps move closer to me and I still can’t bring myself to look up at him.
I want to hate him. I want to hate him more than I ever have in my entire fucking life and I can’t. I can’t, because when I finally do look up, I see the same pain in his eyes that I know is in mine.
Guess he never meant to kill Jazz first, after all.
***
“It was never part of the plan.”
Mitchel’s voice breaks through my thoughts. This is the first time he’s even spoken a word to me aside from his casual, “Visiting me again?” since that first night. His wounds are healed, now. He moves around with ease in his cell and insists on sitting against the bars, his back to me with his legs bent.
Some nights he’s already sitting like that, as if he were waiting for me to come down. I just sit with my back to him, one leg bent as I rest my forehead against my knee.
“What wasn’t?” I ask, my voice hoarse. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that I haven’t dissolved into tears. Today has been no exception -- but at least they weren’t shed here, where Mitchel can see and hear me.
“I think you already know what wasn’t, Emperor,” Mitchel responds, his voice icy. There’s an unusual heaviness to it, too. Almost sounds like guilt. Probably is guilt, I realize after a moment. The next time he speaks, his voice shakes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it shake before. “I never meant to kill him.”
“I know.”
I know, but I haven’t forgiven him for it. Not yet. Not sure if I ever really will. The love of my fucking life and he’s gone, all because of the man I’m sitting back to back with. I can feel the heat of his body against mine, even if bars stand between us. Can feel it when he moves away from the bars; can hear his footsteps as he walks away from me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and I hear the stiff creaking of his cot.
As much as I totally don’t want to, I pull my knees to my chest and fail to choke back a sob. Of course he is. Knowing him, he’s only sorry because he got caught. Because he miscalculated and assumed I would shoot myself instead of him.
I almost wish I had.
“I’m sorry, too,” I manage, wiping the tears off of my face. “Maybe if I had been a better shot there’d only be one of us fucking suffering.”
He laughs -- a sarcastic, bitter sound. “Maybe, Emperor,” he says. There’s more creaking. I guess he’s trying to get comfortable on his cot. “I should have known you would be a lousy shot.”
My eyes widen and the tears stop. I can feel my jaw fall to the floor as I turn to face him. His eyes are focused on me, just for a second, before he fucking looks away.
“You wanted me to kill you,” I breathe, and my chest feels tight all over again. I don’t say anything else as I run my fingers over my hair and get up from the floor. My stomach’s turning just like it did when I tossed the gun out of my hands and I totally feel the bile rising in my throat again. “Why?” I ask, grabbing at the bars of his cell.
“Because, Emperor,” he answers, his eyes meeting mine again. When he looks away, he turns them towards the ceiling of his cell. “I have nothing left to live for.”
“You have nothing left to live for?” I cry. For the first time since Jazz’s funeral, I feel my hands clench at my sides and my teeth are grinding together. “You killed my husband!”
“But you still have an Empire to run,” Mitchel says smoothly. Irritatingly so. Almost as if he were back to his normal self in just those few words. “You clearly aren’t so selfish to let the entire Empire fall apart.”
“How the hell am I supposed to run the Empire by myself? I don’t have a fucking Council -- you’ve managed to take all of them from me -- you took my husband from me -- the hell do I have left?”
I’m panting when I’m done shouting. I have to hold back the urge to kick the bars -- or to throw my glasses, which I ripped off my face at some point because they’re now in my hand. Mitchel just remains on his cot, his eyes never leaving mine.
“The hospital. Your medical career. Mari,” Mitchel lists off, getting up from his cot. I glare at him, my fingers tightening around my glasses.
“I’m quitting my medical career,” I spit. I twist my glasses in my hands, wishing the words didn’t make my chest tighten so damn much as I talk. Fucking Christ, why am I even telling him this? I haven’t even -- I haven’t even told Jazz that, yet.
I haven’t visited Jazz’s grave since I buried him. And the thought that I haven’t is the final straw. I’m collapsing against the fucking bars, my hands tearing at my hair as I sink back to the floor.
Everything I do now is for the best for the Empire. But what about what’s the best for me? I’m giving up everything that makes me me just so I can run the fucking thing.
And the look Mitchel’s giving me now? That totally can’t be pity. He can’t possibly fucking pity me.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, kneeling on the ground in front of me.
He can say it all he fucking wants; it’s not like it’ll bring Jazz back.
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