Work Text:
"Leaves"
by Rebecca Helton
"story" copyright 1999
* * * * *
The leaves are falling. They always fall at this time of year, a time when everything shrivels up and dies for months upon months. Then the cold comes, taking out anything foolhardy enough to try and survive until the rebirth of the world. White falls upon the blackness, cleaning off whatever remnants of life might have remained.
Just like John. He died when the leaves were falling. He died on the morning of the first frost of the year, when a thin layer of white was covering the deadness, attempting to hide the carnage caused by the rotation of the planet.
It couldn't hide one death, though.
I've rationalized myself almost to death, telling myself that he was over ninety years old, that we all died sooner or later, that it was "his time."
It hasn't made me feel a damn bit better.
I wish I could have gone with him. I've wished it more and more each day. All that talk about the pain fading after a while? It's a bunch of dren. Nothing's faded, it's only increased, increased
almost to the point where I can't bear it. I wonder if John found his bright light...
I ought to be proud that I've survived a year on Earth without him to lean on, without needing anyone's help. Once we figured out how to work with the translator microbes, I learned English soon enough, but it was all the little things that tripped me up, that continue to confound me every day. I ought to be happy about that.
But you know what? I'm not. I'm not happy at all. I would gladly accept looking and feeling weak for the rest of my life in exchange for getting John back. Without second thoughts, without regret. I'd sacrifice the "amazing mobility you have for someone your age," how steady my hand still remains when holding a weapon, anything in order to get him back.
I'm not quite certain what's kept me around so long. I've never really considered suicide...it's just never seemed like an option. There's no real reason for me to be around here now, except to take
care of our terrier. John named him Spanky, for whatever reason. But he would be taken in by a friend or neighbor, so that's no real excuse. I have no excuses or reasons or answers.
The maple tree outside the kitchen window has been there ever since John and I bought this house all those years ago. Every autumn, it turns orange and red and brown and gold as that year's leaves wither and decay into crumpled versions of their former green glory, then, one by one, break off the branches and float down to the ground.
I wish I could come to the floating part. I've been shriveling up inside ever since John's death, and it's high time for me to break off the tree of life and float down to my death. But something keeps
me here.
I guess I'm really just scared--yes, I, Aeryn Sun, the big bad Peacekeeper, scared. Scared that there is no bright light, no friends, no family...just blackness, as I was taught to believe. Scared that the pictures I have and the memories I carry with me right now are the only way I'll ever see John again, that we won't meet in a place of happiness and light...that darkness will be my only companion for all eternity. If only I could be sure...
I watch as the last brown leaf, already halfway through decomposition, it seems, breaks off a high branch with agonizing slowness. My eyes track it as it floats gently to the ground, carried a few inches from the tree's trunk by a light breeze. It takes it a while to reach the cold dirt below, and during that time, I feel at first sickened with fright. Then a delicious calm washes over me like a wave, and I feel no pain. If I close my eyes, I can even faintly see a bright light...
* * * * *
THE KINSON GAZETTE, OBITUARIES, NOVEMBER 20th, 2072
SUN, AERYN. Born April 9th, 1979, deceased Nov. 20, 2072 of natural causes. Wife of John Crichton, d. Nov. 20th, 2071. No surviving descendants or relatives by blood; survived by friend DK Smith and relatives of John Crichton. May she find eternal peace with her loved one in the hereafter...
**The End**