AN: Perhaps I am a bad person. Because this is the third time I've posted random Lost Boys fic when people were expecting updates to one of my other stories.
Sorry, guys.
This is the first time I've written Lucy Emerson, and I was surprised to discover I felt this way about her. I've always thought she was a pretty good character. Apparently, though, my subconscious doesn't think much of her as a mother.
It's nights like these, when the wind howls and bangs branches against the house and tears about like some great beast that's just been unleashed from long imprisonment, that I find myself shivering. It's not from the cold, although you could hardly call the weather 'nice' and, since the storms usually come around September, it is cold. It's more from some darkened memory, some foreboding with its roots hidden deep in my mind.
The wind frightens me more than I care to let on. I know it upsets the boys, although they do a better job than I of hiding it. There's really no reason to be scared anymore, I know that. But still, some part of me likes to whisper that I'm wrong. That our happy family is nothing more than a sham, a pretence hiding the darkness festering underneath. Perhaps it's just because I didn't notice, didn't become part of the nightmare until it was almost over, that I now find myself unable to let it go?
Because I didn't know. Maybe I didn't let myself. I didn't see what was going on until it was right there, right in front of my eyes, undeniable and real and – and, well, frightening! To someone who's always harboured a secret fear of the closet monster, this was something ripped straight out of a nightmare.
And my boys. Oh, my boys. I should have known something was wrong. Should have pushed a little. But I was so scared! Scared of pushing them too far. Scared of losing them, especially Michael. Oh, Michael. I should have – so many things I should have done. But I was so afraid of hurting him, so afraid of losing him. It was so soon after the divorce, and I knew – know – that lots of kids respond to divorce by acting out and –
Oh, but not my sons!
It just didn't make sense. My sons – they've always been such good boys. But I thought – oh, I don't even know what I thought. Perhaps I was too wrapped up in myself. Yes, I'd say that was almost definitely it. If I hadn't been on the rebound with Max, there's no way I would have missed what was going on right under my own nose. Somehow, I just assumed that everything would be fine. That I was the only one with problems.
I was so selfish.
Dad's tried to tell me otherwise. That I can't blame myself. That I wasn't wrong to want a life of my own. That we were all turned upside down by Lance's sudden departure. That I'd given all I could. That it wasn't my fault.
Not my fault. That's quite a joke.
And now, the wind howls and the house creaks and the lights flicker and Sam pulls out those awful comics again and Michael holds that nice girl tight enough that it must hurt, mustn't it, but she doesn't make a sound, just holds him tighter, and I wish I had someone to hold as well. Maybe it wasn't so wrong of me. Maybe – but maybe if I had just pulled my head out of the sand for a moment, we wouldn't be here, wouldn't be starting at shadows.
And how I hate feeling like I've failed them. All I wanted – all I really wanted – was just to be the best mother I could be. But when my boys needed me, really needed me, I let them down. I wasn't there.
I wasn't there for them.
How could I have let myself be flattered into neglecting my boys? And especially when that flattery was directed at how I had raised them! I can't believe it! I just can't believe it!
"Boys need a mother..."
Of course they do! And mine needed me.
It's nights like these, nights when I sit and wind myself up into a little ball of shame and anger, nights when I imagine how it all might have gone had I noticed what was going on, had I paid more attention to my sons, had I not been so selfish, that I sometimes stop and wonder – might it have been worse?
Yes, perhaps I was too selfish. But if I hadn't been out that night with Max, hadn't made him bring me home, what might have happened? What might have happened to my boys? Maybe I would have been able to help out, but not much. And would I have even believed them if they'd told me, if Sam had told me his suspicions, if Michael had confessed what was happening to him?
But I know the answer to that, don't I? Sam came to me the day it all blew up, and I only got angry with him. I didn't believe a word of it, didn't even let it bother me much until later. So perhaps it did all work out for the best.
But I can't help feeling guilty.
Because I wasn't there. But also, because maybe, if I had been there, it wouldn't have made a difference.
There. It's said. My real fear, my real nightmare. That I couldn't have done any good even if I had known what was going on. That maybe, if I'd tried, I would have lost them. Lost my boys.
And so, on nights like tonight, when the wind screams like a dying vampire and shakes the house as if it's angry with us, when the pipes rattle and groan and we all know it's because this is an old house but we all wonder, when everyone's on edge and no one dares say what we're all thinking, I sit and worry. I don't say anything, of course – my worries will hardly help. And, after all, it is all behind us. It's over.
Isn't it?