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Beautiful Music
THAT 70's SHOW
by Jennifer Ryan
04/20/2013

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Everything I Own

I couldn't find a parking space so I abandoned my car on the street, door open and engine still running. The woman behind the desk tried to stop me from entering the exam room. In retrospect, I wish she had succeeded, because for every day of the rest of my life I'll be haunted by the memory of Dr. Sander's stern and gravely voice telling his nurse the situation was hopeless from the start. His skull was fractured, his leg broken and several ribs smashed. I came here with hope in my heart, promising myself it would be all right because it just had to be. Never did I envision waking early on a Thursday morning to be told that my best friend is dead.

I failed to stifle the strangling noises that rose involuntary from my throat, alarming the nurse and alerting Dr. Sanders to my presence. He put his hand on my shoulder and tried to comfort me, but I shook my head hard from side to side so his words couldn't reach my brain. I didn't want to hear any more. He guided me backwards and pushed me down into a chair, telling the nurse to call my mother while he rubbed circles on my back and compounded my heartbreak with meaningless reassurances. He knelt before me and, holding my trembling hands in his own, promised me that G-d has a plan for Franklin.

"G-d planned for Franklin to die?"

"He planned for Franklin to save your friend's life."

"Hyde's not my friend anymore!" I spring from the chair, standing over Franklin's lifeless body and wishing I could have been there to hold him those last minutes. I wanted for the love in my eyes to be the last thing he saw, so he'd still remember me by the time he reached Heaven. Dr. Sanders excuses himself from the room and I gather my best friend's sheet wrapped body in my arms and cradle him in the way I never could when he was alive. His muscles are limp and lax and as I adjust my hold, I can feel the ribs that once protected his lungs and heart shift unnaturally. My composure dissolves when I think that his heart is as broken as mine.

"You always have to be stubborn and rush into situations you can't control, Franklin. You're like one of those renegade cops who gets all of his partners killed." I pace the length of the room while clutching him to my chest, in case he feels cold, and warn that he'll need to be more careful in the future, because he has me at home waiting for him. But no, there is no future. I'll travel the rest of this life a widower, alone and never fully managing to connect the mangled pieces of my soul with another living creature.

Josh and Irving have been teaching me about destiny - or what I was taught to call G-d's plan - and that once the wheels of fate are in motion, they are an unstoppable force. This was Franklin's destiny? I can't believe his fate was to meet his end without me.

I'd so many plans for the both of us, like our first house, a funky little bungalow where we would be content. And children, of course. I figured we'd start families around the same time and that we'd help raise each others kids; that they would grow up together. One day we'd be old and gray, sharing pills for our arthritis and making fun of each other for not being able to get off the couch and then suddenly, as if by magic, we'd be in Heaven together.

Always together in my dreams, but now I'm alone. Finally I understand all my dad's harping about drinking and drugs. All the hard assed and reasonless rules I thought were invented to torment and keep me from having fun were for a reason. He said you'll kill yourself or somebody else and secretly I laughed at his naive love of the dramatic.

He was right.

I laughed at Hyde when he was drunk and a lot of the time I helped him get that way. We smoked pot together more times than I can count and most of them were my idea. The more messed up his head got, the harder I laughed at him, just as he did me. And now my sweet Franklin is dead forever. I never killed anyone's dog - would never dream of such a cruel and evil thing. But Hyde's always had a fucking mean streak.

I continue pacing the length of the exam room, singing softly though Franklin can't hear me. ... I would give up my life, my heart, my home ... just to have you back again.

"Michael, honey. Your mama's outside." Nurse Shelley directs me to lay Franklin's body back on the exam table, promising that she and Dr. Sanders will take care of everything, but I turn away, holding him tightly and close to my heart.

I hold my head high and announce that Franklin was Buddhist. My people will arrange for everything.

Shore Leave (a.k.a last night)

I wake slowly, with a splitting headache and to the annoying yet unnervingly far away sound of what may be a pipe organ. It a cloying, unhappy sound. A painfully slow and depressing one and my first thought is that I must have arrived in time for my own funeral. But I'm not surrounded by a tacky powder blue satin lined box that is standard of such occasions, just cheap tartan plaid flannel sheets that smell like sweat, stale beer and tobacco smoke.

The sounds of a party still going strong won't permit me to sleep or even linger in self-imposed twilight. Before I can garner the motivation to push myself from the bed, the door swings open and a couple of horney morons land in my lap. I flail and swing in aggravation, stopped short by the blood curdling scream of a plump, topless blonde. Her bra hangs from one shoulder, the other side clutched in her suitors fist as they both jump away from me as if I've burned them on the ass.

