He was torn. Huddled in the corner of his room. Unresponsive.
I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
He didn't mean it; he was brash, headstrong, irrational, but he never meant to do it. He wasn't a monster. He promised himself he would never become the wolf, never. No rage, no burning, no lack of clear sight-nothing. Nothing would ever consume him enough to turn into Hyde, into a hellion. Especially not against her. Because he promised. Because he refused to parallel the man who almost became his mother's new husband. Because he promised.
She knocked. Once. Twice. Pause. Once more. A tongue of another language. A soothing voice, resounding in the room, in his ears, in his heart. He shifted slightly, but the door remained as it was-closed. Another voice. Now, unison. A harmony of concerned crescendos and patient beats. He was ashamed. The cadence.
Silence.
She waits by his door as the day drags along. She waits. She does not tire. His mother tries to convince her to rest, she refuses. Her eyes are set at the doorknob. Waiting. A sign of motion from the cold metal is what she needs. A sign guaranteeing he hasn't done anything drastic, though she knows deep inside he wouldn't dare. Not after what happened.
Two fingers make their way to her temple, to her jaw's side, to her ear, to the space with the sting, the location where his hand connected with her face. She felt a different type of pain. The pain of knowing the one you love has lost love for himself. The pain of knowing your helplessness, your uselessness in the situation.
Because one never receives help if one refuses to accept it.
"Take care of your mother for me, okay?" Crying. "Tye, promise me, okay?" Pleading. "Son, I'm trying. I'm trying very hard." Childish threats. "I'm trying, Tye, but you need to promise me if... if I can't..." 'You promised's and 'You said's. "I know, I remember," 'Then why's. "Because-" Coughing. Blood. "C-call the n-nurse," Heaving. Alarms.'We're losing him!'s. Orders. Tubes. 'CLEAR!'s. 'Get the boy out of here's. Shoving. Crying. Crying. Crying.
"I promise."
She saddens. She had asked questions. Emotionally charged, physically drained. Tension. Heightened awareness. Fire. A whiplash of spoken sharp knives. A flash of pain, redirected at the last second. A crater in the wall.
Fear. Not from her; from him. Fear in his eyes. Fear in his movements. Fear in his trembling voice as he apologizes. Again. And again. And again.
Her breathing steadies and slows. Slumber wins the war, and she slumps by his door.
Shelly returns with a blanket and pillows. She knows all too well the toll of the waiting war. Her son was a guardian, surely, but he ran instead of charged.
He remembers the first time.
An 11-year-old boy. A large, burly, scar-faced man. A mother with a soft voice and a softer heart. A jar breaks. The man yells. The boy is confused. He doesn't understand why the volume of the room has risen, accustomed to cheerful dinners and smiles at the table. The brute raises his fist. The boy's mother sits across the man, and in his sights. The boy is wide-eyed. There is no wonder. There is only distress. The mother trembles. The man returns to his food. For him, nothing has changed. For the family, fear has been introduced.
The tears he didn't know he was holding fall. He breaks down. He knows he has been robbed of the family he could have had. Of tenderness.
Of a father.
She wakes up when the doorknob turns. He exits; eyes bloodshot, hair disheveled. Her blanket falls as she gets up to embrace him. He accepts it. Then, falls to the ground. He's crying again. Sobbing. Wailing. He whispers more apologies. More words of love. More promises.
She holds him.
They're in the backyard. Stars dot the night sky, shimmering. His head is in her lap. They are in the silence of familiarity. Until he speaks.
Low, cracked-his brokenness is evident. He hides nothing. She hangs on to his words. Father. Maurice. I'm sorry.
She shushes him, blaming herself. He sits up, incredulous. I hurt you. That's never your fault. She stares. A beat. Two. A moment of understanding. Pity on her face. Remorse on his. He reaches for the ghost of the mark. She doesn't recoil. His eyes send one last plea of forgiveness, needlessly. A message of gratitude follows. The hole in his heart begins to close.
The healing begins.