ONE-SHOTS

Who Killed Mr Burns? - The Simpsons

Okay, this is one of my first (I believe it's my second?) angst oneshot. It may not be the best, but it's a good opportunity to practice writing like this. This was requested by ShootingStar124 , and the request was basically to do something dramatic, where someone dies. It took a fair while thinking up this idea, so I hope it's okay for what you asked. There are a couple of possible triggers, however; death, brief mentions of alcohol, and lots of grief and angst. I hope not too many of you are put off by that. This tale is told from Waylon Smithers' point of view, this is Who Shot Mr. Burns - except Mr Burns is really dead. I would say enjoy, but... when I was writing this it hurt, so I don't know if that's the right word.

The newspaper lay on the table in front of me, the writing slowly blurring as I stared at the block lettering. My hands gripped the back of the chair so hard my knuckles shone white. A small tear, warm and salty, dripped onto the paper, smudging the black ink and rendering the words barely legible. I eased one hand slowly from it's grip on the chair and pushed the paper away, unable to bear it. But those words would be forever burned into my mind.

C. MONTGOMERY BURNS DEAD.

Of course I had known. A man shot, at that age, was bound to be badly injured regardless. But before I'd seen it in black and white, I couldn't force myself to face it. Before I'd watched the monitor slowly settle to one solid, unbroken line. Until the beep rung through my ears endlessly. Until his hand went cold in mine. It was impossible to believe. That's why I'd half-drowned myself in Duff, to dull the pain. And it had, for a short while. But even in that alcohol-induced haze I knew he was gone. So I'd forced myself to stop.

His funeral was happening ten days from now. The whole town was coming. I'd have to arrange a headstone, a ceremony. I'd ordered a marble angel, hand-carved and with a beautiful inscription. Then I'd talked to the directors and they'd assured me the rest would be sorted. I hadn't minded.

Countless letters, written by people I barely knew and signed by people I'd never heard of, were pushed through my letterbox over the course of the next nine days. I'm so sorry for your loss. My family and I grieve with you. We're praying for you, and for him. I knew they were genuine, written to comfort me. But the words felt empty. Worthless. Like they'd been penned by a robot.

Dressed in an old black suit, with a plain tie, I made my way to the church that day. I'd found one of his old ties in a drawer at the mansion, but couldn't bring myself to wear it. I took a handkerchief instead, tucking it into my breast pocket. The day was beautifully bright, the sky cloudless and the church surprisingly warm. The pews filled slowly and I sat right at the front, near where Lovejoy would conduct the ceremony.

For a man who wasn't particularly close to Burns (not that anybody really was), he had the most beautiful speech. I can't remember a lot of it, I was so nervous to do my own. But I had to do his memory justice.

So I stood up, making sure my face was clear of tears. Not that there was a dry eye on the first few rows of pews, which I could see. I took a deep breath, which was hard. My chest felt constricted, with nervousness, sadness, and something else.

"Mr Burns was..." I could barely speak. I said a few words, reading the blotchy paper in front of me, then sat down. As I lowered myself onto the seat my shoulders shook. I wished I could have said more, how I really felt - and how a part of me had died with him. Someone patted my shoulder, handed me a tissue, but I didn't acknowledge it. One more person stood up, said a little, and then sat down. Lovejoy finished it off, then we all trailed outside to the graveyard.

His angel was even more beautiful than I'd expected. It stood, wings spread in a feathered arc above its head, gazing serenely over the dark open pit. The folds in the marble made its robe look like it was fluttering in the wind and it looked so real a couple of people did a double take.

It was perfect.

The gilded coffin was lowered into the grave, a prayer was said, then people started to file away. At long last, I was the only one left.

"I know you can't hear me right now. But I have to- I have to get this off my chest." I sighed. I felt strange, but-
"I love you. I always have, and I always will. And y- what happened... it's torn me apart. I'll never be whole again. But even though I couldn't tell you then, I can now. Even though it's too late. I'm sorry-" I stopped, unable to swallow the lump in my throat.

"Goodbye."

Thanks for reading this oneshot! Again, I'm not going to say 'I hope you enjoyed' but I hope you liked it. I hope one of my first attempts at angst wasn't too far off the mark, and I did it justice. Thanks ShootingStar124 for the request, and stay safe everyone! Comment what you thought, maybe drop a request or a vote, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy my oneshots.