From: Chris Burke Subject: [Eva][FanFic][Dark] Endings -- DARKFIC ALERT - I have been told that this work of fan fiction is dark, and I understand that it is considered polite to warn people of the fact. So those who dislike dark stories should not read this fic, because it is dark. -- This fan fiction is adapted from Neon Genesis Evangelion, produced by Gainax. All characters herein are the sole property of Gainax, and no claim on them is made by this author; etc. etc. -- Endings by Chris Burke -- Shinji crouched next to her. He reached underneath her legs and behind her shoulders, and picked her up. Grunting under the strain, he walked over to her bed. He set her down, gently. She was surprisingly heavy; he was out of breath. He rested a moment, looking around the room. It was dark. He turned and opened the blinds on the window. Light shone in from the afternoon. The room did not much benefit from the light. The small window was not large enough to properly light the room, and just emphasized the overall dinginess of it. It was a room meant to be left in darkness. The bed, however, was directly under the window, and the afternoon sun shone directly on her. She almost seemed to glow. He carefully straightened her legs and arranged her arms beside her. Looking down at her now, he could almost pretend she was asleep. The effect was dimmed, however, by the sight of her chest. Considering this, he pulled the bed covers over her, tucking them in around her neck. Now nothing but her unnatural stillness betrayed that she wasn't merely enjoying an afternoon nap. The illusion achieved, he sat down on the bed. Some part of him, a part that was at the moment pushed deep into the back of his consciousness, struggled to believe the illusion, to hope that it was just a dream, that he or she would at any moment awaken. It occurred to him, as the imminence of rain occurs to a man on a bare hill watching dark clouds approaching, that he was far too calm. Too lucid. It couldn't last forever. Not that it was important, for now at least. Let it last as long as it would. Without knowing why, he reached out. His fingers brushed the perpetually rumpled hair, as thought trying to straighten it. He immediately regretted the move. Blood was left behind from his touch, marring the otherwise peaceful scene. Smiling a rueful smile, he reflected that in reality the scene was not at all peaceful. There was blood everywhere. A large pool of it on the floor by the bed. Splattered blood on other parts of the floor, the bed, some on the walls, and a great deal of blood on him. On his shirt, on his arms, on his hands. On his hands. He remembered those last moments. Holding her, as he had once before, while she convulsed with pain. His arms around her, getting soaked with her blood. Looking down into her eyes, her looking back up at him. An almost peaceful expression on her face, but with pain in her eyes. Her chest heaving spasmodically, her life spilling out of the wound there. Then a sigh, when her diaphragm relaxed for the last time. That last breath had signified a change. Not just from life to death, but a change in his life as well. He could never go back to the way things were. The pattern his life had been following was destroyed. Nothing would ever be the same. He would not be. His gaze went back to the pool of blood on the floor, and the pistol lying nearby. Soon this would end, this calm. It would all hit him at once, and he'd panic, do something stupid. Maybe confront his father. Maybe run away. Maybe take that gun and end it all. he reflected. He looked at his hand. The blood was starting to dry. What had changed, from one moment to the next? That simple action, the reflexive squeezing of the index finger, had been impossible. His finger wouldn't move, would never move. There was nothing he could remember happening, no change external or internal, that had made the impossible action suddenly so simple. Automatic. Then in the moment after that, completed. It was an image he would never forget. Not the pulling of the trigger, not the roar of the handgun that drowned out the sound of soft metal piercing flesh, not the eruption of blood that had painted the room. The moments before that. Vividly, he remembered. He was standing in the center of the room. She was a few feet in front of him. He was holding the gun at arms length, the barrel pointed at her chest. She was on her knees, looking up at him, eyes wide. His arm was shaking. She was crying. Tears were rolling down her face. Her hands were pressed together in supplication. She was pleading with him. Begging. The memory would haunt his dreams. For the moment, however, he could calmly recollect. He wondered how it was that he had never seen her cry before. Never heard her speak so openly before. There on the floor before him, in broken fragments that made up part of her continuous pleas, she had poured her soul out for him. Throwing it out as an offering on his mercy. At the time he had not been lucid. At the time he had not been able to listen to everything she said. He could not remember the details. But he was able recall enough to wonder how it was possible that he had seen her smile, yet never seen her cry. Shinji stood up, being careful not to disturb her, and went to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water tap. He waited for the the water to get hot, then thrust his hands under the faucet. He washed his hands in the scalding water, then used a wash-cloth to clean the blood off of his face. He left the bathroom and picked up his jacket near the door where he had left it. He walked back into the bedroom, picked up the gun and put it in his jacket pocket. he thought distractedly. Law enforcement was too distant and abstract a thing to worry him much now. Pointless anyway -- his fingerprints were everywhere. Shinji walked over to the bed and looked at her again. He had to leave soon. Already he could feel the edges of his preternatural calm beginning to fray. He indulged himself with this last moment anyway, just for a little longer. he thought incongruously. It didn't matter what she thought, though. It didn't matter what anyone thought of him, or what happened to him. Because he finally knew, without a doubt, that he was a weak person. He turned and walked toward the door. He stooped to put his shoes on. Turning, he looked back at the still form. The light from the window seemed to blend everything together, made it seem not quite real. A vague desire drew him once again into the bedroom. A few moments hesitation, and he knew. He went to the dresser and took the small black plastic case from off of it. Going to the bed, he lifted the cover and placed the case into her lifeless hand. He smoothed out the cover again, and tried to smile down at her. The image of her on her knees came to him again, and he had to turn away. He walked straight through the hallway and out the door. His steps were a bit hurried, a bit shaky. It was happening faster than he had thought. But he was a weak person, after all. He had always wondered. Misato, Asuka, Kaji, his father had all made him unsure of whether he was strong or weak. Some telling him yes, some telling him no. Now he knew that he was weak. He knew he was weak because he had given in to her pleas. Shinji quietly shut the door behind him and turned away from the apartment turned tomb, leaving for... somewhere. He did not know where. -- end first posted 6/8/1998 wyrm@engin.umich.edu http://www.umich.edu/~wyrm/abp/fanfic.html -- I don't thank anyone for this.