Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Flying on Clipped Wings ❯ Chapter 4

Disclaimer: no we still don't own Hellsing okay

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Man Beneath the Sink

 

I desperately wanted Vanessa to have the proper burial, but I knew I could be held liable for her death. There would be no fatal object, like a gun or bat, with my prints on it, but my skin had been on her wound. Besides, I was almost positive that those demons would find some way of proving me responsible, and the fact that it can be determined that I'm a thief of both identity and items.

 

Having a criminal record doesn't really help you when you're a murder suspect.

 

So, despite my deep feelings for her body to be properly laid to rest, I knew that her burial was something I alone would have to perform. In about an hour, in fact, I snuck into a cemetery behind a small Christian church and proved my weight as a gravedigger . . . only illegally. In that graveyard, I found an unmarked area, took my shovel to the ground, and eventually, was able to dig a hole that was easily six feet deep. I regret having no coffin for Vanessa to lie in, but I remembered reading books in the library when I was smaller about past wars where the soldiers would be buried without coffins, just white crosses marking their graves. To me, that seemed a nobler way to die than simply having a coffin, so I figured Vanessa probably wouldn't have minded either.

 

When I softly placed her body in the bottom of the hole, and saw the moonlight strike her skin, I remembered how Vanessa was so wonderful to me. No matter the remarks we'd gotten as children or the comments muffled as we walked along the streets, I thought Vanessa was the most beautiful person on the planet. Her eyes were so soft and caring, her voice equally as silky and endearing, and her heart always seemed to find room for my problems. She had been my rock, even if only for a few years, and I'd never forget her. I'd never really known a family, but I always considered her to be a sister.

 

Just thinking about that made me tear up as I began to recover her grave. The dirt fell hard on her body, and each time I dropped a shovel-full, I kept awaiting a scream of pain, but one never came. Only when I'd covered her grave back up with the thick brown dirt, and had heard no whimper, did I truly realize she was gone. Only when I'd stuck a white wooden cross where a headstone would rest did it finally sink in that I'd lost her.

 

 

The next few days were rough. I'd purchased a plane ticket and passport to America, and I always felt odd when I'd only have to take care of one person. I'd always think that I was missing something, and each time I remembered, I cried. It was unbearable to think of Vanessa, because I couldn't see all of the happy times. All I ever remembered was the way she died, the thickness of the fog that night, the smell of her blood.

 

On top of that, I spent my nights unhappily alone. During the day, I could walk around the city humming or talking to myself without getting much acknowledgment, and I'd even eat dinner while talking to myself, explaining my day and talking about my plans to the seat across the table as if Vanessa was there. It may make me sound crazy, but it helped.

 

However, that kind of soothing wasn't accessible at night, when I'd lay in my hotel bed, with the curtains split open so the moon drifted its light over me. The evening seemed too quiet, and I knew that if I spoke, my words would be heard in the room beyond the thin walls next to me. If I uttered a sound, someone would hear me, because everything seemed to be more focused and precise beneath the moon. So night seemed to be the saddest part of the day, because all I could do was either go in the bathroom and try to cut myself, or lay on my back beneath sheets and cry myself to sleep.

 

Because I'd usually end up crying in shame from the slicing anyway, I tended to pick the second option most of the time.

********

 

A few days later, when I had just settled into my seat on the plane, I heard an eerily familiar voice that sent chills down my spine. Its voice was flawless, so warm and softly-toned that it mirrored pastel blue silk linen fresh out of a dryer. There was an apparent happiness in the voice as well, with a hint of laughter that was so recognizable that I began questioning my own sanity.

 

Only when I heard my name emit from this heavenly voice did I begin to frantically scan the area that I thought it originated. I looked behind me, but saw nothing.

 

Then, I heard the sound again, this time in front of me. Once more, nothing.

 

Suddenly, I jumped what felt like sixty feet up from my seat as I heard a loud “Boo!” from directly next to me. After reassuring myself that my heart was back into my chest from my ears, I apprehensively peered to the empty seat beside me to find what I had, on instinct, known was there.

Her eyes were a dark brown, chocolate in texture like the frosting of the finest éclair. Her hair, golden blonde, was brushed femininely over her small shoulders and surrounded her soft face scattered with freckles. She was dressed in street clothes, a plaid skirt with striped stockings and a shirt with a face on it.

 

I had found Vanessa.

