Post by Deleted on Apr 20, 2017 19:43:39 GMT
For the three people who read my stuff! That (hopefully!) heart-wrenching scene in The Red Queen? Here is a different perspective. The last JPL promo written in late November, with an alternate-universe Sarah visiting his grave on some future Christmas morning.
Enjoy!
"You died on a Sunday."
Sarah's voice is still full of sadness, of grief. The snow has stopped falling, the wind has died down to but a tremor in the brown treetops. Her head is against the tombstone, her eyes staring into nothing.
"I watched you...whither. I watched the cancer eat you from the inside out. Organs failed, breaths were labored. And in the end..."
A slow shake of her head.
"I called Nikita as soon as it happened. She came right away, flew in that night. She held me as I cried. Cried and cried."
Eyes begin to mist again, the red growing intense.
"I thought I would drown the world with my tears, Father. Even Nikita cried. Her hand in my hair, trying to sooth me, as I laid my head on her lap and wept. 'Twas like that day when I was little and I finally understood that I would never get to meet Mother. You stroked my hair, told me she was with God."
Sarah leaps to her feet and spins, driving a foot into the tombstone.
"I was nineteen, Father!"
Another kick.
"He took you away when I was nine- Goddamn -TEEN!"
Another kick, this one making the tombstone move an inch. She falls to her knees, her arms wrapping around the tombstone, fresh tears falling upon the snow. We take this moment to leave her to her grief.
Inconsolable.
Eternal.
* * * * * * * * *
~~April 16th, 2017~~
Jean-Paul Lacklan rests on a white bed, a thin sheet covering his massive frame. Eyes closed, his burned and scarred face is out for any and all to see, dark lines of red and purple painful to the eye, only his mouth and nose covered in the black attachment which trails down to the artificial voice-box in his throat. His breathing is labored, his body rising and lowering in an irregular pattern.
Eyelids slowly raise, eyes of a washed out blue hidden behind milky white cataracts. The eyes search for Light but they only see darkness, his ability to see clearly having quickly eroded in the last month. The mouth underneath the mask feels dry, his tongue slipping out across his lips in a vain attempt for some moisture.
"Sarah?"
His voice is labored, even more so than it always has been. Like much of his body, the last 6 or so weeks have seen a remarkable deterioration, as if a decade or more of fighting off the sickness had only stoppered it; once that cork had broken free, the torrent of death broke the neck of the bottle and flooded his entire being.
A flash of red and white comes into his blurred vision, a soft warmth pressing into his hand.
"I am here, Father. As is the First Citizen."
Lacklan nods slowly. His daughter. His friend Skeeter. They would be appropriate.
"I...gave my...life...to my mission. I fought..."
His voice trails off, his vision losing focus, but a squeezing of that soft warmth brings him back to the moment.
"I...I fought for...what was worth...fighting for. Did...did I defeat...the Ashtons?"
"Um...Father...you have not fought in months. But you did fight them in December."
"Did...did I win?"
Silence.
"Does it matter?"
He gives her a soft chuckle.
"I...I suppose not. But...I did fight...for what mattered...for what was...worth...fighting for, did I not? I...I fought for her."
He could feel a warm wetness fall onto his face.
"Yes."
Tears. Was she crying?
"Sarah? I...was a...terrible friend. But I...I tried to...to be a good father...please forgive my...failings."
A sob.
"Give...give her my love. Even...even if...she does not want it. Please."
"Of course."
"Good...good...Light...Light be with you...Sarah."
He nods. Yes, that would do.
Jean-Paul Lacklan closes his eyes and embraces the Light.
So ends the Jean-Paul Lacklan Saga.
Enjoy!
"You died on a Sunday."
Sarah's voice is still full of sadness, of grief. The snow has stopped falling, the wind has died down to but a tremor in the brown treetops. Her head is against the tombstone, her eyes staring into nothing.
"I watched you...whither. I watched the cancer eat you from the inside out. Organs failed, breaths were labored. And in the end..."
A slow shake of her head.
"I called Nikita as soon as it happened. She came right away, flew in that night. She held me as I cried. Cried and cried."
Eyes begin to mist again, the red growing intense.
"I thought I would drown the world with my tears, Father. Even Nikita cried. Her hand in my hair, trying to sooth me, as I laid my head on her lap and wept. 'Twas like that day when I was little and I finally understood that I would never get to meet Mother. You stroked my hair, told me she was with God."
Sarah leaps to her feet and spins, driving a foot into the tombstone.
"I was nineteen, Father!"
Another kick.
"He took you away when I was nine- Goddamn -TEEN!"
Another kick, this one making the tombstone move an inch. She falls to her knees, her arms wrapping around the tombstone, fresh tears falling upon the snow. We take this moment to leave her to her grief.
Inconsolable.
Eternal.
* * * * * * * * *
~~April 16th, 2017~~
Jean-Paul Lacklan rests on a white bed, a thin sheet covering his massive frame. Eyes closed, his burned and scarred face is out for any and all to see, dark lines of red and purple painful to the eye, only his mouth and nose covered in the black attachment which trails down to the artificial voice-box in his throat. His breathing is labored, his body rising and lowering in an irregular pattern.
Eyelids slowly raise, eyes of a washed out blue hidden behind milky white cataracts. The eyes search for Light but they only see darkness, his ability to see clearly having quickly eroded in the last month. The mouth underneath the mask feels dry, his tongue slipping out across his lips in a vain attempt for some moisture.
"Sarah?"
His voice is labored, even more so than it always has been. Like much of his body, the last 6 or so weeks have seen a remarkable deterioration, as if a decade or more of fighting off the sickness had only stoppered it; once that cork had broken free, the torrent of death broke the neck of the bottle and flooded his entire being.
A flash of red and white comes into his blurred vision, a soft warmth pressing into his hand.
"I am here, Father. As is the First Citizen."
Lacklan nods slowly. His daughter. His friend Skeeter. They would be appropriate.
"I...gave my...life...to my mission. I fought..."
His voice trails off, his vision losing focus, but a squeezing of that soft warmth brings him back to the moment.
"I...I fought for...what was worth...fighting for. Did...did I defeat...the Ashtons?"
"Um...Father...you have not fought in months. But you did fight them in December."
"Did...did I win?"
Silence.
"Does it matter?"
He gives her a soft chuckle.
"I...I suppose not. But...I did fight...for what mattered...for what was...worth...fighting for, did I not? I...I fought for her."
He could feel a warm wetness fall onto his face.
"Yes."
Tears. Was she crying?
"Sarah? I...was a...terrible friend. But I...I tried to...to be a good father...please forgive my...failings."
A sob.
"Give...give her my love. Even...even if...she does not want it. Please."
"Of course."
"Good...good...Light...Light be with you...Sarah."
He nods. Yes, that would do.
Jean-Paul Lacklan closes his eyes and embraces the Light.
So ends the Jean-Paul Lacklan Saga.
