A/N: Another one shot (though I might expand this into a three- or four- shot, depending on if people want more). And, as it is with my other one shots, this is an emotional piece. I used repitition again, to get across the emotions that I wanted. Hope that it worked.
Sanzo may be a little out of character, but considering the topic of this piece...
Read on.
Oh, and thanks to Ditch Gospel for telling me about the errors. And everyone else.I've fixed them, taken this piece through a second editing, and fixed some of the awkward wording. If anyone else catches anything else, please tell me. Then I will go back and fix it to make this even better.
Letting Go
Crumbling
He stands before the newly packed mound of earth, smoking a cigarette. Alone. That's how he prefers to be, especially now. After all, who wants company when…
He's been standing there for some time now. Just staring. His mind is in complete turmoil, as though someone has taken all of his thoughts and memories and thrown them to the wind, making him go and try to find them and piece them all together. It's hard for him to remember what happened the last few days, what led up to this. He doesn't even want to try to remember. Not when he's standing before this grave.
The others are waiting back in the jeep, affording him the luxury of being alone. Knowing that he needs to be alone. Even if he doesn't show it, they know how much this has hurt him.
He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. Then he opens them again and looks down at the ground. It's still there. There's still a grave, covered in fresh dirt. A newly dead body tucked away inside a blanket of earth. A life snuffed out, just like that.
Sanzo drops his cigarette, crushing it under his heel. It feels good. That small movement feels good. Crushing something, destroying it. He wants to shoot something, tear something to pieces. But he never would and he never will, and especially not under these circumstances. Some other time, perhaps, when they are attacked by youkai. When their lives depend on him killing something. Then he will loose his emotions in the action of pulling the trigger of his gun. Watch the blood splatter on the ground. But his face won't ever show any of that emotion.
He takes another deep breath, still staring at the grave. There's a headstone, though it has no name written upon its face. They don't have time to write anything. They couldn't afford to wait for any elaborate burial and they can't wait for someone to etch a name upon the rock. No one will ever know the man who is buried here.
Sanzo clenches his jaw and then, in an uncharacteristic display of weakness, his sinks to the ground, a hand to his head. He has a headache. A dull throbbing in his skull. It doesn't really hurt. It's just…annoying.
He's glad that the others are at the jeep. Glad that no one is around. But he's still not going to show any emotion. He's not going to talk. Not going to…definitely not going to cry. He won't cry.
When he finally gets up, when he finally walks back to the jeep and gets into the passenger seat, he's going to act as though nothing has happened. He'll pull out a cigarette, light it, and sit there. Not talking, just smoking. He won't even think about the person who is no longer sitting in the jeep with them. He won't forget thathe isgone and he won't try to talk to him.
But he might forget that Sanzo is supposed to yell. He might forget that Sanzo is supposed to fire his gun at the smallest thing, or hit someone over the head with his fan. The others willrealize that he's hurt, of course. They may even try to make him talk about it. But he won't do that. He'll just tell them to shut up and then he'll go back to smoking, the white smoke swirling backwards as they drive toward the west.
He'll just make sure that they finish the damned quest. And then he'll—
He doesn't even know what he will do when this is all over. He really doesn't.
He's still sitting there, staring at the grave. There are a couple of flowers lying near the headstone. Sanzo wasn't the one to put them there. He's not that sentimental. Beside, what good are flowers for the dead?
The ground is slightly muddy from a light rain that had fallen the night he died. Sanzo could have laughed at the irony of it all. Or was it even irony? That he had died during the rain, just as he had died during the rain all those years ago? He could have laughed if he were the type of person to laugh. Though there would have been no humor in the laughter. It would have been cold, harsh, grating in his throat.
His head sinks into his hands. Damn it, he's not going to cry! He's not going to—
He's crumbling.
He didn't think that it would hurt this much. Losing him. He thought that…that losing one person had allowed him to seal off those emotions, to keep them from ever coming back. That if one of those around him died he would be able to keep from feeling anything.
He thought he had learned to live without holding anything. He thought that…
Damn it!
It was like something was in his chest, tightening around his heart and lungs, cutting off the flow of air and making his breath grow short. Like ice starting in the very center of his body and spreading outward. Like…
His squeezes his eyes shut, digging his fingernails into his scalp. It shouldn't hurt this much! Losing someone—
He lived for himself, not for anyone else. He hadn't lost anything, really. It didn't matter, their journey would go on. It would continue and they would finish without him. It didn't matter that he was dead. It didn't matter…
He wants to stop thinking about it. Wants to shut everything out, like he has done so many times before. It shouldn't matter so much that he's gone…
When he gets back to the jeep they are going to ask him what's wrong. Even though they know full well what it is that's eating away at the inside of him. They know, because theyare goingthrough the same thing.
It's not like he's the only one who lost him. They all have.
He's glad they're not here. If they were…
If they were he'd act like nothing was wrong. He'd stand there, smoking. Silent. Not crying. Not crying. He's not going to cry.
It's beginning to become a useless mantra. It doesn't matter how many times he repeats it to himself. He jams the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to keep himself from breaking down. Sanzo doesn't cry. He hasn't, not in all the years that he's known them. He won't cry now. He—
It's not working. It's not working. Damn it, damn it, damn it!
He wants to scream. He wants to slam his fist into a tree, maybe even break it. The pain of broken bones in his hand would distract him from this other pain, wouldn't it? But then…
Then they'd ask him how he hurt his hand. He wouldn't tell them, of course. But still…
A spray of blood, the crack of bones, a strangled scream, and a gunshot. That's all it had taken. For him to die. The blood, the bone, the scream. All his. And it had been Sanzo who had shot the gun, killing the youkai that had killed him. But he hadn't been able to save him. Hadn't—
He feels wetness slap his cheeks. What was this? Was he…was he crying? But he didn't cry. Sanzo didn't cry. Genjyo Sanzo didn't…
All it takes are those first few tears to escape and then he is sobbing. Shaking. Leaning forward, clutching at his head with his hands. Trying to stop the tears, the sobs. Trying to—
He was gone. He was really gone. And he wouldn't be coming back.
Why did it have to hurt so much? Why did losing that simple person hurt so damn much? It shouldn't. It really shouldn't.
But it did. It hurt like hell, making him…
Making him crumble and fall to pieces.
And so he sat there, crying. No one saw him and even if they had, they wouldn't have believed it.
Sanzo doesn't cry. Never.
Sanzo doesn't cry, so maybe it isn't Sanzo who is sitting before his grave, sobbing as though his heart will break. Maybe it is someone else. Maybe it's the person Sanzo could have been. Maybe it's who Sanzo really is, but never shows. Maybe…
Eventually, he will stop crying. And when he does he will get up, make sure that it looks as though he has never even thought of crying. Then he will return to the jeep and sit down in the passenger seat. They'll drive off to the west, as though nothing had ever happened. They'll worry about him, wondering why he doesn't seem like it hurts him. They may even try to make him talk about it. Ask him why he doesn't cry.
He won't answer. He'll never admit that he fell apart. Never.
But now he sits there, on the damp grass.
Broken, though only for the moment.
Crying. Sanzo…
Crying.
A/N2: So, did you like it? I actually just sat down and wrote this...first thing that came to my mind. I was having a depressing day, so this sort of fit with how I was feeling...
Do you want more? Want to know who it was that died? Spelling errors that I didn't catch? Feedback is greatly appreciated.
Raven