I ignore his clumsy apology and her hitch-pitched shrieking, slowly dragging myself into the main room in search of better company. The party goers who remain line the room in a loose circle, passing a bong while happily singing and clapping in rhythm with the music.

... turned cartwheels across the floor
... I was feeling kinda sea sick
... the crowd called out for more

I scan the sea of faces, hoping to find Roy or Jesse, or really just any friendly smile to help me limp out to my car and sleep off this hangover. Instead I find Jackie sitting on the floor, her tiny body curled in between the sofa and a row of folding chairs. I don't recognize the women with whom she's chatting, but when the bong is passed to her, she's the only one who doesn't partake. Not only does she pass off her share, she does so as if a bit disgusted, then returns her attention to a young lady who is both frumpy and unstylish - typically someone she'd not only ignore, but ridicule. Instead she's smiling and it's so easy and genuine that I find it incredible. She gives the woman a quick peck on the cheek and as her friend rises to leave, Jackie grabs her hand and squeezes the way ladies do as if to say I'll miss you forever and ever and ever.

Then Jackie looks past me as if she has no idea who I am, but really I'm the one who should be shocked. Though it's been awhile, I can't believe the transformation evident as she stands. Every inch of her body is hard muscle, hugged by dark jeans and a tee shirt, two items of clothing I had no idea she owned. She sports the posture and confidence of a soldier, suddenly reminding me of Red Forman. Grabbing a brown leather jacket from behind her, she walks past me and I reach out to take her arm as she does, calling her name, which appears to puzzle her.

"Who's Jackie? I'm Patricia."

Undaunted, I ask what she's doing here this weekend and she blushes deeply. "I'm home on shore leave," she laughs, "though in truth my home is at sea."

"Shore leave? You're a mermaid?"

"No, a freebird. I'm training to be a navy pilot."

Her resemblance to Jackie is startling, uncanny, but now that I let myself, I see she's different in so many ways. Her beauty and personality are equally commanding, radiating an overwhelming aura of raw strength coupled with extraordinary grace. This Patricia is someone I'd never care to challenge, as I've little doubt she could take me, or anyone, really. I tell her I didn't know the navy had pilots.

"That's a common misconception, sir." She stands at exaggerated attention and salutes me. "It is the privilege and mission of the United States Navy to train and equip combat ready forces capable of waging and winning wars. My bird is perched atop a boat. "

"So you're a soldier?"

"Aren't you?" she asks wearily, as if to acknowledge there are more ways to wage a war than to win one. As we walk toward the balcony, I think to myself that she's something Jackie never could be - perceptive.

"Why would a lady want to be a soldier?"

"It's the perfect job for a woman, if you think about it. A woman is her child's first guard. I'm to be a mother to every man, woman and child in this nation."

Solemnly, I tell her she seems to be a steadfast defender.

"You have no idea. And it was my choice. We all make choices. For instance," she hands me a paper cup and as we toast the Patron Saint of Lady Freebirds, I swallow and realize she's served me a cup of bleach. I spit out a mouthful and gag, pissed to see her slight and entertained smile from behind the cup from which she is sipping.

"You gave me bleach!?" I throw the cup to the ground, gagging as I wipe my mouth on my shirt.

"Bleach and alcohol are practically the same thing," she shrugs. "The only difference is one takes longer to kill you, leaving plenty of time for everyone around you to suffer."

I stop short, no longer entertained by her resemblance to Jackie or the mystery of her. Before I can spit in her face, she lay her hand against my cheek and whispers, "I think you must have love this Jackie greatly." Her smile is soft and caring as she tells me goodbye. "I'd love to stay longer, but I'm fighting a war. Promise you'll be careful, Steven. Don't fall."

As she disappears into the crowd, I peer over the edge of the balcony to an oddly empty courtyard. There are no people, no bikes, no trash, no nothing but perfectly manicured grass and emptiness. Something feels off, very wrong and I cannot place it. I look up to the stars and think to myself that I shouldn't be here - something is missing. Someone is missing. Is Eric seeing these same stars? Is he thinking of me? Does he hate me now? Have I been unfair?

I know I'm fucked up, that I can fly off the handle. Did I start a fight that should never have happened? I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding, saddened by the unnatural level of silence that surrounds me. I'm alone and it's all my fault.

"Don't jump." A kind and friendly voice teases. I turn, starstruck, to find I've been joined by someone who can't possibly be here, which means I must be dead and explains the overwhelming cold and emptiness that threaten to drown me.

