Last Moments
                          A Ranma 1/2 fanfic
                           by Joseph Kohle

All character of Ranma 1/2 are the right and property of Rumiko
Takahashi. The author uses them without her permission. This work is 
not intended for sale. It is a fanfiction written for those
who enjoy the Ranma series.

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     Slowly his steps carried him across the worn stone path, twisting
among the flowering cherry trees, winding through the garden of stone
markers. How many people had come this way before? Climbing past these
silent testaments to human impermanence, loved ones by their side for
comfort, or like him alone and grief-stricken. The stones said many, too
many.
     And now he was one more added to that number, one more who was
slowly climbing to make his last respects, to fix what had never been
fixed, to say what had never been said. He knew it would ease his
tortured heart just as acid relieved a burn. There were no doubts about
the futility of his actions, the emptiness of his intentions, but he was
going through with this despite all of that. Humans have always been
good at doing what was right after the last moment had passed.
     He had not gone to the entombment. To see her buried in the earth
was too final for him, too painful. He had not wanted to let go, to
admit that she was really gone. His friends had tried to convince him to
go, but he had just locked himself in his room, refusing to listen. The
viewing had been bad enough.
     Rigidly he sat through the comments, his face calm and composed. It
took all of his strength not to cry, not to break down while the priest
droned on and on, but then it was time to approach the casket, to look
at her one last time, to say his farewells. 
     They had laid her in a dark oak coffin, half of the lid open to
reveal her angelic face illuminated by a soft white light, her upper
body wrapped in the white, funeral kimono. She looked so perfect, so
beautiful, so peaceful. It was a farce, a horrid joke, but he numbly
looked at her. 
     The world stopped as he saw her face, her eyes closed, modeled into 
cold perfection by the morticians to become a human doll. He tried to
say the words, to find them. He wanted to tell her that he loved her,
that he always had, that he always would, but nothing came. Finally he
just leaned over her silent body and gently kissed her forehead, the
cold skin stiff beneath his lips.
     Something broke inside of him, opening a floodgate of emotion.
Tears stung his eyes as a sob wracked through his chest. Spinning he
rushed from the viewing, but his father grabbed him by the arm as he ran
and pulled him back. "You will stay." 
     He lashed out, striking his father's face. "It's all your fault! I
should've been here. I should've been here, not training. I hate you! I
hate you!" Turning he escaped out the door and returned to the Tendou
Dojo and his room, where he had curled up and cried for his loss. 
     A week had passed since the funeral, a week in which he had stayed
in his room, crying, refusing to speak to anyone. Her death had been the
worst blow in his life. He had not even been there when she died. He had
been in the mountains, training with his father. They had tried to find
them, but the illness had come without warning and with such ferocity
that she had died in a few days. There had been nothing anyone could do,
and now he was unable to say good-bye, to tell her what he had needed to
tell her.
     For that he could never forgive his father. He knew it wasn't fair.
How was he supposed to know what was going to happen? That she would die
while he was gone? He wasn't, but he still blamed his father. He blamed
him for taking him away from her.
     There had been so many things that he had wanted to say, so many
things he had wanted to do with her. How he wanted to tell her he loved
her whenever she smiled at him and tried in her way to take care of him.
That when she touched his hand he only wanted to hug her and tell her he
was sorry, explain everything, make everything right between them. Most
of all he had just wanted to be truthful to her, just once.
     They had only had such a short time together, but she had been
someone he wanted in his life, needed in it. He had just been so scared
to tell her, to let her know the truth. Now she would never know.
     A small breeze brushed past him, swirling cherry blossoms in a
delicate ballet, a lively dance mocking the heavy weight in his heart.
Why did they make cemeteries so beautiful? Why the flowering trees and
immaculate lawns burgeoning with fresh life and vitality when they only
masked the grim face of death.
     It was a mockery of his emotions, the hollow emptiness in his
stomach, the tears brimming in his eyes. She shouldn't be here. No one
should be here. This should be a dark, desolate place, like his grief.
God he missed her so much. He wanted her back. He would do anything
to have the chance again, to make everything right. A single tear
leaked from his eye and he continued his slow procession to her final
resting place.
     The stone marker was in the rear of the cemetery with a small
cherry tree reaching toward heaven beside it, as if to point her soul
toward the afterlife. The blossoms swirled around the gravestone,
resting on the smooth stone, mingling with the flowers and wreaths
placed next to stone and on the grave itself.
     Dropping his eyes, he knelt on the soft grass and laid a single
white chrysanthemum on the ground. Tears began to sting his eyes and
slowly roll down his cheeks only to fall into the grass below. As he
cried his chest tightened, the grief of a lifetime overwhelming him.
Leaning forward he rested his head on the cool stone and began to sob.   
      There is a saying that first impressions are forever, but that is
not true. Overtime that impression can be changed and you can be seen
in a different light. Someone who loved you can hate you. Someone who
hated you can love you. All it takes is time, but there is never enough
time. That is why last moments are forever. Last words are forever.
Death is forever. Anything left unfinished, unsaid will always remain
so. Those regrets last forever and never leave. 
     That is why he cried next to the stone marker because he had not
told her how he felt, because he had not gained the courage to go to
her just once. Her last words flashed through his mind, the ones Dr.
Toufu had related to him when he had returned to find her dead. Within
a silent delirium her eys had snapped open to stare clearly into the
faces around her, her voice calling out, "Ranma! Where is my Ranma?"
Then her eyes had closed and she took her least breath.
     Where had he been? Where?
     He had been in the mountains, training with his father. He hadn't
been by her side, holding her hand. He should have been there. He should
have been. But if should and could were wishes....
     He cried for this, he cried for all the losses in his life, his
heart breaking and his grief carrying him away. It wasn't fair. Why me?
Why me? Please, don't let it be real.
     Through blurred vision he read the inscription on the stone... 

                               Here Lies
                             Saotome Nodoka
                         Beloved Mother of Ranma
                          Beloved Wife of Genma
                           She will be Missed

     "I'm sorry, Okaasan. Forgive me, please forgive me. I'm not Ranko,
I'm your son. I'm Ranma!" But last moments are final.


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     Author's Notes:

     This story came about after I read Palmer's "Red" I just had 
a vision of Ranma crying at a gravestone and then his mother's name
appeared on the stone. It broke me up, especially since I was already
depressed about several things. Well i wrote this to relieve my
emotions and just to put something down on paper.

     The story speaks for itself so I'm not going to explain anything
else about it. This is a stand alone and will have no further parts,
despite several reader's requests for such things. Well I might
reconsider but not for a long time....

     Comments and Criticism are always welcome and appreciated.

     This story was written by Joseph Kohle, January 1997 all 
     creative rights, besides the Ranma 1/2 characters belong to 
     the author and should not be used without his permission.

     Send all comments to ashira@worldnet.att.net
     
     
     **---***----**----***----**----***----**----***----**  
     "To write is easy, to write well is difficult,
      To write and inspire is a gift."

     "To write is to see the pattern of human thought."
     
          -Words to myself