He doesn't know how long he's stared at the gilded frame, seconds, minutes, hours, or perhaps days. Tomorrow will make twenty years. Time just blends into one mutlicolored blur. He knows it's time to go. Flash is probably pacing a hole into the hangar deck, but every time he tries to walk away, the round face stares at him, freezing him in place.
The teeth flash a radiant white that always brightened his mood. Even after getting a terrific whuppin' from Aunt Loretta for not turning in his homework, that smile seemed to ease the discomfort. Today, however, that smile causes him to shudder.
Fifteen year olds do the things fifteen year olds do: talk on the phone, read comics, play video games, take joyrides in their parents' car. He grimly smiles as he recollects the thrill of taking Aunt Loretta's car and pretending to be a big pimp while his brother Damon rode shotgun. Fifteen is supposed to be the age when the real joyride begins, not ends.
The deep chocolate eyes still glow with the joy and hope of dreams to be fulfilled. He remembers the backyard birthday party and how those eyes nearly popped out when the wrapping pulled back to reveal the Black figurine. He had saved all his money from his allowance and other odd jobs to make the purchase. He couldn't tell whose eyes glistened more: his or the ones that now remind him of how quickly dreams turn into nightmares.
He puts his hands to his ears as the sickening shriek of straining brake pads yell into his memory. He wraps his arms around his torso while reliving the crushing impact. His shoulders roll in remembrance of the seat belt locking him in place. The right arms reflexively thrusts as if holding Damon in place. "Hang on!" Without thought, his head whirls to look behind him as if to make sure the other occupant in the back seat is okay as well.
He picks up the portrait of Aunt Loretta's "Lil' Angel." His eyes close as he hears his aunt screaming, "Lil' Angel! John how could you have taken my Lil' Angel? My Lil' Angel!" Even now he whispers like on that fateful day, "I didn't mean to, Aunty. I didn't mean to." His fingers gently trace the outline of the flawless features frozen in time. The perfect smile snuffed out in the rear seat now beams at him from a glass tomb.
He returns the frame back on the desk. He touches his comlink to let Flash know he's on the way. Flash agrees to drive but is puzzled why they don't take the Lantern express. He softly tells his young friend that he doesn't feel like driving.
As he makes his way to the door, he pauses to smell the single green flower in a small vase on the nighstand. Twenty years ago another flower lost all its petals in one horrible accident. His hand flexes as he feels the sharp prick from its stem. He loses himself in the sweet fragrance while hoping to lose himself in the liquid refreshment he and his teammate are about to enjoy.
Shakespeare was wrong. A sister by any other name wouldn't nearly be as sweet.