Disclaimer: Victoria, Justin, Elizabet, Laurana, and Kane belong to me.  Kenny and MacLeod belong to Rysher and will be returned unharmed.  No money is being made off of this, only enjoyment.

This is the Poetry Lyric Wheel, and Alice in Stonyland submitted the poem I have.  Thanx!  This story is part of my Forever Sequence, and fits in the story "Forever Young", though my story has a little happier ending than the poem implies it should.  It is also rated PG-13 for language.

Monday, October 26, 1997

Dear Justin,

Well, you're gone.  Forever.  I'll never see you again for the rest of my life.  Elizabet told me on Saturday.  But, damn it, I just can't believe!  My mind acknowledges it, but my heart doesn’t.  I want to pick up the phone and call the ranch in Australia, or the villa in Greece, or the apartments in Paris and New York, or the house in Japan, and simply hear your voice.

Fuck this, you can't be dead!  You're an Immortal, you were supposed to live forever!

I couldn't even go to school today.  Everyone's worried that I'll go out and find someone to take my head and put me out of my misery, and they're right.  The only thing stopping me is that I don't believe that you are dead.

You were my life, Justin.  I hate being Immortal, and the only way I stand it is knowing that you are there to share it with me.  Sure, I have other Immortal friends.  Elizabet, Kenny, Laurana, and now Kane.  In fact, Kane is my student.  I should be able to keep going, if only to make sure he survives.  But I could always give him help in a different way.  MacLeod can be his teacher, and Kane can have my head because he has almost no power and doesn't stand a chance in the Game….But you were the one who kept me going, even when you weren't with me physically.

Gods, I haven't been this suicidal since Erik died when the damn Titanic sank.

Even as I look around this townhouse, I see that there isn't much worth living for.  The kitchen sink keeps clogging, no matter what we do, and it's starting to smell.  Winter is fast approaching, and we just found a crack in one of the bedroom closets that lets in drafts of cold air.  So one bedroom is freezing, and the other is roasting because we can't get the heat to turn off.  And last week, someone in house down the way spilled their groceries, and a bottle of caramel cracked open on the steps and nobody will clean it up.

All I do all day is go to school, go to MacLeod's dojo and work out with Kane, come home, do homework, and go to bed.  And there's not really any other place in the world I have to go.  I've been kicked out of the RoseBlades permanently because of that job I did during the Depression.  I just came from Avalon.  I don't want to go to Paris, now that I know Darius is dead….Oh, that thought just helped me a lot.

You're not dead, Justin Merlin Le Faye.  You can't be.  You were the one who kept me going even when I had nothing to live for.  And now you're gone.

And I never got the chance to tell you how much I really loved you.

My eternal love,

Victoria

PS.  Elizabet: if you're rooting through my stuff to find something to wear and you find this - It Is Not A Suicide Note.

Saturday, November 7, 1997

Justin finished the letter, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips as he read the post-script.  He had been back a week, and Victoria could still hardly believe it.  She had been right, he was not dead.  He looked up, his eyes clouding over with tears.  "Gods, Victoria, I am so sorry.  I never should have left Paris when I knew Elizabet would be looking for me.  The thought of you committing suicide makes me so sick-."

Victoria gathered him in her arms, and they both cried for themselves and each other and what could have happened.

"Shh," she said in comfort.  "It'll be okay, Justin.  I am living, and so are you."  Then her voice cracked, and more tears came.

"I love you," they both whispered at the same time, and held each other, because that is what the living do.

~finis~

WHAT THE LIVING DO
By Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

Waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

The open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
Wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
Whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
Say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

For my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
 

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This page was last updated: 6.15.4 ~jlg~