PLEASE READ
Disclaimers: I don't own the 39 Clues or Stuck—it is a song of Darren Espanto [[kyaaah! Oh, Darren! 3]] from which this tragic fic was inspired. Oh, and, Fact 101: you can go to my profile so you can copy-and-paste the YouTube link and listen to Stuck. Or simply search for it in your browser, because I'd best recommend to listen to that while reading this, because that's what I did while writing this four-thousand-word one-shot fic. That song is heartbreakingly breathtaking.
I didn't proofread/reread this, so there must be tons mistakes. I apologize in advance for my profound sloppiness. And I must warn you too that this is OOC. And tragic.
Legend:
Normal narrations
Flashback narrations
Ian's narrations
Stuck
Her tear-stricken face was red, strands of hair sticking to its wetness. Her hair was a messy rat's nest, her ponytail puffed out and coming undone. Her lack of sleep was evident on the dark circles under her puffy green eyes, and the wrinkly, black couture dress that Ian had bought her indicated that she had not changed her clothes for…days.
"But…but you promised to—everyone expects that you will—"
"I…I can't. I have to…tend things." It was obvious from his lack of confidence in his words that he was lying. Amy could hear some sounds in the background—sort of like the sound of rushing nurses in a hospital. Huh. Maybe Ian was in a busy street, 'tending to things'? But what could be something even more important to him than attending a simple—but rarely held—family party?
Ian uncomfortably cleared his throat. "I have to stay here in London."
Amy knew that this had happened before. It had happened before, when Ian had canceled his flight to America…she never knew the reason behind that. The only thing she knew was that…she was too unvisitable. She was something worthless, and that wasting his time on a plane across Atlantic was never worth seeing her.
"Is…is there something wrong? You can always—"
"Good luck with hosting the party, my love," he said, and she could almost hear him smirk mischievously in the background. But…somehow, she felt that something was wrong. It was as if he was in pain. He was hurting. But she didn't know why he sounded like that, because she was overcome with annoyance as he called her love.
"Don't call me lo—"
Click.
Courtesy to traffic, Amy Cahill was sitting in a car, the air conditioner set to its highest mode. That was far too cold for her preference—but the coldness of the air perfectly reciprocated the cold lifelessness that had plagued her sunny personality with darkness. She had been stuck inside the vehicle for hours, and the stupid car didn't seem to move an inch unless an hour had passed. All the time she had only looked out of the window, absently staring at the indifference of people around her, continuing their lives as usual. She was in London, and the streets were peppered with rain.
His name had been unconsciously blinking inside her head, his smirk flashing like fireworks, his accent's melodious music saying her name gracefully between his svelte lips, his amber eyes melting afire.
She was beleaguered by guilt. Despair. She was angry with herself. She can't stop chewing at her worn out lips, her freezing feet uneasily drumming on the car floor, her one hand fiddling with a button on her dress. Her other hand…her other hand held the paper that had cut through her like a knife.
I was always hated.
I will understand if no one will be visiting my committal. I understand if you detest me. I understand if you don't trust me, if you think that all you are currently listening to are mere lies. I understand if you are happy with what had happened to me.
I understand.
Amy closed her eyes, and her sweaty hand gripped the paper even tighter, the other gently touching the silver necklace on her neck. The contents of the letter were far too…true. And that truth…it was bitter, it pierced her heart, it hurt her.
His were the soulful, taciturn eyes she had seen when he had dumped her in Korea. His was the willowy hand that she had held when she saved him from a fall from Everest. His was the voice that she heard when he was inwardly hurting from his mother. His was the mask she had seen when he hid his misery with smirks as he watched her, endured the pain in his heart, staring at the reality that she loved Evan Tolliver, that she loved Jake Rosenbloom…but not him.
I had always been a Kabra. It had always been in my Vesper blood, in my viperous name, carved in the stone of my past, that I am a clear substitute for Satan's spawn—everyone had called Natalie and me by that very fitting…label. As much as I resent that, I accepted it, because it was something that was the truest of the truths…my sister and I descended from the devils, raised up to be little demons. Everyone in the Cahill family thought that it was impossible for us to change. It was because we were born evil, because we were born Kabras.
