AN: I don't own Flashpoint. If I did I wouldn't be letting CBS jerk me around by my metaphoric balls.
I've been wanting to write a fic about Sam's sister for weeks now and just never got the time or the inspiration quite right. But it struck me today and ... I just rolled with it. I hope you guys don't think it's too over the top or dramatic or emo. I was going for just Sam's shock. But fics rarely turn out like I plan them too. Anyway, let me know what you think.
...
He supposed it wasn't such a bad place. But like the string of houses before it, he just knew it wasn't home. It was just the place in between where you're going and where you've been. Just a resting point along the way.
He stared around his room, taking in the pitiful stack of stiff cardboard boxes and the pair of well-worn suitcases. The bed was new – as was much of the furniture in their new Canadian home. Two weeks ago his father had received a promotion to brigadier-general. The whole family had been uprooted, travelling thousands of miles from the Saudi Arabian compound where they'd spent the past two years to the sleepy lake-side community of Kingston Ontario. They'd left most of what they'd owned behind, bringing only the basics. It was a routine that Sam was well-accustomed to. In his brief young life he'd seen half-dozen posts in Canada and the Middle East. He'd been to more schools than he could remember, had more best friends than he could count. That's the way it was though.
He tried to resist the boil of anger in his stomach. It was stupid. His father didn't have any control over the situation. It wasn't like they could stay in one place just because Sam wanted them to. His father had promised to do a duty. And that meant being bounced around from place to place. It was a burden they all had to bear.
"Sammy?" His mother called from the hallway. Her head peered around the wooden frame of the door. "Aren't you going to unpack dear?"
He gave a non-chalant shrug. To be honest, he didn't really feel like it.
"You know this place isn't really so bad Sammy." His mother smiled, crossing the floor, heels clicking on hardwood, to open the window. It still smelled musty - like dusty curtains and mothballs. It smelled, Sam thought rather bitterly, like old people. The faded draperies fluttered as the early fall wind pushed through them, stirring the still air.
"You and Becca don't even have to start school until Monday." His mother said, striding across to sit down on the bed next to him. "That's quite the vacation, young man."
"Whatever." He responded. He didn't mind school usually – but right now he just didn't want to think about it. He got the same jumpy butterflies in his stomach whenever he had to start afresh. It was a whole new set of people. New teachers, students, bullies, nurses. Libraries. New classrooms and lockers and rules and dress codes. But that wasn't even the worst part. That, of course, was that he wasn't really sure what they'd expect from him. He was terrified that he'd show up, and all the other kids would be mega light-years ahead. They'd be reading Shakespeare and doing long division. Then they'd point and laugh at him, calling him stupid.
"I know you don't really like this part, Sam. And your father and I appreciate how good you've been about the move. Hopefully this will be the last for a while." She said, stroking a maternal hand over his tousled sun-bleached hair, a few shades lighter than her own.
"You said that every time." He had to twist his lip in a sneer to keep it from dropping into a sulky pout. He crossed his arms to try and contain the hurt and the fear and the anger. It wasn't their fault. It wasn't anybody's fault really, he tried to remind himself.
"I know." She sighed. "I know."
He looked past her to study the view from his window. It wasn't half bad, really. The front yard was dominated by a massive oak tree surrounded by some kind of floral beds burgeoning with flowery life. A tree-swing hung from one of the lower branches, shielded from the sun by the thick canopy of leaves. The tips were just beginning to turn, fading from the brilliant green of summer to the rosy blush of fall. Beyond the thick tufts of foliage he could make out the other nearly-identical brick houses lining the quiet lane and, above their crested peaks, the streaky silver-black of the lake.
"Pretty boring, huh?" She asked, gesturing a hand towards the off-white walls. "We could paint these if you'd like. Green maybe? That's your favourite colour still isn't it Sam?"
Why bother was what he wanted to ask. Why even bother?
Instead he gave her a polite "No thank you." The cautious answer stinging her heart, she rose to her feet.
"Okay, Sam. That's fine. If you'd like, you and your sister can go the park while I finish making supper. You can unpack tomorrow, I suppose. A special treat for you and Becca." She smiled down at him. "Don't forget to look both ways, Sammy."
