**Slightly AU** This is an epilogue to the book "Struck By lightning" in which Carson Phillips survives the lightning strike, with just being stunned rather than being killed. Also, what if, perhaps, his mother hadn't destroyed all of his hopes and dreams and his letter from northwestern?
** This is also set several years after the events in the book.**
It's been years since I stepped foot in that dingy little place called Clover. Years since I've dirtied my shoes in their dirt. Years since I damaged my lungs with their compressed suffocating air. I can't even remember the town much, only the fact that it smothered me and my greatness within its city limits. I also remember that in that wonderful little piece of crap of a town, I nearly lost my life.
Not that anybody cared much anyway.
Aside from that and all the bullshit I dealt with during my time there, I regret not taking the time to visit there once in a great while, if only to rub their residents' noses in my success as an expert journalist. And also my success at leaving this god forsaken place far behind. Not a lot of people from Clover can say that, and I'm sure as hell proud that I can. I have a different life now. Not different as in my career, but as in family. But more of that later, as I was saying, I am now employed at my ideal job- as a journalist. But not just any journalist, I might add.
The journalist. The editor for the New Yorker.
Maybe I should explain myself a little more. Maybe not, but i'm going to anyways. After the lightning ran itself through my body and I was left there stunned and barely breathing for a fucking day before anyone bothered to search for me, I looked for my way out of Clover before it tried to kill me again. After a week and a half of recovering, I finally found my it, the letter.
My Life.
Strangely, though, because I did not find it in the mailbox, but rather, my mother's drug compartment. I was looking for an aspirin to ease my relentless headache that ran through my head and down to my toes like the lightning that caused it when the letter just stumbled out right into my hands after being stuffed in an already full pill compartment. The letter and some other various drugs or "perscriptions" my mother keeps in her stash of pills from Dr. Dealer. Feeling the headache slightly crease when I saw the sender of the letter, I immediately tried to rip it open, but that didn't work since my drug addict of a mom had already opened it.
How nice of her.
How nice to hide her son's letter from his dream college and gateway to rest of his life and go ahead and read it herself while still hiding it even after he almost died. Anyway, after I read it, and read again, and read it just one more time to be sure my mind wasn't fucking with me, I confronted her about it. Contrary to the at least small half-hearted apology I expected-or hoped rather, all I got was the speech on how she did it for my own good and how I should never dream because I will always be stuck there.
Nevertheless, I found my letter, and sent in the confirmation. After that it was some of the best years of my young life. During my stay at college, I took a few internships here and there since I didn't really have a social life to occupy my extra time aside from writing to Malerie. The core classes at Northwestern University I went through with ease all while keeping in touch with my best friend.
Ah Malerie, my only friend from the friendless place I came to resent. She would always brighten my day with her stories she would write. That's right, her own stories.
Anyway, fresh out of college, I went straight for my dreams. I started as a secretary for the New Yorker and gradually worked my way up. Which, brings me to where I am now, the youngest editor of the renown New Yorker magazine. Also, you may notice that I cleaned up my writing a little bit more, as I don't curse in my work as I used to.
So here is where my story really begins.
The day starting out as any other, with me waking up and happily going to work. While on the elevator to the top floor of my workplace with several other people, I happened to meet the most stunning woman I've ever seen. Golden corkscrew curls cascaded down her back as she silently waited with me while everyone else seemingly disappeared. Even with her back turned, I somehow figured she knew I was captivated by her. And you know what, I knew she savored every second of it.
Once again, lightning had struck me.
My self-induced trance met its end when I heard the infamous 'ding' from the elevator. And with that, she left me with myself to contemplate. After a few more stops, I finally found my way out and resumed to my task as the editor of the magazine firm. It was so fulfilling to write something and know at least one living person will lay eyes on it. As I became engrossed in my work, I eventually forgot everything about her-that is, until it was closing time and I headed right back in that damn elevator.
The minute I casually strode in like the big shot I believed myself to be, her eyes that resembled twin oceanic hurricanes met my now seemingly dull ones. Rather than return her inviting gaze, I quickly set my eyes to the red carpet of the elevator. I could feel her smile, amused that she deflated my ego so quickly.
I blame my mother for that. She never gave me a high self-esteem let alone advice on women. On the same note, I also blame my absent father for just not giving a shit about us. After being so overlooked in college and completely ignored and deemed an outcast during high school I decided the least I could do to try was meet her eyes with mine, and I did.
After that, looking at her was more a pleasure than an obligation. And I felt my ego slowly inflating each time we encountered one another on that stupid elevator. Gradually words and super cheesy small town pick up lines tried to come out of my stupid lips, but when they actually did break loose, I much preferred the kind of awkward silence to the even more hideously awkward conversations that soon followed afterwards.
However, she didn't care. My awkwardness and pathetic attempts to charm her were apparently working. Over time one thing led to the next, and here I am, in my luxurious apartment with a six month old daughter asleep on my chest and a three-year old son curled beside me sleeping as well. Only, something is missing. The note on the kitchen counter explained what it needed to. She was gone. She wanted better. I wasn't good enough. We never married, with me seeing just how well a marriage can hold two people together by looking back at the crumbled one of my parents. To my surprise she readily agreed, and now looking back I know why.
She knew right from the start that she wouldn't spend her life with me, so why deal with marriage complications? I wasn't enough for her, but I was even more surprised that our children weren't. She wanted more. The editor of the New Yorker just couldn't cut it. I don't even know who she went off with, where she is at now, or how she's doing. It doesn't really matter does it? It seemed like just when I had been at my happiest with a complete family, life just struck me like it usually did but this time taking something away permanently.
I was feeling so alone, so I called my mother, and promptly filled her in on the latest details of my life. At first, she was angry at me for not calling her before and not telling her she had grandchildren before this. However, after a little argument we had between something I can't even remember anymore, the old witch actually spit some comforting words through the phone.
"Whatever you do, don't end up beaten down and defeated like me Carson, it's not worth it."
Right then I realized how similar our lives had been. My father left my mother and I, and my so-called love of my life deserted me as well. My life was almost mirroring hers now, and it scared me. However, I did take my mother's advice. I strictly decided not to dive into alcohol and medications, and instead resolved to being the best father I could.
I also wrote to Malerie about this. I always write to her because I know her phone is never on, so "I can't hear the sound of my phone not ringing" she tells me. The first paragraph of the letter consisted of her repeatedly calling the one who left me a bitch. Needless to say, I enjoyed it very much. She also offered to come stay with me and my kids for a while. During my time of reading her letter and missing her more than usual, I accepted. Malerie will probably be here in a few days, and I do now live a long way from Clover. She promises to bring her stories along with her, in which I planned to have her read them to my son. My daughter doesn't really care for stories, she prefers peace and quiet when trying to fall asleep.
So, this is my life. A little lonely now, as it is, but still mine. Plus, I have two here with me for company, but I really don't think I'm that interesting to them.