In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

Be Not Gone...

All of this happened a little over a year ago. 

And I swear to God, every single word of it is true. 

You might think I'm absolutely mad.  You might read this entire story and say aloud, "What kind of cockamamie books are they letting these weirdos put out these days?"  I wouldn't blame you if you do.

Because some days, yes, I would agree with you.  It has not been - and will not ever be- easy.  Not to say I have suffered, because there are so many other people in this world who have endured much more than I with less to support them, and they have lived to tell inspiring tales.  But as the preceding chapters have demonstrated, I'm not that strong. The only reason I'm still standing is due to all the invaluable help I've had the past year, and especially the last six months.  Perhaps I have gone crazy.  Maybe this book, in truth, is merely a testament to the onset of unadulterated madness. 

I admit it, every now and then, even I squint at the memories I carry in the back of my mind, and say aloud, "No, that didn't honestly happen.  That's crazy." 

But wouldn't you?  As real and life-changing as those two weeks were, sometimes they just strike me as too far-fetched to discuss with anyone that isn't John, Veronica, or K.  It's one thing to write down and publish; I don't have to look you, the reader, in the face, and shrug awkwardly.  Even with Stuart Preus, the now-renowned Princeton physicist who calls me at least once a week to check in with how I'm holding up these days, I have kept mum about nearly everything that happened to me.

All I can really know for certain is now....

And now, I am twenty-one years old. 

I sit here in my personal nook of the lovely London house that I have called home for about the past six months.  I have to leave for work pretty soon; money for school must be made somehow, and I won't be doing it by going blind in front of the computer.  With one hand I'm typing the last few sentences of a big report that's due tomorrow in my online college courses- and with the other, I'm holding the most beautiful little baby in the world against my chest while he works away at his supper. 

"Finished!" I exclaim, then look down at the pair of big curious eyes staring up at me and say, "I'd read you my report if it wasn't such boring, dry tripe.  You understand, don't you?"

All he does is blink, still sucking hungrily. I can't help but smile and kiss the top of his little head. My son has the most wonderful appetite, it makes me so happy.  His name is Danny, although his birth certificate brands him officially as John Daniel Samuels.  He was born almost four months ago on the eighth of September, and is the joy of his godparents, and the light of my life.

Ah, speaking of his godparents, here they come now.  I can hear their footsteps tread up the stairs.

Two knocks, and I hear her say, "Are you prepared to surrender him yet?"

"Maybe another minute, he's almost done eating," I call back, and then, addressing Danny, who's finally full, "As for you, I'm sorry I only got to read you one of your books today, I'll make it up to you tomorrow.  That's my day off, we'll read three at least, plus a few new ones I bought.  How's that sound?"

With a high-pitched squeal, he reaches up one chubby little hand and pats it against my lips while I'm talking.  For some reason that reminds me.  "Oh, yes, I almost forgot!  Better sing now, you'll be fast asleep when I get home tonight."

It's kind of a ritual of ours; Danny gets a Queen song every day.  Sometimes I'll sing it, sometimes I'll play it, sometimes there won't be any music at all and I simply play the audio of my old smart phone video, so that the boy at least knows the sound of his daddy's voice.  So tonight, I pull my shirt back down and walk around the bedroom, bouncing Danny gently against my shoulder while I sing him a very special little song, one I played for him even before he was born.