Sam didn't mind spending time with his sister. She wasn't half bad as far as girls went. She was okay playing with GI Joes instead of stupid Barbies and she never asked him to play tea-parties or do dumb girly stuff. It was handy, too, when you were getting dragged around from city to city, country to country, to have a sibling. They were kind of like a best friend you didn't have to leave behind when your parents' got posted somewhere new
"You think they'll have swings?" Becca said eagerly as she skipped along the sidewalk beside him, every so careful not to step on a crack. Her white sandals clapped against the pavement with every jaunty step.
"Dunno. Probably." He replied, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
"Do you think we'll be here a real long time Sam?"
"Maybe." He said. But, just in case, he didn't really want to get all that attached. "Do you wanna be?"
"Sure." She answered brightly. "Why not?"
Sam didn't have an answer so he only shrugged.
He could see the playground emerge as they rounded the corner, the brightly colour plastic twisting into long tunnels and steep slides. And, just as Becca had hoped, a half-dozen chain swings, twisting in the breeze. They were always her favourite. Several children ran about, dodging between the different poles and tubes, laughing. She gave a cry of joy beside him and he had to shoot out a hand to stop her from leaping off the curb and sprinting across the street.
"Wait!" He yelled, grabbing her shoulder. "We have to wait for the light!"
She grinned sheepishly and stood beside him, foot thumping away impatiently. Together they stared up at the little red man in the traffic light. Becca bounced from foot to foot as the minutes dragged on. There was no traffic at all – Sam checked both ways. And the light seemed to last forever. He glanced back to the house – just visible at the end of the street – and decided he'd rather not hazard it.
The green light blinked into yellow.
He should have seen it sooner – the dark green sedan hurtling down the street. Too fast. It wouldn't make the light Sam though. His stomach clenched in fear and he felt suddenly queasy. He reached down to take his sister's hand. It was hot beneath his. A bead of sweat slid down the nape of his neck.
It happened all too soon. All too quickly.
She was standing right there beside him, blond hair shining in the autumn sunlight, smile affixed to her small face at the thought of meeting new friends.
Then: a careening sound of metal scraping hitting cement, the acrid smell of burning tires, a flash of dark forest green and a muted thump. Her hand was wrenched from his.
And she was gone.
He stood mutely staring down at the hood of the car where his sister had been standing moments earlier in confusion. And then desperately spun looking for any sign of Becca.
That's when he saw it. The slim ankle. The bare foot, so small and tiny, smudged with dirt.
Why wasn't she wearing shoes? Hadn't she been wearing shoes when the left the house?
He stepped forward on shaky legs until her whole body came into view. Feeling his sneakered foot scrape against something he glanced down. Her flip flops sat precisely where she'd stood seconds before, perfectly aligned with the curb.
"Bec?" His voice was a hoarse whisper. She didn't roll, didn't groan, didn't cry. Her blonde hair was splayed around her head, ribbons of gold in the green grass. Her legs were tangled awkwardly, like those of a limp doll.
There were screams – those of parents in the park who'd seen the accident. The woman who owned the house on the corner raced down the porch, yelling something into the receiver. He couldn't make out the words – they were muffled in his hazy mind. The driver, still seated behind the wheel of his dented car, pressed his face to his palms and wailed. Yes, indeed, there were screams. But not his own. Sam was strangely and oddly mute. No sound would come.
Why wouldn't she open her eyes? He thought, kneeling on the cool grass beside her. Why wouldn't wake up? He thought, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. Her head lolled limply as he clenched her shoulders, hefting her up. Come on! His mind screamed at her. Come on, Becca. Stay! Come on! COME ON!
But her eyes didn't open. They didn't stare back at him, sparkling with the innocence and life a six-year old girl should have. She didn't pull him to his feet and dash across the street to the playground, screaming and demanding he push her first. She didn't do any of those things that he desperately wanted her to do.
Tears streaming down his face he pulled her into his lap, cradling her head. He rocked them both, the world blurring behind that heavy veil of tears. Hands reached down to try and pull him away but he shook his head incessantly. No. They couldn't make him leave. They couldn't.
The mourning wail of sirens drew closer.
But he knew it was too late, stroking her bright blond hair back from her face. She was already gone.
Becca. His baby sister. Gone.