It was because we were Kabras, through and through.
"Ames!" Nellie shouted from downstairs. Amy felt betrayed, left out, unwanted, worthless. Ian had just hung up on her. Again.
Doesn't he care about how she had thoroughly planned this party for him? Of course it was a surprise party, and Ian wasn't supposed to know that this was a party for him—a party to celebrate his recent victory as a defending champion in the International Chess Masters Finals held in Taiwan. It was just that…Amy had sacrificed her after-school time for a week to make this party as simple and grand as she could, even to Ian's eyes. But now, to think that he was not coming at all, with him not even giving her his tiniest trust of telling her what was wrong…
Amy had to call her other invited Cahill cousins not to come anymore. She had to call the McDonalds to cancel her simple party reservations. She had to cancel this party, her hopes being crushed for she had lost the chance of seeing Ian again after two months of being away from each other.
Pfft, she thought. She roughly wiped her tears of perfidy from her eyes with the heel of her hand. This is not about seeing Ian. If he cancels on me, then why should I care?
"Ammess!" Nellie enunciated every letter of Amy's nickname, just to get her attention. "Come down here, there was a knock on the door!" For a second, Amy wondered why Nellie couldn't be the one to get to the door, but when she came downstairs, she saw that a light was on in the comfort room. Huh. Amy walked over to the door, and opened it, to see a pink box tied with a ribbon on the porch.
Filled with hurt, Amy kicked the box in anger, and went inside the house, up to her room, crying in her arms, which she had used to cover her face…so that Nellie wouldn't hear her cries of anguish. There was no doubt that the gift had come from Ian.
But Ian was a Kabra through and through—why didn't she expect this to happen? He will never change…he will never stop breaking her heart each time she tried to come near him. Nothing was supposed to be expected from him…but hurt.
She picked up her phone, and dialed some numbers. "Hello, Jake? No, no, I wasn't crying, that was the radio…yes, I am so glad I heard your voice."
"Miss Cahill?" said the driver to his passenger. "Your phone is ringing."
Amy fished her phone out of her pocket. "Hello?"
"Ames." It was Jonah, but his famous singing voice didn't sound the same. There was the same despondency as there was in hers, as if he'd been sniffling a while ago. "Come quickly. Ian…he…he is…" Jonah choked on his words, especially when he said Ian's name. That same name that had been hated for years. Detested, even before his side was justified. Feared, as it reached ears. Unloved, after his cruel past was made known to others.
"Ian is…crying here," Hamilton's voice took over, which meant that Jonah couldn't take it anymore. "We think he wants to see you now."
Mum—Isabel—had drowned us, her children, in the concept of rivalry. She made us believe that we were the greatest, that we were born as rulers, that we had to look at every person as an enemy, as a threat to our own greatness. We were taught that the superior should control over the inferior—well, did the leopard commit a mortal sin if he killed the antelope? The frog if he ate the mosquito? The bear if he hunted for the fish?
Was the snake sinful if he suffocated the cattle?
We were taught that people were mere cattle. That had made it easy for us to kill, to think that we were not committing sin, to think that everything we did wasn't evil—we were superior, and superiors rule over the inferior.
No one knew what it was like to live up in a family like that. No one was supposed to judge me by the family name I have lived by. No one had the right to say that I was evil. Because what do they know of darkness? What do they know of the choking blackness of void? What do they know of isolation?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
"Amy?" Dan inched closer to Amy, and touched her shoulder. It was probably the first word spoken after hours of being in the car, in the middle of this rainy weather. He had heard the conversation she had with someone over the phone, and she had hung up, looking even more miserable.
"I want to hold his hand," Amy said, fresh tears welling up her battered eyes, her lips quivering as she uttered her sentence. She was still looking out the window, but now, thankfully, the vehicle was moving faster toward their destination, having escaped the traffic. "It feels so cold without him here."
