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One Final Bow; Morning Day 6, Two-Shot, Private
Topic Started: Feb 11 2011, 01:13 AM (1,847 Views)
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N-Nopony! Ah was talkin' to nopony whatsoever!
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
((Permission from Clubelle to post this two-shot. This does not count towards the thread limit. Permission also given from ZombiexCreame to GM Tim.))

((Colin Falcone continued from Bloodgarden.))

Colin fled. His attack had been a success. For a few brief and shining moments, he felt atop the world. The pain was but a dull ache upon his stomach, his arm, and his knee. The limp he now carried slowed him considerably, but Brook did not appear to be following. His arm was useless, for upon attempting to use it, it would not respond. Why did he feel sorrow for the appendage? It was not for his health, but for the song that flowed within him. His skill, his art, would never grace human ears again. Even if Brook had not committed his heinous act, not a soul would hear the strums of his guitar. He had known somewhere in his heart that he would never see a mainland again. That he would die somewhere on this island.

Heck. He may have acknowledged it.

He could never have been prepared for it.

Slowly, as he aimlessly limped, the pain began to return. At first slowly, it soon became too much to bear. To stand was too much to ask, yet on he pressed. He knew not where he was going, nor why he was. He just, somewhere in his mind, knew that he couldn't rest yet. That it wasn't time. His mind was conflicted however, as he felt his shirt; rather what remained of it, snag upon a tree. His body jerked, a soft ripping of fabric reaching his ears. Off balance, Colin stumbled to and fro, a strange game of pong between the trees as he attempted to find the balance that would never be found again. Each tree left another mark. A scrape, a splinter, just a throbbing palm. But with each one, he pushed himself with more fervor. His left arm hung by his side, widly flailing as his body's weight led him stalwart to the north. His vision melted to gray, the forest before him slowly becoming fuzzy.

Yet without a hint of warning, something of a beauty from the works of Homer opened before him. A clearing, a view to the ocean. Vivid beauty, glimmers of a fresh dawn's light bouncing off of the colors his mind could not comprehend. This one picture, as the trees broke, the slight tinges of color that he could still percieve, the reflection of a rising sun over a westward sea. This was the natural beauty he had wished to see once more.

That and the beauty of one certain man.

But before he could even complete his thought, before he could spend a moment to take in the scene, he felt his body falling. The cool, salty air rushed about him, his skin tingling at the sudden rush. His eyes closed, as he refused to watch the ground go closer.

His body gave way to relaxation, things important for life beginning to shut down.

And with a thud he did not hear, and a pain he did not feel, his body landed in the beach grass, upon the dunes, with only a few feet between himself and the sea.

To his own surprise, his eyes opened yet again. Was this heaven? Was there truly a God that he had forsaken? In awe, he stared at the grays and whites of the clear sky above him. Completely unable to focus, his mind was nothing but a string, tossed about by the waves.

It took only a few moments for pain to return to his body. His knee throbbed with a fire he before thought impossible. Nearly as bad as when he was initially shot, his ability to move destroyed by Brook’s singular instrument of malice and death. His sides were next, as the dull pain rolled with an almost surreal quality to it up his body. A sharp spike, reminding him of what he had felt a few hours before. The pain continued to return, toes to tip of the head, from his shoulder down to the wound on the arm becoming alight. His lower arm felt nothing, and by this point had become a sickly shade of green that he could not see. The world before him was a blur, as he strained with every fiber of his being to look before him. Back into that sea. Back into that beautiful, tropical sky.

But his efforts were interrupted. A crackling that he had heard so many times before in his dreams since his arrival here. But it sounded so far away. The PA. Heralding the voice of Danya.

Surely a just God could not let such a man, such a memory taunt one so. Perhaps he laid in hell. Or perhaps by some miracle, he had awoken with one final chance. One last opportunity to speak.

And as he strained to listen to Danya’s words, as if he were underwater, he heard a few names that he recognized. He heard the name of the man who had inflicted these wounds upon him. He heard the names of those in which he once held a passing interest.

But the name of the one man he cared about right now was not present. A small smile cracked across the dying boy’s lips. His dry, chapped lips opened, much to the chagrin of every nerve and receptor of pain upon his entire body.

“Good… He made it out alive.”

