Loveless

Nothing belongs to me. It’s all Square. 5. Paradise Lost No matter what he did at home, Cid kept his game-face on at work. Shera also kept up the charade. The completion of the rocket was met with a collective sigh of relief. Space was now within reach, and Cid was exultant. He was granted time off, and two weeks before launch the three of them went to Costa del Sol for a much-needed holiday. It was glorious. Shera thought she was in heaven. The sun shined every day. Skye played on the rolling dunes. Cid’s careworn face began to relax, and he smiled—he hadn’t really smiled in weeks. And the most wonderful thing was Cid stayed away from the firewater. Even better—Cid noticed Shera again. It was nice to be the object of someone’s affection. Cid never strayed far from Shera’s side. They made love for the first time in months—wonderful, soul-cleansing love. For his part, Cid was amazed at how quickly Skye was growing up. It seemed like yesterday that she was a squalling infant. What amazed him further was how beautiful Shera looked in the Costa del Sol surf. The little family collected memories the way Skye collected seashells. Not once did he stop to think of how he was deteriorating, unraveling. He laid off the booze, for this trip. No one, not even Shera, would know that he was counting down the days until he got home so he could tie one on. But for now…now he would enjoy his holiday, and his family. It was the last time the three of them did anything together again. Skye didn’t live long past her first vacation. O-O-O-O-O In Skye’s fourth year, Cid quit drinking for good, but the damage he had done was irreparable. Skye’s life ended the day before the launch. Despite his deteriorating psyche, Cid made it a point to lock up his service pistol. Even though he learned how to stop caring about himself, he cared enough for his daughter not to put her in danger like that. But, his bout with alcoholism had taken an ominous turn—he began to suffer from blackouts. He lost time. At first, he lost minutes. Those minutes gradually stretched to hours and, for one frightening week, days. He would remember sitting in front of the T.V., with a bottle of whisky at his feet and the sun at its apex. Suddenly he would come to as he was blearily trying to get his ancient sports car to run... in the middle of the night. It became more prevalent as the days went by, and the benders became longer. His final blackout had begun when he decided to empty out the house’s safe, to update his paperwork, and to make sure the gun was safely squirreled away—at three am. He blacked out at three-thirty. Shera was sound asleep. Skye was not. She wandered into the study (a recent addition to the house) and saw her Daddy asleep on the floor before the big safe. She giggled, her hands pressed against her mouth. She tiptoed to the study’s couch, and pulled her old security blanket off the back. Shera had made that in her almost-nonexistent spare time, when Skye was still in her belly. For reasons unknown, Cid insisted on keeping it in the study after Skye outgrew it. She moved, silent as a cat, back to her prone father, and covered his chest with the tattered mini-quilt. “Daddy’s aseepin’. Don’ wake up, Daddy,” said Skye. She giggled softly again and made her way to the door to see if Mommy was aseepin’ too, when she spotted the gun lying on the floor by Cid’s hand. Because of Cid’s meticulous efforts to keep it locked up, Skye had never seen it before. Intrigued, she circled her Daddy’s inert form and picked up the gun. Skye wrinkled her little nose at it. It was heavy, and it was smelly. She hefted it a few times, and peeked into the barrel. Skye couldn’t see too much (as it was real dark in there) so she tilted the gun to get a better view. She stuck her fingers in the trigger guard to get better advantage. Her pudgy fingers brushed the hair-trigger. The safety was off. O-O-O-O-O The report echoed and reverberated off the launch pad, half a mile away. O-O-O-O-O At the funeral, Shera wailed into Cid’s chest, and clutched his jacket in a death grip. He had one arm looped over her shoulders. His countenance hadn’t lost the poleaxed expression that he carried since his service revolver’s report, and the unthinkable spray of gore that waked him. When the last sympathetic soul left their home, when the last apple pie was dropped off, when the last bouquet was safely submerged in whatever vases they had empty, Cid made his way to the study. He was alone. Shera was gone. Some caring soul had taken her in for the night. Good thing, too. She shouldn’t be around for what he was ready to do. He sat, and stared at the spot where they recovered Skye’s body. They cleaned the spot well. There were hardly any blood stains left. He tore his eyes from the spot, and leaned forward to dial the safe’s combination. He opened the safe, and reached in to extract his other service pistol. He leaned back, and regarded it. Skye had gotten her hands on a .32, a gift from Shin-Ra for going beyond the call of duty. When they took her broken body away, they took the.32, but left his .357 in the safe. He held the .357 now. The .32 had enough power to tear the top of Skye’s head off. The Mag should have the same effect on him. In fact, the .357 should have enough power to splash his head across every surface of this room. He was weak, and in his weakness he contributed greatly to the death of his only daughter. He was worthless. This was his only way out. He flipped the safety off, and jammed the gun under his jaw. Cid sat that way for a long time, and tried to drum up the courage to pull the trigger. He found that he could not. The little voice in his head, so benevolent his whole life, now berated him. ‘Ya fucking asshole! Caint’ya do anything right? Ye’re the best at making Shera feel like a useless cocksucker, ain’t ya? Yer a champ at getting soused, ain’t ya? Ya excelled at getting yer kid killed, but ya can’t even do something as simple as take yer own goddamned life? Do yerself a favor—do Shera, and the rest of the fucking world a favor—and pull the motherfucking trigger!!’ He didn’t overreact. He calmly retracted the gun from his jaw, flipped the safety back on, leaned forward, and placed the gun back in the safe. Cid stood up after spinning the combination lock on the safe. He exited the study, and made his way to Skye’s room. He sat down on Skye’s bed. Alone, he buried his face in his hands and wept. AN: OK, before you all tear me apart for that OOC lapse, two things: 1. His daughter just died. You think differently when under the influence of bone-crushing grief, and 2. Oyaji do cry on occasion. I’m married to one. I know. ; )