InsaneJournal

Prompt: Ghost/The Kents and Augustus Rookwood (perhaps read this first)
Requested by: squidtastic

request one here



Augustus opened his eyes.

It was three in the morning.

His sheets were tangled around his body, cloying and tight. The house was dark, silent, heavy over his head. He could feel cold sweat beaded on his forehead, neck, chest. His breathing was uneven, shaky. With a smooth motion, he shoved the sheets off of him, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and onto the floor. Like a man possessed, he moved towards the door, tripping on the sheets that wrapped like vines around his legs. He barely caught himself on the dresser in time, though in the moment's retrospect he took, he wished that he'd fallen. The pain might have helped.

As he walked the hallways of his home, memories of them lingered like ghosts, reminding him of every bad deed he'd done, every lie he'd told, every charming word that'd slipped out of his mouth and caught them in the web he'd helped spin. Normally, he would head straight for his kitchen, where there was a bottle of gin just waiting to erase the memories, dilute the pain, but not tonight. Tonight he wouldn't--couldn't--drown himself into oblivion. He was going to let himself feel every single moment of this, like it was a fucking dagger tearing through his skin. Because tonight was the night they'd died. Tonight was the night he deserved every nightmare he got.

Even with that knowledge, he couldn't bear to let himself fall back asleep. He'd seen what the Dark Lord did to people, and every night the nightmares tortured him with visions of their charred skin or mangled limbs. He felt their blood hit his cheeks from afar, heard their screams shattering the silence of the night. Saw Katie on her knees, wisps of blonde hair stuck to her face from her tears, face wrenched with pain as they tore Cillian limb from limb in front of her.

He clambered outside. The night air was cold, almost freezing against his bare skin, and he stumbled out into the middle of the grass in his backyard. "Please," he whimpered, falling to his knees in the dewy grass. "Please, Katie, please." He hated himself for saying it, knew he shouldn't, knew he didn't deserve what he asked for. "I'm so sorry." He wasn't crying--how many times had he cried for her? How many times had he cried for her husband, her child?--though he wished he could. The telltale burning behind his eyes was there, but no tears fell.

It had been a year. A year, and sometimes he could pretend he was healed. Sometimes, walking down the street, he'd forget and let that little casual smile that graced the face of a man who had little to worry about cross his face again. But he'd remember, he'd always remember, he'd always see their ghosts floating around him, reminding him, and he'd feel the guilt seep in. He didn't deserve to forget.

It had been a year. A year was nowhere near enough time for a wound to heal, not this wound. Where were they now, were they looking down on him? Were they shocked, appalled, embarrassed to have fallen for his lies? Disgusted by the way he'd so easily forgotten about the mortals made into dust by his actions?

His hands had fallen to his sides, brushing the wet blades of grass. Goosebumps had risen along his arms, spine, legs, and he shivered uncontrollably. But he didn't stand up. He was still whimpering, mumbling to himself, repeating those words as if somehow, saying them enough times could atone for his sins. "Please....I'm sorry...Katie....please. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I'm sorry. Katie, please...please."

He woke up in the morning, the sun just peeking out from behind the trees, with the words still on his lips.

"Please."