OOC: I’m listening to a very sad song on ITunes right now, and this is what came out! Music inspires all.
This is, like the description says, set in the real world. Anyone is free to join.
- What fandom[s]? Real world
- Canon characters accepted? Original characters, please.
- Open or closed topic? Open to any who wish to join.
- AU (Alternate Universe)? No.
--Gerrick Daerson: TruthSayer
--Lindsey: Lil Jo
IC: The sky was a colorlessly gray, the blanket of clouds oppressive and low to the earth as the smell of rain wafted over the cemetery on a gentle breeze. It was the perfect setting, really, to bury someone, and as thunder cracked quietly and gently on the horizon, Gerrick couldn’t believe it was actually happening. Everything in the last two weeks felt like it was a walking dream, from the shooting, to the investigation, to the arrest, to the six different burials he’d been to in as many days. Everyone around him looked as shell-shocked as he felt; some were in tears, some were sitting on the funeral home’s pristine white chairs, huddled together beneath umbrellas that yawned open to the sky above. They sat with their arms around each other, sat with their faces pressed into cloth handkerchiefs embroidered with lace, and violet and blue flowers, sat with eyes staring unseeing at the cityscape beyond the cemetery gates.
He’d have to wash his shirt again tonight, he thought as thoughts swirled disconnected through his mind; the last burial was set for tomorrow at eleven, and it was the only black button down he owned.
The priest, old and wrinkled and with hair gray enough to match the sky above, was dressed in respectful black with a tie of muted red against his chest. He spoke softly, his voice thick and his words choked as his chin wobbled beneath the heavy salt-and-pepper scruff he had uncharacteristically allowed to grow there. The closed bible in his right hand was held in fingers turned white from strain as he motioned for emphasis with his left hand. His message, whatever it was, was completely lost on Gerrick, who couldn’t seem to focus on anything other than how incredibly wrong
Gerrick couldn’t be sure, because the sky above had flashed with white with lightning as cold drops of raining began to fall gently to the ground, but it looked as though the priest had tears in his eyes, as well, and then Gerrick remembered that the man had buried his own daughter two days previous.
An altar boy opened an umbrella he was holding and held it high above the priest’s head, shielding him from the rain; the sound of water striking the plastic fabric of the umbrellas, the rock of the headstones, and the soft dirt of the earth was like heaven’s atonement, inadequate as it was, and Mrs. Murray, the mother of the boy about to be lowered into the ground, let out a low keening wail and bent double, clutching her middle as though she were being ripped apart; her eyeliner and mascara ran in rivulets down her cheeks to outline her gasping mouth in black.
Gerrick was suddenly eternally glad for the rain; it hid his own tears better than his blank expression did. He had no umbrella to hide him from the rain, his shirt quickly clinging to his chest and arms, soaking into his dress shoes where he stood, making the ground squish uncomfortably beneath his feet.
Beside him, his best friend stood, eyes swollen and red, face splotched from crying, one hand clutching her right arm hanging in the sling, the pressure placed right over the bullet wound in her flesh, squeezing until her fingers turned white from the strain. Carefully, Gerrick took her hand in his and squeezed her fingers in his own, wishing he had been there when it had happened instead of home playing sick, wishing he had been the one to take the bullet instead of Mrs. Murray’s son.
The priest finished his benediction, crossed himself and kissed the crucifix around his neck. Mrs. Murray stood on shaking legs, supported on one side by her husband, the other by her youngest son, and picked up a clod of mud and sprinkled it over the closed coffin; the sound it made as it hit the oak lid was a disgusting squish. Mrs. Murray let out a loud sob and turned to bury her face in Mr. Murray’s chest, and was led away to her car. The processional went on for the better part of an hour as the deads’ family passed by first, then schoolmates, teachers, the principal, and finally the local law enforcement that had been the first on the scene. By the time they had all gone, the light rain that had begun to fall halfway through the funeral had turned into a deluge, running in little rivers into the hole in the ground Jackson Maxwell Murray would be lowered into.
Only Gerrick and his friend stayed to watch the wench lower the coffin into that black hole dug deep into the earth, watch as the tractor came and shoved the mound of remaining mud into the hole, and watch as the cemetery workers came to smooth out the grave; there was too much mud right now to lay the soft green sod that would soon blanket it.
“We’ll find out who did this,” Gerrick said; the first thing he’d said in two days.
“You don’t believe Harvey did it?” his friend, Lindsey, asked, turning wide disbelieving eyes on him.
Gerrick shook his head. “I wasn’t there, but no one living saw who pulled the trigger, and I know Harvey. He’s quiet and sometimes downright strange, but he wouldn’t do this. You remember that paper he wrote last year about gun laws? He was all for making it illegal for private ownership.”
Lindsey looked at him for a moment, silent as her eyes raked over his face, taking in his expression. “I… I didn’t see who fired the gun, but everything points at Harvey. They were his fingerprints on the gun.”
Gerrick shook his head. “I don’t care. He didn’t do it.”
Lindsey sighed, and tightened her fingers around his. “All right.”
“’All right’?” Gerrick asked, raising an eyebrow at her. “I thought you’d fight me tooth and nail on this one.”
“You’re my friend, Gerrick, and I love you for that,” his best friend said, the smile she offered him watery. “And I know that when you think something isn’t right, it probably isn’t. So let’s find out who’s responsible.”
Gerrick looked away from her, back to the grave, allowing his eyes to roam over the cemetery to the four other fresh gravesites he could see from where he was standing, and nodded once. “I love you, too, you know.”
Lindsey smiled, her expression a bit less forced this time. “I know.”
OOC: If anyone would like to join as Gerrick’s friend, let me know, and I can change what’s said so I’m not godmoding if you’d like, and put in a name. If not, let me know, and I’ll change her name and make her NPC.
And as a very quick character reference, Gerrick Daerson is 17 and in his last year of high school. He's blonde, tall-ish at 5'10, and has mud brown eyes. More will be revealed about his character later on.