Title: "475: The Ones That Mean the Most"
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: SAC for one bad word, angst, Jason POV, vaguely slashy and vaguely het.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, nope!
Summary: I was trying to write in drabbles because AngerBoy doesn't strike me as the chatty type. What resulted was this strange 475 word ficlet that is an alternate version of the docks scene for 8/1/02.
You don't remember being born the first time. You don't remember your first steps, your first word. You don't remember your first grade teacher or the first girl you kissed. You don't remember ever wanting to become a doctor.
In this life, you're a killer, not a healer. And your steps towards the future are all that matter. The words you never say are the ones that mean the most.
Words like "stop." "Stay." "I'm sorry." "I love you."
You talk the most with silences, have learned the language of eyes. The lies told with the flutters of lashes, the truths told in the depths of dilated pupils.
Sometimes you forget that no one else is fluent...that there's not always translation for the absence of sound.
They confuse the longing in your gaze with ice...you don't bother to correct the mistake. Your own error is clear...
You never learned to cry, to scream, to properly use your human tongue.
When they leave you, you let them go.
The language of your eyes is still blurred by tears.
Your world is black and white, not color. Even the red-sharp-wet stain of blood doesn't mar right/wrong, honor/dishonor.
They want you. You want them. You don't understand why it isn't simple. Not with her. Not with him. Why you can't just have sex and be together. Why love and hate aren't as straightforward as killing.
You used to think you weren't as stupid as everyone said.
Now...now you think you might just be stupider still.
Because you can't see the bright shades right in front of you...and you can't grab them and hold on.
"Jason," he sighs, as the moonlight glints off the barrel of the .45 caught between your thigh and your palm. "You're fucked up, Man. You don't want to do this to me, to Elizabeth. To us."
"Please," she adds, holding onto his arm, brown eyes wide and full of pain. "Please, don't do this."
Your thumb clicks off the safety, dances on the trigger as you don't blink...don't even dare blink...because he might think you regret it...and he might be right.
The order was given. You have to do this.
It is what you do.
You have felt his skin break beneath your fists, felt the bruises form beneath your fingers countless times. But the more permanent consequences come without touch, come with the distance of bullets.
They'll come when Elizabeth hates you.
When Zander is dead.
"Stop," you choke out.
"I'm sorry," you whisper .
*I love you*.
The gun makes a splash as it joins your other secrets in the harbor.
Before you walk away, you tell them to run.
You don't remember being born the second time either.
But you remember dying a little each day since then.
July 31, 2002.