Dan looked down at the floor. Then, awkwardly as it was, he reached for his sister's freezing hand from fiddling with the button of her dress. And then he started to hum—something as disgusting as that, he would be willing to sacrifice if it meant to decrease Amy's misery a little bit.
Amy rested her head onto his shoulder, closed her eyes, with the ghost of a smile scintillating in her lips.
Everyone knew that this song was the song that Ian had sung to Amy, that day when he had knelt in front of her with a silver chain necklace in a red velvet box.
No one had understood the battle I have had with my own living conscience. I had argued with myself, that the way our Kabra family sought for power was wrong. Killing people was wrong. So did that mean that what our perfect Mum had thought us was wrong? Having a living, breathing conscience was such a nuisance.
Especially if the one who had breathed life in my own conscience was Amy Cahill.
Time passed by. I soon realized that people thought of my name purely as evil's synonym, someone who doesn't have any conscience. But I didn't believe them. Amy Cahill was the first person who had not judged me by the family from where I belonged. Although sometimes the evidences would falter, she had the trust, the hope, the faith, thinking that I had the chance to change.
Her love was the reason I tried to change.
I tried.
"Amy?" Nellie started, as the three of them—Dan, Amy, and the au pair—sat on their small table, eating cream soup for dinner. "There was a pink gift box in the porch. I was kinda hoping it was for me—but it says it was for you, kiddo. From Ian." She looked at her Cahill kiddo. "Aren't you going to try that couture dress on? At least, even if he canceled on your invitation for his surprise party…he was able to make up for it."
But I can't.
I remained to be untrusted, even in the midst of helping the Cahills, the Madrigals, in eradicating the dust of the Vespers from existence. But still…they had all suspected that I was the hidden Vesper mole—because it had fit me quite as perfectly. I was ruthless. I was vain. I was a perfect reflection of a Vesper.
But, as I looked at her, I know that all of those were wrong. I was able to convince myself that I am not as…wicked. Isabel was coldhearted—she never felt anything. And the Vespers? They were heartless. But I know that I am not. I was able to feel, I was able to discern the right and the wrong. I can feel hurt. I can feel angry. I can love, like the human with a beating heart that my parents hadn't taught me to become. I knew this because someone had stolen it, and I found it to be such a pathetic nuisance.
Amy.
It was their first date. Amy couldn't think of something to wear as she was shuffling through her cabinet of 'horridly horrid' clothes—it was what Natalie had called them once and Amy had been brutally offended by the comment, but right now Amy's frustration was agreeing with Natalie. Her clothes were horridly horrid. She threw every hanger down onto her bed, but then, as she dug deeper, she found the couture dress that Ian had bought her.
It hurt her to see it there. But it was beautiful, and she put it on, even though it broke her heart that she was going to wear Ian's present on a date with Jake.
It was only weird that she can't stop thinking about him while Jake babbled on as he drove her to a fancy restaurant. There was…
…something about her. It would have been a normal thing for me to cancel on parties, but that day I had called her to say that I couldn't come to America after all…it took me days to practice how I was going to say it to her. I was extremely elated when I had received an invitation, so I would give anything to see the only light in my life. Having been given the chance to see Amy again was the most joy I had ever felt ever since…ever since the Vespers took Natalie's life.
My sister.
There had been a hole of emptiness inside of me. Her…her passing had left me with sadness I wasn't able to expunge, with anger burning like a fire of a thousand suns against those people who had taken the only family I have.
But that day of Natalie's cremation…Amy had been the only one to fill the hole of sadness of my heart with her hope. Faith.
Love.
She made me believe that I am still part of a family. That moment had lasted for a minute…a mere, single minute, but a minute of infinity. That minute had given me hope…that perhaps, there was still something more in our little…'friendship'. I had always thought that there was 'something' between us, ever since…the Clue hunt was initiated. But Jake had come to interrupt our pity party, escorting Amy to a coffin, housing Evan, her boyfriend.
