Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Talking To The Dead ❯ Chapter 8 ( Chapter 8 )

Chapter 8

The motorcycle engine idled between his legs, a muted rumble in the otherwise quiet night. Before him, the entrance loomed large and forbidding in the shadows cast by nearby streetlights.

Ken clutched the handlebars tightly, wincing as his ruined fingers curled as far around the handle as his pain threshold would allow.

What am I doing here?

A familiar stone monument in the distance glowed stark white against the encroaching night, an answer to his unspoken question.

"Well, might as well get this over with, then." He shut the engine off and pocketed the keys, every intention of making the visit as quick as possible.

And would have, if his legs had not stubbornly decided to stay in place when he tried to dismount.

What the hell? He tried again, willing his body to swing the leaden appendages up and around off of the bike. But it seemed no matter how much he compelled his body to move, it refused to allow him to leave the seat of his motorcycle.

He sighed, digging around in his pocket for his keys. If his own reluctance was going to overpower his bodily will, there was no use in him sticking around this place. It was not as if he did not already have somewhere he needed to be tonight, after all.

His fingers brushed something cold and metallic, and he grabbed it without thinking and pulled it out into the palm of his hand. Quickly realizing it was not his keys, he had started to shove the object back into his pocket when one of the sharp corners caught on the skin of his finger. He fumbled, nearly dropping it in his haste to bring it back out into the light where he could see it.

Oh god.

To be reminded of him... here, of all places...

He pressed the object close against his chest, cradling it securely in the palm of his left hand.

"I guess this is it, Omi."

He pulled the small portrait away from his chest. A grinning, bright-eyed teen in a yellow apron smiled up at him, caught in a moment of suspended time. He clutched it tighter, the sharp edges of the frame biting into the tender flesh of his palm.

"It's time for me to go." He no longer knew whom he was addressing; himself, or the ghost of a friend lost to self-imposed suicide.

"I'm trying." It was becoming more and more difficult to speak past the lump that had formed in his throat. "I wanted to say goodbye. Even though I know better," the words came out in a rush, "but because I don't think I'm ever going to get the chance again." He frowned, regarding the recently upturned mound of soil in front of a nearby grave with a skeptical eye.

"Next time it'll probably be me on the other side of the grass."

The smile did not waver on Omi's eternally beaming lips. Ken stared at the picture, committing the image firmly to memory. If I'm going to die, he decided, I want the last thing I see to be your smile.

The moon glowed dimly through the scattered clouds obscuring the night sky. The wind was starting to pick up, blowing leaves across of the pavement in front of him. Ken looked off into the distance and regarded the grave marker one final time, as he carefully placed the picture frame into his pocket and retrieved his keys.

It was time for the mission.