 

“Vanessa!” I squealed in joy, totally forgetting the past few days and her death. I reached for her to hug. But alas, my arms could not hold the purer of things, as my weary embrace slipped right through her ghostly presence.

 

“Lynne, do not forget what has happened.” She spoke in words wiser than any I had heard, with such profound maturity that I was dumbfounded. Her face was sullen and sober, and it was then that I realized her eyes were not at all as they used to be. They were not glittering with expectation, hope, and optimism. Instead, they had the same shine in them as they did as she laid wounded, and dying, in my arms: extreme, unconsolable sorrow.

 

“`Nessa, you're different,” I whispered in a stricken voice as I felt tears well up in my eyes. “I'm dead,” she sincerely stated, and I could see silver lines streaking down her cheeks. Ghost tears. “And I'm sorry for that. I never meant to leave you alone.”

 

I felt my heart implode.

 

“Don't apologize,” I responded, my voice choking on the next words. “If you . . . hadn't risked your own life, I'd be in your shoes right now.”

“Nobility of cause means nothing to the Floaters,” Vanessa said with an otherworldly intensity.

 

“`Nobility of cause'? `Floaters'?” I asked, confused beyond recognition. Where was my friend, the girl whom I could count on to cheer me when I was down? Where was the girl that had died in my arms that night, with a smile on her face? Where was my Vanessa?

 

This girl, I thought, was not my friend. She couldn't be. She was completely unalike from my friend, even if they looked the same.

 

I heard the ghost sigh. She took a deep, long breath and closed her eyes before she began to answer my question.

 

“What you see, Lynne, is hidden to normal eyes. Other people can't see me, just like they can't see the evil spirits. And the only reason you can see me, I'm afraid, is because I'm still roaming this earth, `floating'. I haven't yet crossed over to the other side, or gone into the light.

 

“As for `nobility of cause,' the reason for my death doesn't impress other Floaters, or place me in a higher ranking than most. God groups us all in the same category, which is a lot like limbo but not exactly. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I'm basically just another face in the crowd of millions around here.”

 

Vanessa was in full-blown tears by the end of her explanation.

 

It took me a minute to digest everything, but once I did, I felt like grabbing Vanessa and never letting go. It was the most unbearable kind of feeling to have my best friend-my only friend-suffering like that. My heart felt as if it had a fifty-ton lock secured around it, choking its chambers and scratching its slippery outsides while blood struggled to flow through.

 

I remembered the T-shirt that Vanessa had worn. L'amour est bleu. I felt like the French were right; love is blue. It chokes at your soul until you turn purple from suffocation. Love soothed, but it also scathed, and yet the scathing that it had done to me and Vanessa could not be erased or healed.

 

She was dead, and I was alive. The boundary between us seemed to widen as we sat closer together.

 

“Hey, don't start crying,” she barely whispered, nodding her head at the other passengers on the plane. “You'll look silly if you start tearing up for what looks like no reason.”

 

I bowed by head to wipe away the tears from my ducts. I then took a deep breath and calmed myself before I told Vanessa what was on my mind.

 

“`Nessa,” I spoke just loud enough for her to hear, knowing that if I talked freely, people were bound to stare. It wasn't like the city aboard the plane; life wasn't as rushed, and people seemed to be more focused. “Why don't . . . you just go into the light? Things won't get any better if you stand idle in a world where you'll be ignored, except by me. I want you to be happy, and,” I sucked in air to cool me off, “I hear it's really nice on the other side.”

 

“It's not that easy,” she sighed. “I feel like I have unfinished business around here. Besides, if I can't let my own life unroll, I want to watch yours.”

“Don't be stupid!” I must've said that very loud, because a lot of people stared back at me and told me to `shhhh.' “I want you to feel free and alive, like you did before.”

 

“I'm dead, Lynne. I'm not going to feel alive,” she muttered bitterly, then caught herself and I guess mentally scolded. “And besides, floating makes one feel very free . . . and you did say you wanted me to be happy. . . .”

“Yes, but-”

 

“Well, I am happy. Nothing bad can happen to me now, and I want to make sure you stay danger-free for the most part too. Sorta like your guardian angel.”

 

I raised an eyebrow, thinking the idea was strange but kind of, well, odd. “Where did you get that idea?”

 

She hesitated. “Well, when God kinda told me that I was supposed to be your guardian angel, I guess the thought came about right about then.”