A cough was elicited, and something warm began to dribble down his chin. Without even being able to look down, without the ability to wipe it and raise it to his eyes, he knew in his heart what it was. It was blood.

His breathing was labored. And slow. For the past few minutes he had been hearing a voice, seemingly hundreds of miles away. But suddenly, something crossed his vision. A face, one with features he couldn’t quite identify. But even in death, with his systems failing, he could still recognize his best friend.


His voice was so weak, and each time he spoke, it made his entire chest burn as if the sun itself was trying to break free. Realization came upon him, all at once. He could see the ocean… He was leaned upon a tree. His friend had found him in his final hour, and done all that he could. It was because of his friend that he could watch the ocean fade away, as he floated towards a choir invisible.

The greatest, and only gift he could have asked for. His best friend by his side… And true beauty before him.

He knew that his time was fading. His life was washing away. He had one final moment, one final show. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to see his parents once again. So many wants, so many desires, so many things he had resigned himself to never see again. But upon the beach, the words he sang rang true still. He was meant for the stage.

And Colin would be damned if Danya could stop him; even in death.

And so his mouth opened, one final show. The encore beyond the curtain’s call. His final show, to an audience of the entire world. Every single eye in America was on him. His voice was but a whisper, but Danya would easily meld the audio of the camera in the Oak upon which he lie, with the visual of the camera hidden in the dune before him. Every word would be heard.

"Sea salt tears... Swimming round as the rain falls down."

There had been so many choices. But his time was little to few. He had to choose one song... One song to speak to his mother. To his father. To his friends, to his family. To anyone who cared, to anyone who would listen. He had one final shot. He had to make it a doozy.

And somewhere in St. Paul, a couple huddled around their Television, the small box radiating an image similar to the one Colin could perceive. The old 60's television that Colin had loved to watch as a child would be the one to show his demise. To a pair of parents, who had not been able to dry their tears for hours.

"Mister post man...

The cough he had tried to hold in made it's way through. He ignored the interruption however, and pressed onward. He would not be denied his final encore. The one song that would bring his life full circle.

Do you have a letter for me?"

Each and every single letter was a strain. It hurt more and more to continue. But he stayed true. He had to finish... Danya would not deny him his pride. Brook would not deny him himself.

His mother's lips pursed. A soft, beautiful voice, which had not sung in 13 years, echoed through the otherwise silent room. The voice of mother and son, joining to create a harmony, the beauty of which would never be matched again as his soul left the mortal coil. One last opportunity to sing with her baby boy. One final chance to say goodbye. She knew exactly what he was doing. And her husband stood in awe and horror, watching his only son, the son he could never hold in his arms again, tell that he loved, apologize for all the berating and pain... Watch as he passed on. So many regrets. If only he had listened to his son sing... The beautiful sound he had finally heard echo from his speakers four days before... Maybe he would still be alive.

"Mister post man, do you have a letter for me?"
"A letter for me..."
"From my own true love... lost at sea."
"Lost. At. Sea."

The final words were barely a whisper. Even a microphone as sensitive as the ones the organization could afford could not pick up.

A mother wept, heaving sobs. Tears rolling from her cheeks, as those of her first born finally dried.

A friend, his arms wrapping around a dying boy. A final feeling, of warmth and comfort. A soft, heavenly noise echoed through the mind of Colin Falcone. The trumpets of the angels welcoming him from his pain, freedom.

His physical body left behind, a final drop of blood rolling from his maw. A final message left for his friend that he did not order. That Colin's conscious mind was already in the great beyond. Yet still, with his final throes of life, without having the mind or the power himself to do, he said a final word to his friend. A group of words in fact. One that he had once vowed never to say. For petty fear, for fear of embarassment. Even death could not keep this fact from his friend.

Carried on a whisper, the air slowly flowing from his lungs upon his passing. Too soft for anyone but the man, passing his last comforts to hear.

"Tim... Love... Yo...u..."

B018 - Colin Falcone: Deceased.
Edited by T-Fox, Feb 11 2011, 01:17 AM.
Coming soon to a deathmatch near you:
Garry Brooks - Swave Countryboy
Jade Aurora - Tomboy Drummer
Jasmine Tolle - Pacifistiic Artist

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