As I watched her walk away with Rosenbloom and walk towards Evan…I felt like I was an outcast in her life, that I'd always just be small part of Amy's life. It was as if she was a bright, unreachable star, with me merely being an asteroid miles and miles away from her.
And then, when she left me, I felt alone, with no family at all.
Maybe I was wrong all along, holding on to something that never existed.
But maybe not.
"Madam Amy, young master Dan?" the driver turned to the two of them, to reveal that he was Giles—Ian and Natalie's former driver. "We've reached our destination."
Amy and Dan nodded at each other, and their car door was opened as Giles escorted them to the church with an umbrella, siblings still holding each other hand-in-hand.
She loved him.
And she had been too dumb to notice that there was something about him.
Amy slammed the door in front of the butler's face as he finished his explanation. He had just come home from London, wet from Boston's crying clouds, and he had just barged into their residence without warning. Amy had been confused as to why he was here, but she welcomed Bickerduff, Ian's butler, nonetheless. But then, when she jokingly coughed up the subject as to why Ian had canceled on her party three months ago, Bickerduff's face turned somber as he brought the news.
"Master Ian hadn't been able to come at the time because…he had needed medication. He was tormented by the thought of not coming to America to attend to your party, Miss Cahill, he had been utterly unsure of even coming or not. But the physical pain he was experiencing had taken over him."
Amy listened, her brows furrowed in confusion. What was he saying? Was the butler even making sense?
"Master Ian did not want me to inform anyone of this. But…my Master is all alone there, so I acted myself. They told me to gather Ian's relatives, but I know not of any, except for you, Miss Cahill." He took a deep breath, a shaking in his voice was evident as the butler's old eyes glistening with tears. "They have only given Master Ian a month."
They? Amy thought. They, they who? Then, Bickerduff said, "They—the doctors."
Oh, Amy realized. The doctors. So the 'they' were the doctors.
The doctors.
The doctors had given him that span of time.
One month.
It took a long time for Amy to register that fact, until it suddenly came to her.
Stupid Ian! Why didn't you tell me? What happened to you? Why do you always like to keep it to yourself? She was angry with him. She was angry, angry, angry with him—she cried in her pillow, her tears endless, her tears overflowing.
Oh, Ian, why didn't you tell me earlier?
It was a wake-up call from fate. All this time, Amy had ignored the fact that time might have passed them by, she had been through Evan Tolliver but he died, she had been through Jake Rosenbloom but his love for her had died just as well, only to live again for another girl—but Ian had stayed stuck in her mind. She had never realized why, why ever, why still…but up until now that she heard the news, she realized it was one thing.
It was love.
It had started a long time ago when we first met at age seven. It was a mere little crush once upon a time, but right now, if that affectionate—although confusing and utterly bothersome—feeling still prevails, is it still called something like a childish crush?
Fourteen years is an obnoxiously long time to keep something like that. I had been hopelessly, helplessly, captivated under the jades of her sunny green eyes, her smile, her cascading auburn hair (albeit usually tattered), with those wrinkled pieces of rags she plastered over herself as incredibly unbelievable excuses of clothing. I didn't know why, why ever, why still—I have seen Amy happy with Evan, with Jake—and I had even been happy with Cara Pierce, being the only being in the world who perfectly understood how I felt with everything. But still, through all those, that inextinguishable old flame prevailed, and it remained to provide the heat inside my heart with the fire of a thousand suns.
It wasn't anger I felt. It was love.
Time had passed. And when the door to my hospital room opened, I saw—
—him there. He was lying on his hospital bed, weak, pale, with dozens of catheters and needles pinned into his body. He was in pain. He was alone. Seeing him like that made Amy's eyes well up with tears for the thirty-ninth time of the day. And it was all his fault why she felt like this. Stupid Ian.
Why didn't you tell me this before?
Amy walked forward to him, and Ian looked up to her, but was barely able to. The slightest move made pain shoot through his body, but right now, his thoughts was a chaos.