 

I smiled. It was the first time in the last week that I'd done such a thing. “There's my `Nessa.” Then, suddenly, my eyes fogged. “I missed you.”

 

She grinned back. “Me, too.”

 

********

 

 

Because it would appear very odd and conspicuous, Vanessa agreed that we shouldn't talk to one another for most of the plane ride to the U.S. As she said herself, we would have plenty of time to talk later, seeing as she “wasn't going nowhere for one long amount of time.” So, I settled into my seat and proceeded to read a book I recently bought with my found euros, Girl with a Pearl Earring by Chevalier. I was intrigued by the cover's picture and had seen the painting many times before, and when the woman behind the counter had told me it was imported from America, I knew I had to read it immediately.

 

As soon as I began to read of Griet learning how to crush colors for the artist Johannes Vemeer, I felt Vanessa tapping me on the shoulder. Her eyes looked dazed, as if she'd just woken up from a long, deep sleep.

 

“Lynne,” she whispered. “You can't touch me, but I can touch you.”

“Really?” I asked, perplexed at how odd that sounded.

 

“I was just wondering . . . I can remember how when we lived together on the streets, before you gave me the idea about hotels, how I would rest my head on your shoulder.” She yawned. “I'm tired, and I know you have soft shoulders, so. . . .”

 

“I'd be glad to serve as your pillow, `Nessa,” I grinned. “You don't have to ask.”

 

She beamed. “Thanks.”

 

The ride was quiet for the rest of the way. That is, until I heard an older woman near the back of the plane begin to shriek in terror. I looked back to see the woman weeping profusely, shuddering at the young adult male next to her. I perceived that he was her son, and by the bright blood that dripped by the gallons from his neck, he was believably dead.

 

“Oh! Jacques!” she cried with a thick French accent. “Jacques!”

 

As soon as others began to notice this woman's tears, they began panicking as well. Vanessa was up in a heartbeat, and ordered me to stay calm. She was going to check out the scene while I stayed in my seat.

 

She flew over to where the man lay limply, and signaled to me to come over to her. Even though I was a bit shaken (okay, I was terrified), something inside me prompted me to disregard all sense I had and rush to where Vanessa stood behind the weeping lady.

 

The man's ghost was standing next to her. “You can see me?” he asked, shocked.

 

I nodded, and he sighed and pointed to the woman. His accent was just as pronounced as hers. “Tell 'er to be at peace. Tell `er zat `er `usband would not want `er to become so frantic.”

 

Husband? I asked myself, a bit disturbed by the age differences between the alive and deceased. I then decided to ignore my questioning of the relationship and proceeded to try and calm the wife. “Madame? Madame, please, calm down,” I whispered, putting on my best French accent as I tried to communicate with the woman in her native accent. I must say, I amazed myself. “Your `usband zere would not want you to be so worried.”

 

“`Oo are you, to tell me to be calm?!” she bitterly chided my words. “My `usband is dead!”

 

“Tell `er to remember our wedding vows. And zat I love `er still,” Jacques continued, patting his wife lovingly on the shoulder. “Oh, God, I `ope she calms down.”

 

“Remember your wedding vows, Madame. Zey mean a lot to Jacques, as zey should to you,” I kept my nonchalant expression, although my heart was racing just thinking about a killer being on the plane. The last thing I wanted to do at that moment was die.

 

“Always, we will stand togezer, even if eizer of us shall perish,” Jacques quoted from memory as I repeated his speech. “Forever, I will watch over you, my beauty, my love divine. I will `old your `and as I reach down from `eaven. Zis love we share is eternal.”

 

The woman's eyes began to tremble unsteadily, her eyes staring at me in complete horror. I was just as wary myself, and I knew she must've been in both denial and shock. “`Ow do you know-”

 

Suddenly, the plane jerked and the door leading to the cockpit swung open with ethereal force. Standing on the threshold was a tall, dark-haired man with angry, and yet amused eyes, his smile hauntingly elegant yet tainted with dried blood. Visions of Monsieur Bossuet flashed across my vision as I felt goose bumps erupt across my skin.

 

His cackle was blood-curdling toxic. “Anyvone move, und you vill end up like that fool ower there,” he grinned ecstatically as others began to squeal.

