Goodbye, My Dear
Dec 18, 2014 15:44:15 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Dec 18, 2014 15:44:15 GMT -5
Location: Unknown.
A room. It is dark. Cold. Sterile, in the non-medical sense. The floor and walls are concrete; hard but cracked. Old, showing the wear of many years. In the center of the room is a steel chair, unfolded, facing forward. The lone light source is a single Edison bulb suspended on a string about four feet directly above the chair. It hums gently and casts an orange halo around the chair, barely licking the two walls on the side and leaving the far wall, the back one, unlit. A staunchly black shadow. Darkness.
And from out of the blackness, chains. The sound of metal chains slowly dragging across the cement floor. Slowly, faintly at first but gradually louder, sharper, more clear. Then from the darkness, Malcolm Drake.
His dirty-blond hair hangs loosely over the top-half of his face, covering his forehead. His eyes are downcast. He's unshaven, a throwback to a previous iteration of the Murder's Head Crow. His attire is black; leather jacket, hooded sweatshirt, jeans, combat boots. He is changed and unchanged. The same old Malcolm Drake and the new. But, most striking of all, is the heavy leather strap around his neck, connected to a thick, shining, steel chain that runs from the latch at his jugular down his right arm, through is hand and into a pool at his feet.
The grating of the chains on the concrete floor resumes as Drake circles around the chair. It would be more accurate to say that he flops into it than he sits into it. The dog collar chain sits between his feet like a patient animal. Drake takes a short length of the chain in both hands and let's it rest across his lap.
“It's funny,” Drake begins, his voice barely above a whisper, “I knew I'd be shopping for dog collars... I just didn't think I'd be fitting one for myself.” The off-hand comment is uncharacteristic, a reference to his new recent companion, a rescue dog from New Jersey. Drake shakes his head as if noting his line of thinking is off-track and trying to correct it with a violent head motion.
“Dear Dominic,” he starts again as if reading from a letter, “I know that I have hurt you. I know the pain I've caused both physically and mentally has been immeasurable. Scarring and damaging. When I returned, I talked at length about the destruction I'd caused, but I neglected one victim: you. Perhaps it was because you were my co-conspirator and I named you guilty by association. But more likely I just couldn't make myself face what I had done to a man who looked up to me, who counted me as a friend... as a brother.”
Gone is Drake's trademark sing-song inflection, replaced with a melancholic monotone; his snarling aggression a weakened whimper. Like a barking dog when his chain is yanked tightly.
“I'm not a good person. The cheers and chants and adoration of the crowds and of the fans isn't a whitewash over years of spilled blood. There's no amount of karmic good that can bleach the stains off my soul. Maybe I was born this way, maybe I became this way. What matters is that it is who I am. Right down to the bone. When I came back seeking redemption, I knew I could never be a hero. I just wanted to be something besides the name whispered in hushed tones of the darkest parts of the locker room. Wanting more had led me down that path. I wanted to be something less. I just wanted to find my peace amidst the violence. But there you were, Dominic – my brother – to remind me that there is no peace.”
Drake shifts his weight slightly before continuing.
“But you were wrong about one thing, brother. I can change. I proved that at Capital Combat. I may never be the great hero of FGA, but at least I don't have to be its villain anymore. And I'm there now. It's not perfect, but then again I've never deserved anything close to perfection. But you're a child of chaos. You live and breathe entropy. Everything must be broken down. I can't be broken any more, Dom. This body in front of you is just the shattered fragments of my humanity. You can't break a broken man.”
“You can't fix him either.”
Drake's voice trembles, but refuses to break. His shoulders are slung low, but he isn't stooped over. His posture is defeated but defiant.
“The words... I've said a lot of them in my time. Most were threats, some empty, most not. But there were some of them that mattered. Mors Vincit; Death conquers all. Mors Omnibus; All things must die. And, of course, Memento Mori; Remember that you will die. Death is more than a gimmick to me. It's more than a sinister Latin catchphrase to close out a promo. It's what I need now, Dominic. I need this - between you and me – I need it to die.”
“I know that you loved me and that you would've followed me into the grave. I've got enough blood on my hands. I didn't want to add yours. I know when I left, it broke your heart. And I'm sorry. I know there's a part of you that wants to do this forever – you and me – if we can't be together as friends, we'll stay... chained... as adversaries.”
Drake holds up the chain between his hands, before shaking his head and lowering it back down to his lap.
“No. All things must die. This – between us – it needs to die. It needs to end on Saturday night at Final Frontier. A fitting end, don't you think, old friend? Death is the final frontier... and death conquers all...”
“Goodbye.”
With that final word, Drake pushes himself to his feet, turns and recedes back into the shadows. The long chain of the dog collar slinks into the darkness after him. Slowly the sounds fades away, and the reminder of our collective mortality lingers – unsaid – in the air.
----------------------------
OOC Note: My apologies to Ben and Terr for posting this after deadline. I lost track of my days and thought today was Wednesday. But instead of phoning it in, I really wanted to make sure that this piece of the story was told. Ben, as always it has been a humbling privilege to work with you. I hope this piece serves an appropriate denouement to our story.
