Fake Fan Fiction ❯ Cold Comfort ❯ Chapter 1

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Disclaimers: We don't own the characters of Fake. They all belong to Sanami Matoh-sama. We make no profit from this fiction.

A/N-This one was written after a dear friend nearly died. Much thought and worry went into the posting of this fic. We finally decided to share it. Hope you like. Fair warning--It gets very depressing. Somebody's not coming back.


They call Death the great equalizer. Rich or poor, good or evil, young or old; no man escapes his clutches. Yeah, well, Death is also a stone-cold, evil, unfair son of a bitch. If he weren’t, he’d never have taken him away from me.

The wind is cold as ice up here on the hilltop, gray skies presaging more snow, like the dirty slush clinging to the turned earth in front of me. Standing beside his freshly dug grave, I shiver with a chill that’s not entirely physical. I shouldn’t even be here. I wasn’t supposed to leave the hospital yet, not for nearly another month. But I checked myself out this morning and took a taxi here - here to tremble beside his recent grave. I didn’t even get to go to his funeral. They told me that I nearly died and spent two weeks in a coma, hovering between life and death.

I wish to hell I’d never have woken up.

I haven’t cried, not once since they told me the horrible news. It was like some part of me was as frozen as the January skies. But being here, at a grave so fresh it doesn’t even have a stone; tears sting my eyes until they escape. I want to sob, to rail at the heavens for stealing him from me after so short a time, but nothing comes out and the tears are silent as the grave.

I don’t remember what happened that day - it’s all a blur of chaotic images and panicked thoughts. I don’t know if I want to remember--not the events that led me to this--a new grave on a windswept hillside and an empty place in my heart eating away at me like a cancer. It’s cold comfort that I can’t remember how he died, never knowing what his last thoughts were, whether he called my name before Death took him away from me. I don’t want to remember and at the same time, I do. And I hate myself for not remembering, but hate myself more for being relieved that I can’t remember how he died.

The doctor called it post-traumatic amnesia and said it was a common reaction. Nothing about it is common! It’s stolen my last memories of him, the last moments of his life from me. I hate that and yet I still can’t help feeling relief that I don’t have the memories of his broken, lifeless body burned into my brain.

The wind picks up and I shiver, hunching into the battered leather coat that we both loved. His scent lingers in the folds, a ghost that I can’t escape and don’t want to. Snow starts to fall again, sticking to my damp cheeks. I’ve run out of tears to wash the snowflakes away. Falling to my knees, I run thin, too-pale fingers through the cold earth of his grave. It feels warmer than my hands and I hunch closer to the grave, drawing my legs up and resting my cheek on my knees. The snow is falling faster now, a thick blanket to cover up the ugly scar in the ground. Beautiful, but frozen. A wordless sob escapes me. He would have liked this. As much as he complained about the cold, he loved the way it looked when it snowed. And I loved it too, because he did.

From here, I can see the entrance to the cemetery. There is a car there now; two men climbing out of it. The lighter-haired one has spotted me, at my lonely perch on the farthest hill. He calls his partner’s attention to me, pointing with a gloved hand. No need to ask how they found me. They would have known where I would go-where I would have to go. They’re my friends and almost as torn up about his death as I am. Even from here I can see how haggard their faces are. I should go down to meet them, but I’m reluctant to leave the cold comfort of his grave. After all, I don’t even feel the cold anymore.

I can hear them down there, calling my name, but the snow muffles the sound as it muffles the graveyard in white. It slows them and the one who spotted me trips. His partner helps him to his feet and keeps hold of him to help him scramble across the graveyard towards me. It should be funny, the way they struggle toward the hill, but I’ve forgotten how to laugh. The laughter in my life died with him.

They’re closer now, worry in their wind-burned faces. Another hill and they’ll have reached the one where I am, the tallest in the graveyard. I remember when he picked it out, laughing at my concern, saying that he wanted a place to keep watch from, where he could see the sun rise behind the steel and concrete and glass canyons and towers of the city. I never wanted to plan for my death, and his planning seemed premature. Little did I know. “You were right.” I silently tell his grave. “It’s a perfect place to keep watch from.”

The others have reached the foot of the hill. I really should go down to meet them, save them the struggle, but I’m too tired. Let them come up to me. I can see him in my mind’s eye, fussing that I should go down to them. I should, but I really am tired. Too damned tired to be bothered.

So damned tired.

So…

…very…

... ... t i r e d...




A/N--Out of the established couples in Fake, (Dee/Ryo JJ/Drake Bikky/Cal and Berkely/Diana) we decided to leave it up to the reader who was in the ground and who was mourning his death. It's all in your point of view.
We welcome reviews and comments. Please, tell us what you thought or who you thought died. There is no wrong answer. It's all just a matter of perspective...