I think he noticed I was unfazed, for I felt his eyes upon the section of the plane I was standing in. My stare was unfaltering. Something about him made my insides tighten, like I'd seen him before somewhere, and yet I knew we'd never met.

 

“You, girl,” he pointed out to me as others turned to gape. “Not afraid?”

 

“Not the least,” I lied through my teeth, hearing Vanessa telling me to

watch what I said as I continued to glare. I felt my hands go numb as I pictured this hijacker finishing what Monsieur Bossuet had tried to do to me before.

 

He laughed raucously, walking swiftly down the path made between the rows of seats. With each clank of his steel-toed boot against the floor, I felt more of my body go without feeling as I felt fear surmount my collected façade. By the time he reached me, all that I could sense was my feet steady on the ground.

 

The man grabbed my collar roughly and jabbed a black, shimmering gun to my temple, pulling me uncomfortably close to his body. I could smell alcohol vaguely beneath the stale scent of blood on his breath. That stench, along with the cold red eyes and unnaturally pale skin, told me he was indeed a vampire.

 

“How terrified vould you be if I told you I vas going to blast the brains right out of your skull?” he whispered in a mocking tone with a smirk on his creaseless face. “Vould you begin to cry, little girl?”

 

“No, I'd do this-“ I quickly stated as I spat in his face. I then felt my nose crack as I saw the butt of his handgun whack me square in the bridge, with his hand directing it. I fell to my bum and, before I could regain my footing, felt the cold, hard metal of his boot clock me in the outside of my thigh and my nose once again.

 

My nose ached more than words could express, and I soon tasted my own sweet blood gather in my open mouth and stain the white ruffles of my shirt. I knew my nose was broken without any doubt whatsoever, and would probably have to spend the remainder of my money on surgery to get it realigned and cast. All I could feel was the determined throbbing of the middle section of my face, and yet I knew I was lucky.

 

After all, he hadn't shot me.

 

“You bitch!” he growled, obviously still flustered about having my saliva projected at his face. He proceeded to kick me again and again and again in my side, in my shins, and in the small of my back as I tried vainly to get up. I felt as if my whole body was going to break apart beneath the pressure of his metal boot.

 

^^WHAM!^^

 

Looking up from my seat on the floor, I saw that the hijacker had somehow been stricken bluntly with one of the sinks from the women's bathroom. The ceramic plumbing fixture laid on his face, which, only moments ago, had been taut with an obnoxious, conceited sneer. Blood collected in the dip where water so commonly should have, and I might have felt sorry for the man if my nose hadn't been smarting as much as it was.

 

Then, as I went to get back up to my seat, and saw the wounded, dead man, too young and undeserving of death, sitting flaccidly in his seat next to his lady, I knew I did not feel an ounce of pity for the man lying under the sink. At least someone had laid a widely-brimmed hat over the Jacques's scared face to cover his shame.

 

His death deserved to be honored. Everyone on that plane knew that victim could've very well been themself instead.

 

Jacques's ghost sat in the seat next to me. His eyes looked remorseful, and I knew he was looking at my nose and fat lip. “I'm sorry zis `ad to `appen to you,” he spoke softly and in a hapless tone, as if this was his fault.

 

“Don't be. My nose will heal, but you won't get your life back,” I reminded him, and I realized my words were said more sharply than I had intended them to. “Jacques,” I tried to amend my statement, “I'm sorry you had to lose something so important for something so inane.”

 

He nodded, but I could still see the empathy in his eyes. “You are like my wife. You, too, lost somezing important to you for no reason.”

 

I felt my heart jump. He continued, “Zat pretty blonde girl, she was your friend, non?”

 

A lump resurrected itself in my throat. “Yes. She still is.” I wanted to reach out to Jacques and just hug him, to show him how badly I felt. “But I can still talk and see her. Your wife . . . I have a feeling nothing I can say to her will stop her from feeling lost and lonely.”

 

He shook his head but smiled. “She will be fine. I married a strong lady.”

I grinned, for both his and his wife's sake. “I'm glad to hear that, Jacques.”

 

“I go into ze light now?” he asked with undeniable confidence. As soon as I nodded, he was gone with one last heartfelt `I love you' to his wife. My vision blurred. I had never before seen such love one person could have for another, and although brief to my eyes, I made a mental note to never forget what I had just witnessed. I wanted to somehow become like Jacques, the unconquerable lover, with affection strong even after death.