There and Back Again
By Skandranon
Warning : Bleak, violent. Cussing, talk of adult themes. Made my chest hurt writing it, might make yours hurt too.
We stopped talking to each other years back, maybe as much as a decade. I don't know. The days sort of blur together. One long breath of weariness. We hadn't talked much to begin with, but we still communicated. Small gestures, small moments. Now when we speak, we don't say anything. And it's obvious, very obvious, that it's fake, and forced, and flimsy, and that under the surface are deeper, darker things lurking. Shadows in the eyes, smothered expressions on the lips.
When the world went to hell there wasn't much time for talk anyway.
It was Ellone. We knew she was a sorceress. We knew. We thought it was okay. She was Sis, old friend, dear friend. Dabbled in time magic, but who didn't? But immense power has a way of corrupting, even the sweet and gentle. She started seeing the future. Then she thought she could change the future. Prevent the bad parts. Then she thought she could control the future.
She'd meant it for the best. That's all she'd say, at the end. I meant it for the best.
She died saying that, but by then it was too late. War and weapons were in motion, nations clashing. New and terrifying weapons that tore the mind and flesh. Larger airships. Corrosive magics. Bigger guns. Stronger poisons. New words were invented that filled people with dread. Biochemical. Thermonuclear.
The biggest blow was the degrading of magic itself. Something went horribly wrong in the darker days. Something somewhere broke in the very nature of existence. We went too far, and suddenly magic wasn't working right. Small spells exploded city blocks. Life spells killed. Scan spells killed. Death didn't. Those who tapped the essence of magic often had a tendency to lose themselves to it.
They lost Quistis that way. She murdered Cid and Edea in their sleep. Then she hanged herself in her own closet. Left a note half legible, half gibberish, about how the demons wouldn't let her rest.
Around that time, Squall confessed that Shiva was whispering some creepy things in his head.
He confessed it to Zell. Not to me. Never to me.
It took most of Garden – what was left – to subdue Squall enough to get the GF out. She'd taken control of him. We lost good men, frozen in place, their very blood crystallized. Squall had nightmares for weeks afterward. And when he woke, he'd stalk off to the living room to watch tv on mute until he could sleep again without shaking, and I would lie in the bed and pretend to be asleep, waiting for him to come back. He hated when I said anything. He'd snarl at me that he just wanted to sleep.
Then Rinoa lost it, and Timber left the realm of geography.
Then Esthar became a plague hothouse. Laguna left the country and went into seclusion. Haven't heard from him since.
Then Fisherman's Horizon fell into the sea.
Dollet's forest burned.
Winhill was emptied by monster attacks.
Balamb was bombed.
Esther became a dictatorship.
Then the rains started again.
The worst of the monsters were pushed back.
Timber was rebuilt.
Selphie got married.
Esther was remade a democracy.
A cure was found for the Render's Plague.
Squall and I got a place of our own.
Seifer was elected president of Deling.
We bought a dog.
And we still don't talk.
We work from home, mostly. His back injuries and my medication don't allow us to move around too much. A few days a week we stop into Deling to check with the Garden, but mostly we command by phone. We don't have to interfere much; the current reigning officers do a fine job.
I mow the lawn, he does the dishes. I vacuum, he does laundry. I cook, he rakes. Sundays we picnic down at the park.
I want to kill myself. I haven't told him. I don't think he'd care.
Told the dog. He whined to be let out.
We watch sports together, and root opposite sides so we can argue. We eat together, and read with our hips pressed together on the couch. Some days he brushes my hair out and puts it in a braid. Some days he sits still long enough for me to decorate him with fingerpaint soaps.
It's all a pretty picture. From the outside, it looks like I've got it good. What more is there to life, anyways?
But some days his wounded leg gives out and he falls. Sometimes he can't even get up again. If I try to help, he snarls at me. If I keep trying, he lashes out with insults until I have to go lie down and take a few pills.
Some days I can't go outside without breaking down. Grey skies remind me too much of the gas. Blue skies remind me too much of the biofields. Puffy clouds are airships on the horizon. Rain is gunshots in the distance. I know it's not. I know it's over. It still hurts.
He can't read the paper without meticulously cutting out every article about death or damage, memorizing it word for word, then burning it and sticking his hands in the flame. I tried to stop him. He hit me.
I've thought of killing our dog before. It's got teeth. Monster. A sweet little happy puppy, but somewhere far back in its ancestry… monster. Why take the risk?
One or the other of us has a nightmare every night. We take pills to go back to sleep. We don't hold each other. We don't ask what it was about.
We don't hug, or kiss. Haven't done the woohoo since before… since before.
Some days I catch him cutting words into his skin.
Some days he catches me shooting up.
We don't say anything. We pretend we didn't see it.
If I died, would he pretend he didn't see it? Would he walk over my body to get to the breakfast table? Wonder why the grass was so unkempt?
If he died, would I wonder where the clean laundry was?
I don't really know anymore.
The war's been over for years now. But the warriors keep on going. We fought like we would die tomorrow. And now we have to live like we'll see grey hair and dentures. Where's the fairness in that? Where's God's compassion?
Why didn't we die, damn it? We were supposed to die.
I don't want to have children. I don't want to have grandchildren. I don't want to say "back in the day". Back in the day was hell, but it was our hell. This shiny new world fits like shiny new shoes. Scuffs the edges of your toes. A little too tight. They tell me I'll grow in to it, but will I? Really? Has anyone?
They play war movies on televison, for crying out loud. Last night there was a war comedy. What new world toddler writes this crap? How young did they have to be to not remember the scream of the sirens? The stench of bunkers? Scrambling over torn corpses at 3 am on a cloudless, balmy night in September?
Why the hell do they think their new world will be any different than what was? How can they have the arrogance to assume they're better?
Squall thinks these things too. He doesn't say them, but I see them under his eyes. In the way he tenses. In the way he cries. I don't say anything. I pretend not to care. But he knows I do.
He knows I think these things. He pretends he doesn't, but I can tell. He pretends not to care. But I know he does.
We don't talk, but the mindless, pointless routine we share is all that keeps us going. We hold each other up by sheer stubbornness. It may be curse or blessing, but it's fact.
Maybe we'll grow old together. Maybe we won't talk on our deathbeds.
But we won't be alone either.