ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Requiem

Vignette - Requiem
Dramatis Personae Eric, Kyle Whelan
In Absentia	2013-06-13 Rest in peace.
Location Trinity Church
Today, Eric's uniform is crisp. Each edge is carefully pleated and starched, the fabric meticulously delinted of any dust or dirt. The fabric, itself, looks so carefully cleaned it might have just come off the rack, never worn. His buttons shine in the noon sun, sparkles of light glistening off of the silver badge on his chest, except for a single black band across its center. Underneath his badge, several decorations beneath are lined in perfectly neat order. His cap is firmly fixed on his head and even on his head, covering up his unusually tamed hair, and his shoes are shined to a mirror finish. Eric's salute is as crisp as his clothes, the fingers of his bright white glove perfectly aligned with his eyebrows, just as every one of the officers around him are doing - officers from the NYPD, from the State Police, from every branch and every division of the police services around the state. Hundreds of officers, all in dress uniforms, all saluting - all except six. The six have a heavier burden to bear, carrying the flag-draped casket of Sergeant Kyle Whelan past the line of saluting officers as the sound of a bugle wails taps out over the crowd. As the coffin passes into the church, and at the sharp command of a Captain near the door, every officer drops the salute in turn, and they each step into formation, one from each side of the pathway, and file into the church. Though the service is a solemn occasion, Eric pays it little attention, sitting as he is next to a small clump of officers whose duties have turned to the living - to the sniffling children next to him. One of his hands rests gently on the older boy's shoulder, the crisp white glove staining as tears steadily drip onto it, and snot smears against the crisp navy blue of his jacket. Comfort is not a thing that comes easily to Eric, but comfort he does, throughout the speeches and the music, from sniffles to a quiet silence somehow sadder still, a place where sadness is so overwhelming that noise cannot even penetrate it. Nor is he unaffected by the goings on, as much as he might try to hide it. It is only the slightest crinkling around his eyes and the overfirm press of his lips together tht might reveal the turmoil of conflicting and clashing emotions warring inside him. The end of the service comes almost as a relief which does not show on his face as Eric says his goodbyes to Kyle's children, as he quietly squats down and promises to see them again soon. Once out on the street, though, and safely through the press of cameras and reporters hounding for a comment - once down a couple of blocks, Eric slips into an alleyway. His breath comes unsteadily, ragged, faster and faster. His fists clench down, hard, fingernails digging into the palms of his hands before the tension snaps inside him and he belts the fist into the brick wall. "God fucking damn it," he groans out, shaking his scuffed and bruised fist and the cracked bones underneath. This movement has, it seems, exhausted him, and he turns to slump backwards against the now-cowed wall, head falling back to rest against the bricks as his hand knits itself back together. His brown eyes stare up at the sky, glistening threateningly, and he blinks rapidly to remove the moisture from them. "God damn it, Kyle." he mutters again, voice cracking. His lips press firmly together and he looks down at the ground, dropping his hands to his side. Eric stands there for almost a minute, staring wordlessly at the ground, before he looks up and around him, eyes glancing left and right. He nods to himself, a slow but sure movement, and pulls out his cell phone. His thumb swipes over the surface of the screen for several seconds before he slips it back into his pocket and heads off towards the subway. (Eric -> Jax): Hey. We need to talk. Where are you?