Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Lullaby for the Shattered Soul ❯ Epilogue ( Chapter 8 )

!!!!PLEASE READ!!!! A/N- Okay, here's the deal. I really, really dislike this fic, it's an old one that I believe no longer represents the level of literature I'm at, and thus will finish it for whoever wants to read it. HOWEVER, if I do not get word that people actually WANT the fic to stay up, I will delete it without second thought. If anyone wants to change my mind, feel free to do so. If not, look for my other stories, a few of which will be posted soon.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~ !~!~!~!~!

Lullaby for the Shattered Soul

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~ !~!~!~!~!

Spike sat in the lounge, sprawled across the couch with his arms cocked at his head, staring aimlessly at the ceiling and smoking one of his last few cigarettes. He had been doing a lot of that since Kirsche left. In fact, he hadn't moved from the couch in days.

Jet had taken the mulberry woman away to the authorities while she was still unconscious, but she passed away before ever reaching Ganymede.

He told Spike that she kept babbling about different things, about how she took on the impossible job of killing the un-killable from Vicious for reasons she couldn't remember, about how she knew Edward was really a lot smarter than everyone gave her credit for, about how she looked like someone Spike knew.

She also talked quite a lot about smoking outside and some kind of rare medical condition called hemophilia of X-chromosome and pills she stopped taking. She had lost an awful lot of blood, and Jet figured that she was just delirious. But she kept talking, until she finally died, smirk on her face as she mouthed the words `now you know'.

The crew did their best to leave Spike alone in the days that past, unable to read him and unwilling to break him from the funk he was in. Even Faye stopped nagging him; she even left him a bit of hot water after she showered. It was an uneasy stillness that lasted millions and millions of years. The whole ship seemed on edge, floating by precariously as if something inexplicable would happen if anyone made any sudden movements.

"Damn," Spike cursed as his cigarette burned down to his fingers. "That was my last one. . ."

He deposited the remains of the nicotine on the floor, allowing it to smolder before burning itself out. He sat up, searching his pockets for another box. On an off chance, Spike glanced up at the steel coffee table to see a near empty cigarette pack lying discarded there. He picked it up and studied it for a moment. It had been squashed, and there were a few red smudges on the edges where the mulberry woman had left her mark.

`Ironic,' Spike mused. `Go figure that this would be the last pack on the ship, and with only a few last. . .'

He was surprised when he opened the box. He figured by the weight of the thing that there'd be around three or four cigarettes waiting for him, but what he found was one half smoked cigarette and a suspiciously folded piece of paper stuffed inside.

Curiously, he pulled the paper from the constricting box, its corners curling from the mishandling it had obviously suffered. He brought it under his nose, inhaling the scent of sweet nicotine and something saccharine he couldn't quite place. With the utmost care, Spike's nimble fingers unwrapped the thin paper and smoothed it out in his lap. The page was titled `The Belonging Place' in smooth handwriting.

The paper itself was covered with long elegant curls and flourishes, some of which he recognized as music notes and different musical symbols. They really didn't mean anything to him, since he couldn't read them, so he continued to scan the page until he found, written in small, graceful script, lyrics.

/Endless falling

Off the edge of the world.

Somewhere, walking

With no place left to turn.

Don't stop the bleeding,

Just hold me for a moment, you're

Lost in this feeling.

You can't break away, you are

Gone./

He recognized the sadness in the libretto, and in his head he saw her star-kissed lips forming them, all the sorrow in her full voice singing them out as she absently tossed her mulberry curls over her shoulder.

/You are waiting

For something yet to come,

But what's waiting

When the longing is gone?

Can you feel it beating,

Sick but alive and it's

Lost in this feeling.

You can't break away, you are

Gone./

She was there, seated at that scratched up old upright piano in Callisto, her slender fingers splayed across the endless rows of black and white. Her form was hunched over so that the pink curls hid her sad face, her face that belonged to no one else.

/Take the missing piece,

And put it away

So the world can't see

That you're not the same.

You feel so misplaced and

The tears fall free from this

Dead belonging place./

And suddenly he realized, almost dropping the paper as he stared blankly at his hands. The song was for him.

/Listen for the

Sound of stars fading out.

Watch them flicker

Filling your mind with doubts.

Can't seem to comfort

The shattered façade, you are

Lost in this feeling.

You can't break away, you are

Gone./

He saw parts of himself in her lyrics, his life, his sorrows, his misguided anger and the things that he had lost. He saw her in between the lines, smirking his smirk and giving him bite-sized philosophies that he didn't understand.

/Take the missing piece

And put it away

So the world can't see

That you're not the same.

You feel so misplaced and

The tears fall free from this

Dead belonging place./

He closed his eyes, her words ringing in his ears.

"One day, cowboy, we'll taper down to a single note and finish this blasted song. . . "

She'd found the note she was looking for; maybe one day she'd sing it for him so that he could find it, too. She was always free from the Goddamn melody, not a minx but a bird. He was a tiger-striped cat, trapped forever with the curse of immortality. Maybe he was immortal because he was already dead. That was it. He was dead, but not free. He would be, though, when his nine lives were up.

". . .I'm sure of it. . ."

/Take the missing piece

And put it away

So the world can't see

That you're not the same.

You feel so misplaced and

The tears fall free from this

Dead belonging place./

There was a short caption at the bottom of the page that read `Maybe it's all just one flight down... Find your exit and don't look back. ~ Kirsche'.

Spike folded the paper vigilantly and placed it in his shirt pocket, the one next to his holster. It would be safe there.

After a moment, Spike stood, stretching the cramped muscles in his back and shoulders and twirling the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. Faintly, he could see poppy-colored marks around the end; the lightest trace of lipstick. He brought the nicotine to his own lips, reaching for his lighter before he reconsidered.

Leaving the empty pack discarded on the steel coffee table, Spike headed out to the hanger for a smoke.

MAYBE SOMEDAY, SPACE COWBOY. . .

`

`

`

`

A/N- Wow, finally met the end. Thanks for reading!