"Oh, don't be a drama queen, Steven. Leave that to me." His laugh is as warm and rich as I always imagined it would be. So many nights I lay in bed, listening to him on my radio and dreaming that he was my father or even my big brother. I've had so few men in my life that have left me with positive feelings, so I shouldn't be surprised that my guardian angel should take the form of Freddie Mercury.

I turn away from him, clutching the balcony's railing too tight. "I killed myself, didn't I?"

He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "What did I just tell you? Besides, pain and isolation are things that only the living can feel."

"And I'm still living?"

He slips his other arm around my waist and pulls me back into a hug, whispering in my ear, "I don't see why not."

It's then that I crumble, completely and embarrassingly so, by turning into his embrace, throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing him so tightly that I'm surprised he doesn't push me away. I hide my face in his shirt and scrunch my eyes together hard, trying not to show emotion though I know I'm failing miserably. And like a good guardian angel, he doesn't complain at all, but just holds me tight while I stammer apologies to no one in particular, maybe just the entire world around me.

"Why are you apologizing to me, Steven?"

My voice is so soft that even I have trouble hearing it. "Because I ruin everything. Because I let him be hurt. Because it's all my fault and it's eating me alive. Because none of them ever loved me before, but Eric did and I couldn't do anything but fuck it up."

He sighs, telling me it's a good thing I decided to stick around, since I have a lifetime worth of shit to figure out. He grabs my forearms, pushing me back to look into his eyes. "I know the words you want to say, Steven, because I wrote them. So why are you here with me? Stop overthinking everything and start telling him the things he needs to know."

I smile cautiously, knowing well he's right. He turns me gently toward the balcony, running his fingers through my curls as he pushes me forward. "Since I'm your dream man, I hope you won't mind one last bit of advice?"

I nod and he shoves me over the railing, warning me not to fall, but I do, in painful slow motion. The ground stretches out forever, never rising to meet me. Instead something slams into my body, like a thousand razors digging into my flesh and I find myself pinned to a tree, suspended by an arrow that must have just missed my heart.

I gasp for breath, tears sliding down my skin as I struggle against the indescribable pain. Straight ahead, I see my nameless tormentor, the cold woman from my vision, drop her long bow to the ground and fall to her knees. Blood pours from a gash in her shoulder, but she still has the energy to glare at me as if the venom of her anger could sustain her forever.

I want to speak, but the words don't come, so I beg with my eyes. They beg her to explain why she hates me so much, asking what I could ever have done to a woman so strong and so fine and to know why I deserve to have such mind-blowing agony inflicted on me.

I pull and rip at the immovable arrow, desperately fighting for each small breath I can manage, wishing I could understand just one G-d damn thing that's happening to me or the pathetic mess my life has become. And then I see stars. Sweet beautiful shootings stars and tiny pink cherry blossoms raining slowly from the sky, following my Eric as if they are a trail of breadcrumbs he's leaving behind.

The woman who shot me speaks softly and in a language I can't understand. I ask Eric what she's saying and he translates with kind patience, " ... the blood of who you once were can never be erased."

He grasps the arrow that pins me and I startle, terrified he'll try to rip it free. With great concentration, he squeezes it until it disintegrates in a burst of light and I crumble to the ground. But the relief that floods me is short lived, as I realize I've landed in a pool of blood that is not my own.

Eric falls to his knees beside me, eyes wide and disbelieving as he applies pressure to the gash that's opened in his shoulder. A single tear slides down his cheek and as our eyes lock, I'm paralyzed by the anguish he radiates. He catches himself with both hands as a spasm rocks his entire body, mouth wide open to pull in as much air as it takes to stifle his scream. I'm mumbling nonsense that even I don't understand and he looks up at me for one heart breaking moment and weakly cries, " ... traitor."

My uninjured arm reaches out to comfort him but is jerked and twisted behind my back with such force that I can't help but yelp in pain. A hand grabs my hair at the crown and throws me back until I crash into the wall. I startle to find myself on the Forman's kitchen floor, a knife protruding from my shoulder and Red standing over me with a baseball bat.

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To be continued ...

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For those illegally downloading the soundtrack

:) Everything I Own by Bread
:) A White Shade of Pale by Procol Harem

AN: Anonymous reviewer - yeah, really.
Also, I apologize for this chapter. I wrote it 4+ years ago, immediately after chapter 20, but I just wasn't sure. Now I'm ready just to say f-ck it, lets do this thing. Pieces of several other chapters are written and the next is almost ready to go. Don't be discouraged if things seem dark for a while; things never stay dark.
xoxo,jenn