[ a drabble based on Goose for @letsturnandburn based on the “can’t sleep?” prompt dropped in my ask box. cautiously bundled under the cut for the following themes; character death, survivor’s guilt, overall heavier/sad themes. enjoy the sad times! ]
The clock face reads 03:30, the red aglow of the numbers bathing him in the red he sees every morning. The sheets drenched in a cold sweat have since been abandoned and Pete finds himself shaking in the recliner of his living room, wringing his hands and staring expectantly at the back door. Patiently like a dog — pavlov’s theory — as he thumbs the treasured dog tag between fidgeting. Every morning he wakes the same hour, the same nightmare plays over and over. His neck breaks with Nick’s, the jut of bone kills them both instantly and when their bodies hit the water he doesn’t feel the dead weight of his only brother’s body in his hands. He no longer has to desperately pull him to the surface or beg a corpse to just take one more breath. It isn’t until he wakes that he tries not to sob.
It isn’t until he wakes and fights the urge to vomit that he begins the tirade of that should have been me. Every day since, he’s replayed the scenario over and over. The only punishment he deems fit since no one let him quit. In the blur of his tearing eyes, he swears he sees a figure, he could be dreaming again. The next trick is the cruelest, the voice that asks him;
“You still awake?”
Stilling his hands is impossible as he stares into the abyss of the ghost that haunts him. The tears that fall are silent and unbidden as they further distort his vision: the shadows on the wall, the distant head lights through the window form shapes that trick him. None of that is what hurts the most. He wants to answer, he wants to yell at the dizzying nothingness that mocks him for living. Of course he’s awake. They do this every morning. Every night — some nights are worse than others, but rarely does he hear...
“It should have been me,” he whimpers into the void. Helplessly he puts his head into his hands, the warmth of his tears and the blood on his hand mix; the smell of ocean water and the hot sun burns his skin. He presses the warm dog tag against his cheek, the embossed “NICHOLAS BRADSHAW” pressed to his skin something of an answer and a prayer for forgiveness he doesn’t deserve.
A broken promise to not let him down never forgotten but forever failed to never be redeemed. Always remembered not only in his dreams, but relieved in each flight; each phone call and letter with Carole — and oh God how he still can’t even look at her or the young Bradley. But he writes and he leaves out the way he feels; he keeps it light for her sake. Lies to her that he’s alright, lies to her that he sees HIM every night. That he wakes and feels like he’s drowning, that everything smells like the sea and he tastes nothing but blood and salt water. She doesn’t need to be reminded that it’s his fault, she already knows.
He doesn’t tell Viper but once, but he already knows. The beers they share, the talks they have, they help in the moment. He’s told all the time he has to let go. It would feel wrong, ill-advised, to let go of the only person who’d kept him in line after all these years. Even now, even now, through the tears and the murky depths of loss — his guidance is still found in the very ghost that haunts him no matter how much it hurts.
“It should have been me.” He repeats with more vitriol, teeth grit as he palms at his aching eyes. “Am I dying now? Is this what it feels like?”
The silence that responds to him is something of a comfort as he leans back in his seat, watching as the shadows creep closer. He searches for that familiar, warm, face. The pain in his heart surges, welling up, and he can’t bring himself to say sorry — that won’t cut it, he’s beyond just sorry. Instead he ends the one sided conversation with all he can muster. A confession, true and tried;
stormborns
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