A/N - Warning: Profanity and character death. Please review!
He got the phone call at five a.m. Only an hour and a half before his alarm was supposed to go off, but it felt so much earlier. Gordie picked up anyway, figuring that pre-dawn phone calls usually were either emergencies or prank calls. He didn't have the energy to pray for the latter.
They told him straight away, without any padding or softening the blow. His father had had a stroke. He was in the hospital, hooked up to a bunch of machines. It was unlikely that he'd last another three hours.
Gordie inhaled deeply. It wasn't so unexpected, he decided. His father had been in poor health for nearly a decade, and it had only been a matter of time. His wife was visiting her parents with their son, and so he threw on his shoes and shirt and climbed into his car. There was no one to notify, after all.
During the drive, he recounted his mother's death. He'd been in eleventh grade, having a peaceful time at school for the first time in his life. Then, his father picked him up from school. He'd never done it before, and Chris and he'd had a good laugh about it before they discovered the reason. Then it had been hell. Absolutely no one left to stand as a wall between he and his father. No one to give Gordie hugs when he did well in math, or to make sure somebody besides Chris read his stories. Even with Chris's arm around his shoulder, he had never felt so alone in his life.
He arrived at the hospital then, preventing his thoughts from venturing anymore onto the subject of Chris. Chris. He'd died only six months ago; it didn't seem fair that Gordie should lose someone else so quickly.
"Mr. Lachance?" A nurse said.
"Yeah," Gordie replied sullenly, picking up his hand slightly.
"Come this way, honey," she said, patting him on the back, "He's right in here. You let us know if you need anything?"
Gordie nodded. "Um, yeah, thanks." He felt so completely claustrophobic beside all of the uniformed doctors and nurses. He waited until he heard the click of the door to look up at the bed.
Regardless of his animosity for his father, the sight of him in the hospital bed knocked the wind from Gordie's chest. He just looked so small. Pale too, which had never been the case while he was alive. He had always towered over Gordie, bearing frowning lips and flushed cheeks. Now he was practically a ghost.
Gordie advanced slowly, gulping with every step he took. He felt like he was supposed to say something, but had no idea what.
"Hey Dad…" He began at last, allowing his voice to drift in tone and volume. "My book made it to the best seller's list… last week actually, but I don't think I told you yet." He cleared his throat. "Did you… did you know? It's – It's an autobiography, so you're in it Dad. Did I tell you that?" His face turned crimson, despite being alone in the room. He felt so incredibly incompetent.
Then something happened to him. Perhaps it was the revelation that he was in fact alone with his father, or the stunning knowledge that he finally held a sickening sort of power over him. Either way, something inside Gordie snapped. He suddenly had an overwhelming desire for his father to read the book.
His voice rose. "I told the story of my friends, Dad. Of Chris and," he paused, smiling to himself, "and Teddy and Vern." A year ago he would not have remembered their names.
He began to stroll around the room, playing with the frame and the window shade. "I talked about Denny too, a little." He stopped speaking again, his nostrils flaring in abrupt anger. Denny. True, it had started long before his death, but that had been Gordie's bitter realization.
He laughed humorlessly, the sound clashing with the hum of the machines. "You know Dad, for a while I pretended," he drummed his fingers against the walls. "I told myself that you loved us the same, but that Denny was just more similar to you. But then –" he broke off, shaking his head in frustration, "Dad, you hated everything about me didn't you? My friends, my talents. You didn't even want me to be your son." Gordie faltered, overwhelmed by what he was doing.
"I guess it's too bad for you, huh?" he said, folding his arms, "Stuck in that bed like that. You can't even tell me off for speaking back to you." He spat onto the ground. "Well, it's about time Dad!" His foot slammed into the white plaster. "I'm so fucking sick of this. You didn't even read any of my books. A million people telling me I'm doing a good thing, and your still telling me I'm worthless." His shouts diminished into emphatic whispers, and he soon grew silent, glaring into his father's blank face.
"You know what, there's so much more I want to say to you." He clenched his jaw, fighting back the attack of emotions. "But not even you deserve that. As much as you may have hated me, I'm still your son. And you can't get rid of me just yet." He would have smiled, but then another thought crept through his mind. The proposed levity dropped from the room.
"I guess Chris was right," Gordie said softly, "You don't know me at all." His breath caught in his throat, as one of the machines slowed to a silent halt. A million screams raced across his agonized thoughts, willing him to turn back time. To make anything, anything, else the last sound his father heard.
"I didn't mean it like that Dad," Gordie said bitterly, gripping his father's hand roughly. "I – I still –" he cut off, unable to deliver the sentiment of love. It was this more than anything that finished him. He broke, sobbing into the hospital mattress until a doctor came in to take his father's body away. Saying all those thing, all those things he had dreamt of saying, it didn't feel so good after all.