I'm Not You -A Simpson's Fic-


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I'm Not You

-Disclaimer- I own nothing recognizable. If you don't recognize it, google it and you'll likely find that I don't own that either.

A thin young man stood before a wooden post in a secluded glade. The soil was bare but for the gnarled roots, and near the edge of the tree line sat a bench that was crushed, shattered down the middle.

The young man stood before the wooden post, his garb black. He held in his hands a bouquet of purple. Lavender Roses and Lavender spikes.

"It's been a long time. Almost ten years, I think." He set the flowers down at the base of the pole and glanced aside, at the remains of the bench. "I guess nobody has really bothered coming this way since then. That's sort of depressing, but a relief as well in its own way."

He grabbed ahold of a dead vine entangled about the wooden sign that was bolted to the haphazardly embedded spike of wood and methodically, quickly removed them.

"I don't miss you, you know. Who you used to be, who you could've been... The friends you made and the family you'd called home, at least before you got your name back." The wind danced through the trees with a stuttered whistle, blonde hairs gracelessly clinging to his face where they'd escaped a loose ponytail.

"Sometimes I think I miss those, at least until I catch sight of your namesake. It's terrifying to think but without any focus, without any ambition... He just let himself become what everyone told him to be." The letters atop the post, April, had been uncovered. He was far from done.

"A copy of his father. Loud, foolish. Naive maybe. Unsurprising I guess, considering he'd stopped going after the first thing he really, truly wanted in the face of acceptance." A handful of vines came loose with a snap.

His hands came up to his face, stopping at his glasses before he reconsidered, looking more closely at the vines he'd cast aside. No leaves sat upon the bare plants, long since sun-starved. He was willing to risk his hands to what may have been poison ivy, he wasn't willing to risk his eyes. The itch, the burn of unshed tears could wait.

"I'm not you, but I was never him. I can accept that now, I've been me for a while and I like who I am. The rest though, I still dream about. Some of them are nightmares, others are memories. I don't know which is better, but there's less now than there used to be and maybe soon they'll just be memories of a memory." He pulled off the last vine as two more people entered the clearing.

They were identical in all but name, not a hair out of place between them nor a wrinkle upon their clothes that couldn't be found upon their twin.

"Come on, Bertram."

"We're still early."

"But mom's wake will be starting soon."

"Alright Terri, Sherri. I just got done anyway." The man, Bertram, brushed his hands on his pants one last time to remove as much dust, as much dirt as he could and looked over his handiwork.

April First -the year had faded away- to July 27 -again, the year marking looked to have been rubbed raw-

Here rests Hugo Simpson. Born together, lost alone.

May he find elsewhere the joy taken from him here.

"Did you know him?" Terri asked the supposedly younger man. Concern laced with confusion.

"No" Bertram said, his voice heavy with regret, loss, mourning and perhaps just a touch of pride. "I never really got a chance to. He was never really here and when I knew who he was, he was already gone."

AN/ I don't really know what to make of this. This could be a prequel to a much longer story, following "Bertram" as he escapes from Springfield and eventually returns. Just as easily, this could be an ending.
As it is, however, it's been an amazing distraction to think about this during the dull drudgery of factory work.