OBLIVION [Thomesa]

eleven

Several hours passed, or maybe years. Newt couldn't tell.

Pain knows no time limit.

He was useless again, left bleeding in the darkness.
Useless,
helpless.
He lied to her.
Told her he could save her,
but he couldn't.

Again.

He had struggled for about half an hour after she left, his screams echoing through the dark unit storage.
The locket rested heavily against his leg, as if boring into him - everything that he had done because of that lump of metal on a string.

But it could bring Jeanne back.
One week ...

In one week, I would have to be in France. But if I leave,
Teresa could be dead .. or close,  if I stayed, I would lose Jeanne forever. 

His wrists were slicked with blood.
He figured it would do as well as slipping a tight ring of your finger with soap and water.
He slowly coerced his bloody, mangled, wrist out from the inch of steel that encircled his hands.
His skin pushed upwards, folding like a flap, the muscle underneath showing vaguely.

He gagged, and continued the painful escape.
Then his free hand reached the syringe Gally left.
Using the thin needle to pick the lock.

Locks were easy to pick. They were logical. They made sense, like nothing in his life did.

In another moment, the steel fell away, plunking in the pool of sweat and blood that had accumulated around him, and collapsed to the floor, his weight no longer supported by the hand cuffs.
His face fell sideaways to the ground, but he didn't care.
He sat up, after several minutes, of his tortured thoughts rambling emptily inside his head.
I'm going crazy.

Then he stood, walking aimlessly from the room.
He went the only way he hadn't before, and began to shuffle along, cradling his injured hands to his chest, leaving a trail of scarlet streaking behind him.

He had stuffed the locker inside his pocket, and with each step, he felt it press against his leg heavily, as if reminding him of what he had sacrificed to get it.
Possibly, his sanity.

Soon the scent of salt infused air stung at his nostrils.
The Ocean.

He pulled himself forward, finding strength somehow, to the edge of the wooden dock, collapsing on his knees in front of it, with a shaking hand, he pulled the thin chain from his pocket.
He stared at it, disgusted and awed by its deathly beautiful aura.

He tore his gaze from it, and turned to the dark ocean.
Heweas alone, face to face with the sea.
Just him, and the day he lost Jeanne.

He could simply go to France, he was sure he could do it -- he knew where her grave was.
Surely the sacrifices he made shouldn't be wasted, right?

"She would be happy. Why would she not? Jeanne will be happy, gone from all the pain she suffered - free of every burden she was born. Would you bring her back, for that?"

Her past words rang in his ears, he sucked in a shallow breath and closed her eyes. Jeanne was free.
Could he rip her from her heaven and bring her back to him?
Could he do something so selfish?

"Guess you can finally fly now, Angel.
You flew away from this world ...
I'll do my best to follow you someday."

His own words bounced in his head and he paused,
feeling a fresh wave of hurt overcome him.
He had already let her go,
and he had taken a new responsibility -- Teresa.

I wouldn't allow Jeanne's death to be in vain,
by letting another spirit die because of my mistakes.
I will never let Jeanne's memory be tarnished by letting Teresa die.