Title: Bastantes
Genre: Drama/Romance/Angst (Slash)
Rating: R
Summary: Red finds Andy, thus reciprocating the esteemed gift upon which Andy granted him: one of hope, friendship, and love. And it's enough. (Slash)
Disclaimer: I don't own a god damned thing. The lines in italics are stolen directly from the screenplay, as written by Frank Darabont. Everything else belongs to Stephen King I suppose, with a bit of leeway thrown in for all the folks at Castle Rock and Columbia that contributed to the film adaptation. Unlike Red, I ain't making no 20 percent, and this is for entertainment purposes only.
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Andy isn't dead. But I'm going to kill him. Damned fool nearly gave me a heart attack, that's what he did.
Turns out, Andy wasn't planning on killing himself. What he was planning was the most elaborate, extravagant, ingenious escape in the history of Shawshank Prison, if not everywhere. It ranks right up there with the one in that book he made me read. Monte Cristo.
I'm damn proud of him.
But I'm still going kill him.
Red felt his eyes burn as he turned through the pages of the journal he'd tried to keep during his stay at Shawshank Prison. He felt angry with himself as he wiped at his tears, but he also recognized that this was something that he had to do. To actually go back, revisit those dark days, and then close the book, so to speak. The journal itself was nothing special. Just a dime store notebook, something a child might do arithmetic equations in. But in Shawshank, it had been one of the things that had kept him going. There were huge periods of time that the battered old book didn't mention, particularly in the beginning. The first entry was dated December, 1928, and the words were scrawled over the page in a messy script, one that was filled with an obvious anger that the simple words couldn't have conveyed on their own. He'd never been much good with words. As he'd aged, his spelling and vocabulary had improved, and he could see Andy's influence all over the later pages. The dates appeared more frequently near the end of the journal, where he appeared to be more at peace, at least on paper that is. He'd stopped altogether after the last one dated in 1966, over one year ago almost to the day. The entries themselves were usually brief, written only to serve as reminders of what emotion he'd been feeling at that particular moment: an attempt to never forget. He ran one worn finger over a crease in the last page. The last entry had been made the day Andy had escaped from Shawshank. Red hadn't felt the need to record any thoughts after Andy had left. As far as he was concerned, there hadn't been much worth recording.
Because he'd felt better. The anxiety and the pressure that built up inside him had dissipated, and all because Andy had proven something to him that he'd never thought possible, and in turn, had given him back something that he'd thought lost forever: hope.
And now it was over. No more bars, no more stone, no more steel.
No more snow.
Red smiled as he gazed out into the wide blue pacific, nothing but water in sight for miles and miles. It was ok to cry. It was also ok to forget. Andy had once said that the ocean had no memory. Red was pretty god damned certain of it now that he could see it. He remembered thinking that something so big would scare him, but looking out into its sparkly depths gave him a sense of peace. This was home. There was no need to go running back to the routine and institutionalization of the American correctional institution. It was amazing what a simple week could do to change ones perspective on the entire world. Red sat on the soft white sand, and felt his heart lighten. Today would be a good day, he was certain of it. He bent down and unlaced the cheap leather shoes that had worn blisters into his old feet, grateful to finally be able to remove them. He was just as grateful to be rid of the trouser socks that had bunched uncomfortably around his ankles in a sweaty, smelly mass. The feel of the hot sand between his toes was liberating and refreshing, even if it did sting a bit. He rolled up the legs of his trousers carefully, his methodical movements ingrained into his conscience. He chuckled to himself, well aware of the fact that for once in his life he would not be graded on this task. Shaking his head, he gathered up his meager possessions and returned to his slow, wandering course down the beach.
He had a hotel proprietor to find
xxxx
To be continued…