A/n: Don't ask me where this came from, I just sat down this afternoon and started typing. I think maybe I was setting myself up to write the next big story but needed a little segue. Hope you like it!
Letting Go
The stairs creaked as he descended into the inky blackness. Despite knowing intimately the terrain, he stepped cautiously until he reached the bottom and flicked the light switch, making a mental note for at least the tenth time to wire a switch at the top of the stairs soon. The bare bulb shone harshly in the dusty basement, so unlike his boyhood home's cozy one with it's well worn couch and faded rugs.
There was an ancient arm chair though; it reminded him of Archie Bunker's favorite chair, down to the worn fabric on the arms and the butt shaped indentation on the seat. He sat in it, wincing as the springs jabbed into his bottom and his knees ending up about chest high from sinking so much. With a sigh, he scraped his way out of the chair and ended up on the cold cement floor. The box he had brought downstairs with him sat there, one flap wafting gently in the breeze he created as he sat down.
He stared at it for a long time. Finally, after mentally chiding himself, he peeled back another flap and removed a single item. Unlike the rest of the contents, this was uncharted territory. He gently, almost reverently, placed the book on the floor beside him before leaning over the box and rummaging around in its' depths for a solitary key on a thin emerald green ribbon. Even so, he procrastinated a very long time, rubbing his hand over the worn leather cover of the book. He fiddled with the ribbon, he played with the key, he did everything except place the key in the small lock that held the book closed.
It was all unnecessary, the leather binding was practically in shreds as it was. He fingered the key, musing that all he really had to do was tear along the crease and the leather strap would part without any effort at all. But he couldn't bring himself to damage the fragile thing. He slipped the key into the lock as he held his breath and opened the diary.
The paper was yellowed and brittle, so he carefully and gently turned each page as he read. The first entry was written in a childish scrawl that proudly proclaimed it to be her 8th birthday. The first couple dozen entries were the sort of nonsensical stuff you would find in a typical little girl's mind , all about how much she loved the barn cat, and how she was going to be a doggy doctor and the like. Later entries were divided between utter exasperation and hero worship of her older brother. He smiled as he read some of the more..colorful.. epithets. As he rummaged through the past as seen through her eyes, it suddenly occurred to him that he was looking at a very close approximation of his own relationship with his brother. He, too, could remember alternately wanting to kill his brother, and wanting to be exactly like him.
When he got to the first entry that mentioned him by name, he stopped, suddenly afraid to know what she had really thought of him. With a sudden feeling of dread, he forced himself to continue reading. And then the flood gates opened, and he couldn't stop. For the next two solid hours he read through every single entry, often going back to re read a paragraph because he wasn't quite sure how to take the words as they were written down. His butt fell asleep on the cold floor, his neck got stiff from remaining in one position for so long, and his shoulders took on a hunched aspect that threatened to turn into Quasimodo.
It wasn't until he was shocked by the sudden blurring of the page that he became aware again of his surroundings. Upon closer inspection, the blurring was caused by a single fat drop of salt water that had suddenly appeared on the page. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and then realized his nose was stuffed, he was quite literally freezing and the tears were falling unchecked. He swiped a sleeve under his nose, sniffled and then groaned as he tried to work out enough kinks to stand up. Knees and back protested mightily, but he managed to become fully upright eventually.
He took his time going up the stairs, never realizing until he made it to the top that he still clutched the diary tightly in one hand. The kitchen was dark, the only light coming from outside from where the deck light had been left on. He absentmindedly turned that light off as he passed into the living room. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, one foot on the first one. Abruptly he twisted in place and headed back into the kitchen. Something told him he wasn't ready to go upstairs yet.
Quietly, he made some green tea and doused it liberally with honey. Returning to the living room, he switched on the table lamp and wrapped himself in a lightweight throw. Far more comfortable now, he settled in and began reading again from where he had left off. This time, however, the box of Kleenex was within easy reach.
As he read, getting closer and closer to that fateful day, he saw himself as seen by other eyes. Some of it was flattering, some of it less so. There were moments where he cringed in embarrassment over something she'd written about him, other times he'd laugh out loud in fond remembrance. But the closer he he got to the final entries, the more somber he got. The entries had steered away from the cutesy giggling of a pre teen talking about her first crush. Long gone were the i's dotted with teeny hearts. Instead, he saw, for the first time, her dreams and plans for adulthood.
She had long ago abandoned her aspirations to be a doggy doctor, and in the intervening years alternated between several professions, from acting to journalism to politics. His hands twisted in the blanket, knuckles white as he read the later entries. Her passion bled through the words and he sobbed in despair as he continued to read. The words she wrote were full of hope, promise and zeal as she talked about the rally for the presidential candidate Walker. But it was the very last entry that caused him to break down.
Everyone at school says I need to dump Joe, cuz he's too wrapped up in 'The Detective Thing' and never takes anything seriously. But they're wrong. The stuff that really matters, he takes very seriously. He may tease me about wanting to help out at the rally, but he's still coming with me. Sure, he flirts with other girls, but it's me he calls at the end of the day to wish me good night. I know he never really means it when he flirts, that's just his personality. And sometimes I get annoyed, but I would never make him change a thing. I love him exactly the way he is. And I am pretty sure he feels the same way about me.
It was as if a terrible weight had been lifted from his heart. He had long ago come to terms with her loss, and even forgiven himself, after a fashion. But to see, in her own words, the truth of how she saw him; knowing without a doubt her feelings, gave him a serenity he hadn't known he was missing. He was finally able to let go. So even though he cried himself to sleep that night, alone on the couch, there was a soft smile upon his lips as he said goodbye one last time.
A/n: short, I know. But I deliberately kept it that way. it's just a moment in time, captured by a fly on the wall.