Title: Save Me/Sonnet 19
Archive: Fanfiction.net
Rating: R for strong language and a sexual situation
Disclaimer: Life as a House characters do not belong to me; I am using them solely for entertainment. Save Me is by Remy Zero (The Golden Hum).
SAVE ME/SONNET 19
***
I feel my wings have broken in your hands
I feel the words unspoken inside
And they pull you under...
And I would give you anything you want, but no.
You were all I wanted
And all my dreams are falling down...
Crawlin' around, and around...
*
(Sam)
Yeah, I fuckin' lock doors. Who cares, anyway? The miserably unhappy people I live with can't stand my presence, anyway. If some idiot looked upon my family, he'd smile at the perfection they appear to have. Smiling faces, a huge, white (WHITE!) house with a crystal-clear pool, smart, perfect-lookin' kids, a "great" husband who provides for his goddamned family. I'd like that unfortunate idiot to enter our house for one fuckin' second…
"Mom," the model of American perfection, the ultra-successful bitch, can't stand her own son to pieces. She gets up in the morning, all made-up and wearing a great suit, to make her kids lunch. "Ahh," the idiot would say, "how nice of her." She orders the kids to hug their emotionless father, and she only receives a solemn "are your hands clean?" in response. Then, the dejection starts up in her pretty, yet slightly wrinkled face, and she turns away in pure sadness. Sure, she can make shit loads of money, be considered almost perfect by hypocritical colleagues, and even have time to cook when she has a maid, but she can't get the love she wants. She goes around with this pantomime "pathetique" expression, which almost makes you feel sorry for her. Yet, she still can't love me 'cause she can't stand me.
That's just fucked up.
"Dad" is supposed to be perfect, too, you know. He's successful too: he goes to work everyday with in an expensive suit and comes home exhausted. He's made a life for his family by buying a huge house with a kick-ass pool and Jacuzzi, wall-to-wall Spanish tile and expensive hardwood, fine rugs, and a couple of bathrooms. He gets shit loads of money, too, but he ain't worth the shit he makes. He's well spoken and has a degree from an expensive university, but he can't say one fuckin' intelligent thing from my point-of-view. Unlike "Mom," he knows he's fucked up; he knows he doesn't like his kids huggin' him; he knows he ain't there like he's supposed to be. He ain't watchin' his kids growing up, hating him, hating having to hug 'im. But, as long as he has money, life's cool. Money and success make the world go 'round, and his world's spinning out of control.
He's gonna end up alone.
"Kids" aren't so bad. They're young and don't know much. "Mom" likes to keep 'em sheltered away from the bad shit, just like she's 'posed to. They're not that fooled, though. They know what's goin' on, more than the adults ever will. They're pretty much forced to love their dad, even when the old bastard doesn't really care. They go to a good school, get good grades, they're polite and well mannered, quiet when they're supposed to be, witty when they're 'posed to be. They're real: they don't pretend to have the greatest life and the youngest can be kinda cool. I've always liked 'em, really, even though I don't tell them. I mean, I don't really talk to them much, but they know when to stay back and what to say. They ask me to go to their games, and depending on my mood, I'll go or not. One time, I even appeared with a big-ass sign reading, "Go, bros!" I remember them laughing and waving, and me waving back. They laughed for hours…
They're gonna survive life, those little suckers.
And how about the "Delinquent-Son-Who-Likes-To-Pop-Anything-In-His-System" kid? Well, that'd be me. And to be honest, that's all I do. I'll wake up, pretty much choke to get high, go to school and get high, come home and get high. That's life, even though it's a bitch. I don't care what the "perfect" family has to say about me. They simply can't give me away 'cause it'd ruin their stupid image. There's always some bad apple in the family, and there's nothing wrong with the bad seed being me. None of these fucking people know me, and that's just fine with me. If I waste my time asking for love, I'll never get it. So, in the mean time, I slowly waste away into the shit I've been raised in. I mean, high school and being sixteen is supposed to be the greatest experience, but I can't stand it. I CAN'T STAND ANYONE OR ANYTHING! My fake family's driving me fucking nuts, my dad's a sorry, middle-aged fuck who won't get near me, high school's a bitch, and…
Damn, my tears are splattering all over my dirty desk. Mom's screaming at me to come down for dinner…
***
Somebody save me!Let your warm hands break right through
Somebody save me!
I don't care how you do it
Just stay!
