Loss (Act II), Part Eleven
While I love people in “real life” greatly, I have made some wonderful friends in this community and they have been helping hold me together through this little stretch of life/career bumpiness. When I didn’t want to write because real life was beating me up, @sassenachwaffles, @kkruml, @thefraserwitch, @notevenjokingfic, and @kalendraashtar helped me realize that was just effing fine. To those of you who sent me kind words and simply stuck by, understanding, thank you. I love you and appreciate you all. 💜
This part took some love from Kristin and Tat. And I love them for it.
Loss: Act II
Part Eleven (Jamie’s Point of View)
Strange. The things you remember. The people. The places. The moments in time, burned into your heart forever, while others fade in the mist. I’ve always known I’ve lived a life different from other men. And when I was a lad, I saw no path before me. I simply took a step and then another. Ever forward. Ever onward. Rushing towards some place I knew not where. And one day, I turned around and looked back and saw that each step I’d taken was a choice. To go left. To go right. To go forward. Or even not go at all. Every day, every man has a choice. Between right and wrong. Between love and hate. Sometimes, between life and death. And the sum of those choices become your life.
The constructs of reality and time were incomprehensible to me. The fact that they had once been real was at the same time undeniable and unfathomable. Generally, hours were carefully measured by a watch, the pieces of my day pre-destined for certain purposes. Days were doled out into weekdays and weekends, organized on a calendar.
Choice after choice. Life and death. Forward or not to go at all.
On my back in the desert and then an ambulance. Knee-deep in puddles of white light, commands to breathe and don’t you fucking die on me. The hollow cavern of my chest silent, heart having stopped, the quiet mumble of Claire next to me. Her fingers were wound into the front of her wedding dress, worrying the lace. The quiet, leaking crimson saturating the fabric from the place where we had made our blood oath. Eyes cast down at her hands, she said, “I need you.”
Gasping, I reached for her. Without touching me, she placed a choice in my hand. It had mass to it –– a sphere that fit in the palm of my hand. Heavy. Smooth. Milky with the thousands of memories made and a thousand more yet to be.
Life. Death. A choice to be made.
“Choose me, Jamie.”
And then I chose to fight. It was the only choice that would lead me to her. To life. Our life.
Again and again, I chose it.