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animorphsljUhh, first time poster, long time lurker. Blaming Blue (And Lisa, for getting me started). Short drabble from Jean's POV after the war. *sets down offering and runs*
****
There was no body to bury.
It was depressing how many people were able to say that after the war. Family members dead or taken or just missing and no one knew. There was no sense of closure.
Some had lost family years before they died without even knowing it. Some had family ‘die’ only to return after the war, shell-shocked and broken.
She could almost be jealous of Naomi sometimes. There had been a body, a funeral. A daughter to mourn and weep over. Closure.
There was no body to bury. Just a grave, a simple thing. His name, two dates. A simple grey stone, no adornments. Jake had, to her knowledge, never been to it. Steve avoided it like the ruined hole in the middle of town that had once been the pool. Too many nightmares.
Unlike most families, she knew the day her son died. She even knew how. There was video, in full, vivid, living color. A late night TV program had managed to get their hands on it and for a long while the ‘final battle’ had inundated the media.
Her eldest son had died at 19. He’d been infested at 14. A child who had never had a chance to grow up.
She felt raw and empty inside, staring at the grave. She couldn’t even cry for him. She couldn’t press a kiss to his forehead and clutch him to her breast and wail at the unfairness of it all one last time.
Her son had died in cobra morph.
She still wakes up in cold sweats at night, muffling screams against her pillow to keep from waking her husband and son, occasionally staggering out of bed and wrap her arms around Homer and sob. Feeling the yeerk pawing through her memories, learning her. Experiencing private moments as though they were its own, stripping every illusion she had ever held away. Knowing that her sons had gone to war against each other and one of them hadn’t come home. Knowing that for the rest of his life, Jake would be walking around with Tom’s ghost following him. She was quite certain these nightmares would last her for the rest of her life.
She never got to hold her son; all too soon after she had been infested, Tom had gained the ability to morph and was no longer kept in the cages. But she hadn’t been allowed to see Steve after that first day, either. They’d kept all three of them on separate feeding schedules, kept them apart. The yeerks didn’t want to make it an easy target for Jake. Once she knew, she had never been allowed to speak to her son. Had only been able to watch him the same way he’d watched them for years, as a prisoner ineffectively raging against their unwelcome guest.
And now he was dead.
There was no body to bury.
She wished there had been.
“I love you, Tom.”
****
There was no body to bury.
It was depressing how many people were able to say that after the war. Family members dead or taken or just missing and no one knew. There was no sense of closure.
Some had lost family years before they died without even knowing it. Some had family ‘die’ only to return after the war, shell-shocked and broken.
She could almost be jealous of Naomi sometimes. There had been a body, a funeral. A daughter to mourn and weep over. Closure.
There was no body to bury. Just a grave, a simple thing. His name, two dates. A simple grey stone, no adornments. Jake had, to her knowledge, never been to it. Steve avoided it like the ruined hole in the middle of town that had once been the pool. Too many nightmares.
Unlike most families, she knew the day her son died. She even knew how. There was video, in full, vivid, living color. A late night TV program had managed to get their hands on it and for a long while the ‘final battle’ had inundated the media.
Her eldest son had died at 19. He’d been infested at 14. A child who had never had a chance to grow up.
She felt raw and empty inside, staring at the grave. She couldn’t even cry for him. She couldn’t press a kiss to his forehead and clutch him to her breast and wail at the unfairness of it all one last time.
Her son had died in cobra morph.
She still wakes up in cold sweats at night, muffling screams against her pillow to keep from waking her husband and son, occasionally staggering out of bed and wrap her arms around Homer and sob. Feeling the yeerk pawing through her memories, learning her. Experiencing private moments as though they were its own, stripping every illusion she had ever held away. Knowing that her sons had gone to war against each other and one of them hadn’t come home. Knowing that for the rest of his life, Jake would be walking around with Tom’s ghost following him. She was quite certain these nightmares would last her for the rest of her life.
She never got to hold her son; all too soon after she had been infested, Tom had gained the ability to morph and was no longer kept in the cages. But she hadn’t been allowed to see Steve after that first day, either. They’d kept all three of them on separate feeding schedules, kept them apart. The yeerks didn’t want to make it an easy target for Jake. Once she knew, she had never been allowed to speak to her son. Had only been able to watch him the same way he’d watched them for years, as a prisoner ineffectively raging against their unwelcome guest.
And now he was dead.
There was no body to bury.
She wished there had been.
“I love you, Tom.”
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