Stay, c'mon, I've been waiting for you
*
George Monroe sighed longingly as he stared at his teenaged son sleep in peace. Last night had been one of the worst nights he had experienced with the restless Sam—the argument reached fever-high pitch. George did not even fully remember the contents of the argument, but he knew that the whole thing had developed from a simple scold concerning drugs. Sam was becoming nothing—no, he is nothing—and George felt almost helpless. He did not want the boy to be unhappy—in fact, Sam had thousands of opportunities to be truly happy. For some odd reason, George actually thought that his pierced and extremely fierce son would be genuinely happy to spend some real time with his own father. He thought that if they could become close and build the house that he had always dreamed of, Sam would be happy.
Happy.
Happy.
Happy.
Yet, George received a thrown bag into a clean pool, an unfriendly "you fuck," and a solemn, sad "I'll hate you for the rest of my life." The plans were thwarted heavily; he had never expected Sam to release unbearable amounts of anger towards him. He had skillfully masked it with complaints about his living area or the hateful silence that tore through gravity. Slowly and surely, George was dying, and not just physically. He preferred the physical decay to the emotional one; anything was better than knowing that he was inches away from falling over the fringes of insanity. His son, the same son who had held on to him when the waves were rolling, now refused to even exchange a single word with him. Sam would probably never know the incredible love his father felt for him, and at this point, George knew that the boy would not care. Oh, God, it hurts to be alive, he thought sadly as he stood, staring at the beautiful sun make its journey up from the horizon. He tilted his head to the side with a sad smile, enjoying the sight immensely. Lately, he had been enjoying the simplest of sights, and the sunrise was one of them.
"What're you doin'?"
George looked back at the deeply husky voice with a startled expression on his face. He was greeted with sleepy, blue eyes and tousled, dark hair. Strangely, the sight of his son waking the morning was oddly pleasant and heartwarming, and George could not help but sneak a simple smile at his son.
"Why are you smiling?" Sam asked, annoyed. Shacking up with what he considered to be the stupidest man alive was not the greatest feeling in the universe. Living in a cramped garage with a mess all over "sucked" in his opinion. He wanted to be in Tahoe, getting high, getting fucked, getting anything. Building—or even tearing—a house was never on his 'To-Do' list in the beginning. But after his father flushed down his stash of weed down the cheap toilet, he had no choice. Ten dollars an hour was not bad, and he only had to contribute an equivalent of thirty man-hours to get the money. He flung his head back onto the pillow, neither enjoying the silence nor the light. He was a nocturnal creature who survived and thrived upon loud, hateful music, and cheap thrills. Hell, he knew he was destroying himself, but, obviously, no one cared. No one cares…
George smiled cynically in the uncomfortable silence. "I hope you're coming to work today," he declared in his half-melodic, half-deep voice. He watched as Sam lazily cracked open a gorgeous blue-green eye, then turn away in disgust.
"Your 'hope' don't mean shit to me," he said and George turned away, shaking his head in disappointment. He played it off as if it was a simple game, but every single time Sam took a crack at him, his heart was slowly breaking into tiny pieces that could never be put together again. Humpty-Dumpty…
Once again, the odd, shapeless silence took over the unsuitable garage. George shrugged his square, old shoulders, and stood up from the shaky bed. His thin fingers ran through his graying hair slowly as he headed towards the makeshift kitchen in the middle of the room. He began to prepare what he considered breakfast and then he turned to his son, expecting to see the lankly but handsome teenager prepare for morning build they were going to endure. Unfortunately—and much to his disappointment-he spied Sam carelessly sleeping, the large, metallic headphones encasing his ears, the obviously loud and ruckus noise he called music banging into his brain. Defiantly, the boy had successfully blocked him out again, and that was driving the older man into a fitful rage that would one day be released. He had promised Sam that he would never physically hurt him; he had learned from experience that such an act would only tear them apart more than they were. But at this enraging point, George was heavily considering a frightful box on the ears, or a satisfactory slap across the boy's gaunt cheeks.
