Drown

By Timberwolf220

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People only drown themselves in alcohol when they want something to forget. It's an escape from reality

Meryl Strife

(O)

One.

Two.

Another.

How many has it been? He keeps counting in his head, yet the numbers seem so far off and vague. As if the drink is seeping away his thoughts, his dreams and his life. Not that he had much of a life to begin with.

Another.

Two more.

They never stop. He doesn't want them to. Let them come, let them make him forget. Alcohol is indeed a treasure, one he cannot forsake anymore. It flows into his veins stronger than blood ever has and it makes living on this god forsaken planet almost bearable. With its gun powder constantly humming in the air and the taste of lead and blood on your tongue.

What a beautiful way to live, some gun-loving psycho might say. But he was not that person. He wanted meadows, grass under his black soled feet, the touch of water running through his fingers.

But his fingers are always black, always tinged with that metallic feel of lead and soot. Sometimes the smell would invade his food, his drink and then he would wake up from his dream world and puke.

The smell of gunpowder always made him nauseous.

And another.

And another.

Just drink. It's so simple, so easy. Such an easy way to forget. Just walk into a bar, ask for a drink and wait until the drink fogs up your senses and you can't remember the way he fell down onto the ground, the way his back looked when it was riddled with holes, the way his smile never faded. Not even once. It made him sick all over and he took another glass.

And then it came rushing back, despite the allure of the alcohol. How he stood in front of him, how the rage and jealously flooded his old mentor's face, how peaceful the sky was. There were no dust storms, no brown aching clouds that day. How the sweat made the trigger slippery, how that red cloak fluttered like a handkerchief tossed out to face the mercy of the wind.

How the tears, the tears he thought never existed, began to prickle behind his smoky eyes. How he kept trying to call his name, always calling his name and there was an engulfing silence that he choked on. Because despite how hard he called out, the words caught in his throat and made him stumble.

How he watched his mentor walk away, how he picked up the gun, but never fired those fatal shots. Because…because…simply because…

One.

Two.

Three.

Another.

How many is it now? Ten? Twelve? Or maybe it's the ungodly number of twenty-three. It didn't help, the memories came back so clearly now that his head began to spin. And it wasn't the alcohol.

And he wanted that smile to wither. He wanted an accusation. Blame me! Blame me! He told him that day. Again, he was remembering, but he couldn't stop. The memories brought a rush that put alcohol to shame. Hate me! Curse me! He told him, his voice furious.

Why should I? I'm the one who decided to be the hero, He answered, those fervent green eyes soft and beautiful. He could imagine the world filled with that great soft colour.

Why did you? Why couldn't you let me die? I'm no great loss! But there's only one of you, he jabbed his finger at him, hoping that he would take the bait and accuse him. This…that…anything to blame him and make the other look like the angel he was. Blameless, stainless, pure, something so unreachable that the only thing we can ever grasp is the feathery touch of your wings.

One is enough, He grimaced, but we need more like you.

I hate you! He screamed, he yelled, he dragged the other by the collar to meet his smoky grey eyes, You damn saint!

But his eyes were soft and those harsh cutting words went past him as easily as air.

You shouldn't die, He said softer now. The insults were dying and now he could see the pain etched on the other's brow, You can't die.

But his face was clear, so beautifully clear of those horrible lines of sorrow and tragedy that it made him more than the angel he already was. He then closed his eyes and his breathing had ebbed away.

One.

Two.

Another.

And then, the glass fell from his hand to roll onto the floor. And he cried.

(O)

A/N: A complete change from my original style, but interesting enough for me to post it. For those who are lost, I changed the 'Paradise' episode slightly to have Vash take the shot from Chapel rather than Wolfwood. Simply because I hated it when Wolfwood died. And the quote above was said in the third episode with Frank Marlin. A comment that Meryl made that I found very interesting, so I wrote a fic on it. Hopeless, I know.

Enough of my drabble. Reviews are Godsend and you'd make Wolfwood a very happy priest.