A room. It is dark. Cold. Sterile, in the non-medical sense. The floor and walls are concrete; hard but cracked. Old, showing the wear of many years. In the center of the room is a steel chair, unfolded, facing forward. The lone light source is a single Edison bulb suspended on a string about four feet directly above the chair. It hums gently and casts an orange halo around the chair, barely licking the two walls on the side and leaving the far wall, the back one, unlit. A staunchly black shadow. Darkness.
And from out of the blackness, chains. The sound of metal chains slowly dragging across the cement floor. Slowly, faintly at first but gradually louder, sharper, more clear. Then from the darkness, Malcolm Drake.
His dirty-blond hair hangs loosely over the top-half of his face, covering his forehead. His eyes are downcast. He's unshaven, a throwback to a previous iteration of the Murder's Head Crow. His attire is black; leather jacket, hooded sweatshirt, jeans, combat boots. He is changed and unchanged. The same old Malcolm Drake and the new. But, most striking of all, is the heavy leather strap around his neck, connected to a thick, shining, steel chain that runs from the latch at his jugular down his right arm, through is hand and into a pool at his feet.
The grating of the chains on the concrete floor resumes as Drake circles around the chair. It would be more accurate to say that he flops into it than he sits into it. The dog collar chain sits between his feet like a patient animal. Drake takes a short length of the chain in both hands and let's it rest across his lap.
“It's funny,” Drake begins, his voice barely above a whisper, “I knew I'd be shopping for dog collars... I just didn't think I'd be fitting one for myself.” The off-hand comment is uncharacteristic, a reference to his new recent companion, a rescue dog from New Jersey. Drake shakes his head as if noting his line of thinking is off-track and trying to correct it with a violent head motion.
“Dear Dominic,” he starts again as if reading from a letter, “I know that I have hurt you. I know the pain I've caused both physically and mentally has been immeasurable. Scarring and damaging. When I returned, I talked at length about the destruction I'd caused, but I neglected one victim: you. Perhaps it was because you were my co-conspirator and I named you guilty by association. But more likely I just couldn't make myself face what I had done to a man who looked up to me, who counted me as a friend... as a brother.”
Gone is Drake's trademark sing-song inflection, replaced with a melancholic monotone; his snarling aggression a weakened whimper. Like a barking dog when his chain is yanked tightly.
“I'm not a good person. The cheers and chants and adoration of the crowds and of the fans isn't a whitewash over years of spilled blood. There's no amount of karmic good that can bleach the stains off my soul. Maybe I was born this way, maybe I became this way. What matters is that it is who I am. Right down to the bone. When I came back seeking redemption, I knew I could never be a hero. I just wanted to be something besides the name whispered in hushed tones of the darkest parts of the locker room. Wanting more had led me down that path. I wanted to be something less. I just wanted to find my peace amidst the violence. But there you were, Dominic – my brother – to remind me that there is no peace.”
Drake shifts his weight slightly before continuing.
“But you were wrong about one thing, brother. I can change. I proved that at Capital Combat. I may never be the great hero of FGA, but at least I don't have to be its villain anymore. And I'm there now. It's not perfect, but then again I've never deserved anything close to perfection. But you're a child of chaos. You live and breathe entropy. Everything must be broken down. I can't be broken any more, Dom. This body in front of you is just the shattered fragments of my humanity. You can't break a broken man.”
“You can't fix him either.”
Drake's voice trembles, but refuses to break. His shoulders are slung low, but he isn't stooped over. His posture is defeated but defiant.
“The words... I've said a lot of them in my time. Most were threats, some empty, most not. But there were some of them that mattered. Mors Vincit; Death conquers all. Mors Omnibus; All things must die. And, of course, Memento Mori; Remember that you will die. Death is more than a gimmick to me. It's more than a sinister Latin catchphrase to close out a promo. It's what I need now, Dominic. I need this - between you and me – I need it to die.”
“I know that you loved me and that you would've followed me into the grave. I've got enough blood on my hands. I didn't want to add yours. I know when I left, it broke your heart. And I'm sorry. I know there's a part of you that wants to do this forever – you and me – if we can't be together as friends, we'll stay... chained... as adversaries.”
Drake holds up the chain between his hands, before shaking his head and lowering it back down to his lap.
“No. All things must die. This – between us – it needs to die. It needs to end on Saturday night at Final Frontier. A fitting end, don't you think, old friend? Death is the final frontier... and death conquers all...”
“Goodbye.”
With that final word, Drake pushes himself to his feet, turns and recedes back into the shadows. The long chain of the dog collar slinks into the darkness after him. Slowly the sounds fades away, and the reminder of our collective mortality lingers – unsaid – in the air.
----------------------------
OOC Note: My apologies to Ben and Terr for posting this after deadline. I lost track of my days and thought today was Wednesday. But instead of phoning it in, I really wanted to make sure that this piece of the story was told. Ben, as always it has been a humbling privilege to work with you. I hope this piece serves an appropriate denouement to our story.