Milo Brache
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Posted - 2009.04.23 20:44:00 -
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Edited by: Milo Brache on 23/04/2009 20:46:02
The Passage
She was gone.
That was all Milo Brache could think as he stared blankly at the coffin, d****d in the sigil of the Gallente Federation. On a dim level, he could understand that her body was contained inside the rectangular, metal box in front of him. But he couldn't connect personally. Ever since the orderlies in the stations medical center declared her dead and carted her remains off to the morgue, it was if the world had swallowed her, and great portion of himself, whole. The casket that contained her may as well have been in another universe. Perhaps she was somewhere else now, but that gave Milo little solace. She wasn't here.
His father didn't care. Nor, thought Milo, did most of the people in attendance. Sure, they were dressed up all nice and shed a few tears, but did his mother really touch them? Even Milo would admit she had become sort of an introvert in her final years, requiring him to care more for her than she did for him. How many of them would remember Julia Brache a year from now? A month? A week? Their insincerity burned inside him.
His father said he saw coming for years, but Milo didn't give a damn what his father thought. He was a Captain in the Gallente Federal Navy, and he had never been particularly close to Milo. When he was younger, he took Milo on excursions all over the station when he was on leave, filling him with childish joy. As he aged, however, joy turned to fear and guilt, as he failed to meet his father's expectations for what a young soldier should be. Milo himself didn't want to become a soldier (he fancied himself a musician), but his father did, vehemently, so a soldier he was to become.
He disappointed his father, as did his mother; a sociology teacher whose liberal opinions were anathema to a staunch authoritarian like himself. Mutual love was what had pulled them together. Milo had destroyed all of that, with his many quirks and differences his father found insufferable. Hatred of Milo and hatred of his mother became inseparable to him. Hatred had been, in the end, what did his mother in. Milo had made it this far by staying as far away from his father as he could.
But here he was, presiding over his wife's funeral. He too was dressed his best, an over embellished officer's uniform, signifying his importance (real or imagined) to the Gallente Navy. His sharp, blue eyes cast a steely gaze on the coffin, a look of utter indifference bordering malice. He turned to Milo, bearing down on him with the same, critical glare. This was his father? His protector? He had heard things from his father that made him wither on the inside, but the malevolent stare almost outright killed him. The pure hatred his father felt toward him made him almost made him want to join his mother in her coffin. At least she was finally away from him.
The preacher had only begun his sermon when his father decided he had wasted enough time mourning the passing of his beloved wife. He grabbed his son's arm with his strong, meaty arm and muttered, "Time to go." Milo tried to summon words in protest, but the courage failed him. His father had better things to do, mainly get drunk with his XO one more time before he had to take indefinite leave to take care of his son. 'Putting me on a shelf' is how he put it. Once again, his wife and Milo had found a way to make his life insufferable.
As he was pulled away from the service, Milo watched as the reverend concluded his sermon. Pallbearers lifted the coffin and carried it towards the air lock. Milo wanted to do something, say a final good bye, touch her coffin one last time, anything. But he couldn't. An automated door opened, and he and his father stepped through it. The door slid shut behind him. And then she was truly gone.
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