"Amy, what are you doing here?"
Amy just walked, her eyes still looking angry, eyes looking helplessly flooded.
"No, it—I—you don't understand—" He was stuttering. But the pain inside his body was hindering him from thinking straight. He flinched when a headache burst inside his head.
"I can explain why I had declined all your offers of me going to America—"
He shut up when Amy suddenly kissed him on the cheek, stroking his dark hair back.
"You're going to fight this leukemia," she told him gently, tears flowing out her green eyes. "You're not alone."
It was just then that Ian noticed the others. "We're right behind you," Hamilton smiled.
"Show us how you fly it, bro," Jonah patted Ian on the head.
"And, kiddo, if you think you're going through this tough road along, you're nuts."
Dan, Sinead, Fiske, and Bickerduff nodded.
Ian flashed a mischievous smirk, unburdening the heavy atmosphere. "You all have always been a worried bunch. I'm going to be fine."
"Miss Cahill," Bickerduff started, when he saw Amy coming toward the interment. Amy gave him a stern look that said, you can call me by my name, Bickerduff. "Um…yes, Miss Ca—Amy. Everyone has been waiting for you. You were the only thing Master Ian was waiting for."
Amy followed Bickerduff. Everyone she had passed by—they all wore black, for this was a solemn day—and until she reached her destination. A destination where Ian lied in his casket. He was wearing a black tuxedo with a black tie, and black slacks. His hair was perfectly made, as usual, his cinnamon skin perfectly mingling with his…amber eyes. His amber eyes which had now been opened, but right now, they are closed.
They will never open again.
Amy's eyes overflowed with tears, and she practically flung herself over at him. She hugged him tight, for she knew that this would be the last time that she would see him. The last time she could touch him. She got his hand and interlaced it with hers, with her other hand gently lifting his head up to rest it on her shoulder. For minutes she cried, cradling him, as if rocking him to sleep. She tried to hum the same song that he had once hummed for her to him, but her voice would never come out straight as she was shook by her uncontrollable, unstoppable sobs. She didn't care if four hundred of Ian's relatives and acquaintances were around her—most of them were Ian's study group, or his business coworkers, his classmates, his housemaids, and then the Cahills. The Cahills stayed quiet around Amy, shedding a tear or two as they watched the Amy and Ian hug each other, hold each other, as if they could just be like that for eternity, never parted, never separated…
Never alone.
There was single dew of Amy's tear on Ian's cheek, as if he had shed the tear himself.
Amy buried herself in his shoulder—and as she did, she realized that it was a perfect fit. It had always been a perfect fit. Her sobs eventually quieted into sniffles. Bickerduff told her, "Amy…please start the reading."
Amy opened the letter she was holding in her shaking hand. Bickerduff had told her that the content of this paper had come from Ian's diary. Amy reached for Ian's hand as she started to read—
"I was always hated. I understand if no one will be visiting my committal. I understand if you detest me. I understand if you don't trust me, if you think that all you are currently listening to are mere lies. I understand if you are happy with what had happened to me. I understand." Amy looked at everyone else in the room, squeezing Ian's hand in hers.
His hand that, even in death, seemed to warm the coldness inside of her.
Amy smiled, tears once again conquering her eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if he knew that his name was the only thing stuck in my head."
"I was too dumb to notice that there's something about you. What am I supposed to do if I'm still stuck on you?"
-Darren Espanto
"I'd love your constructive criticisms! No one is a good enough writer—every writer has his/her own mistakes."
~Rival
~~till my next story! [aka…coming soon. But you know what to expect from a tragedy writer from moi]~~
PS.: Wish me luck for the Book Talk Contest in our library…guess what book I was going to compete with? Rick Riordan's The Maze of Bones! With that book, I'm SURE I'm going to strike my listeners' hearts, and there'll be more 39C fans in this world. 3 3 Wish me luck!
Waaahhh…I'm rambling…too much A/N…