Sam finally opened his eyes when he saw no one in the filthy garage. He stared helplessly at the decaying ceiling, his arms splayed across the thin, flowered sheets. He breathed in the morning air with a bit of disdain—he was used to the pollution of the city, not the fresh, crisp air that made his lungs burn more than the drugs he took. Ah, yes, he told himself inwardly, the stash. He had learned, in a desperate search for anything that would calm his frayed nerves, that his father was hiding a wondrous amount of painkillers. He had taken advantage of the moment, seized the plastic bottle, and popped a couple of pills in his mouth without water, without thought. The momentary feeling of numbness covered his body and he felt lax for some time, stumbling around aimlessly, searching for support. Quickly, the feeling disappeared and he was once again Sam Monroe: druggie, whore, Goth. Hell, he decided, Manson can't help me now. He'd be proud. At times, it hurt being alive and the tears would scorch his face at the fact that he was…
He decided against thinking and stood, reaching for the bundle that consisted of a thick, red towel and some clothes. It was time for his morning shower at the Beck residence, a task that he both hated and loved at the same tine. He ran his long fingers through his hair, imitating his father's action from earlier. A sigh escaped his mouth as he stared at the dismal objects throughout the garage. Some were building tools, others were definitive evidence of his father's hard work at a vocation he loved but was miserably released from. There was no real evidence of twenty-first century technology, a fact that Sam did not enjoy, among other things. He stood with the red bundle and made his was towards the door that led to the outside world.
His steps carried him to the nearby residence and he knocked the fine wood door almost with contempt. He was met with dark eyes filled with concern and a body struggling to stay within the confines of the bathrobe. Mrs. Beck smiled when she realized the odd figure standing in front of her was no one menacing—he just looks menacing—just a young man, waiting to take the hot bath he so deserved. She greeted him half-heartedly and let him in, and in return received a silent nod and a grateful thank you. She watched as Sam made his way up the small flight of stairs, take a direct left, and then leave her alone. She wondered briefly why her daughter has invited such riff-raff into her home, but let go of her thought and returned to her steaming cup of morning decaf.
Sam made sure that the door was securely locked before he even attempted to shed any clothing. The family daughter had a naughty habit of entering and leaving the bathroom at her own will, and most of the time she stumbled in, faking innocence at times, at others, with a reason. She loved to scare him with her threats of entering the shower and, unfortunately, she always entered, with or without his consent.
"Let me in, Sam." The sixteen-year-old almost shuddered at her cutting words. For some odd reason, she took delight in watching him bathe, or vice-versa. Honestly, he was not tiring of her intrusions, but the mornings called for peace, relaxation of muscles, anything within the category concerning happiness. He shook his wet mop of black hair absent-mindedly, letting the foam of the shampoo wash away with the hot water. He ignored her pleas of being let in, and in the process, he smiled cruelly. This was, quite possibly, the first time she would have to stay out and sulk at her defeat.
The Beck girl, Alyssa, would not leave the battle defeated. "I'm warning you, Sam, let me in! I've got to shower, wash my hair, brush my teeth, put on my damn make-up! Oh, if this calls for drastic measures, I'll do it! I swear!"
A hesitant "What'll you do?" followed immediately, and Alyssa received the response as a challenge instead of a question. She fisted through out the pockets of her pajama pockets until she encountered the hard edges of a brass key. She smiled as she placed the key into the lock. She turned it and opened the door, careful to not make a sound. She padded her way to the sink and grabbed her toothbrush, smudged some whitening toothpaste, and began brushing, soon breaking out in a horrible off-key performance of Beethoven's gloomy, but otherwise genius, Fifth Symphony. Sam's beautiful eyes widened in shock at the loud rendition and he opened the glass door of the shower. He found her brushing her teeth and smiling all the while.
"Do you guys have a thing with opening doors?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"Do you have a thing with locking them?" she rebutted wisely, spitting out the white substance in her mouth. He rolled his eyes and looked away, shutting the door in the process. Alyssa looked herself over in the mirror, ignoring the hot steam filling the area. She found the tortured, quiet Sam extremely interesting and extremely handsome— at school, her friend constantly reminded her of not "making it a habit" to stare at him. But I can't help it! she screamed at herself inwardly. She liked the mystic aura that he held about him, the rather rude aloofness he carried. She played with him, flirting between complete and utter sexuality and shy, schoolgirl innocence. Rather aloof herself, she made herself appear as the more mature, comfortable one, the child that both parents and friends could trust. But this odd boy, this boy they called Sam, made her feel like gooey jelly and she could not help staring at his perfect features, tall, somewhat menacing stature, and cheerless, but oddly graceful cerulean eyes that made her die every time she found time to peer into them. He was driving her mad with his silence, but she knew she was driving him mad with her careless provocations.
The shower roared amidst her confusion, and she took that as a sure sign of him waiting for her. She shed her tiny shirt, white pants, and thin underwear and opened the door shamelessly, taking a spare moment to stare at the package below his waist. She smirked, quite amused and content at what she saw, and then raised an eyebrow at his eyes. Looking away, she finally situated herself under the hot spray and steam, and relaxed, much to the disdain of her bathing partner.
"What's the point of this, Alyssa?" he asked angrily, breaking her trance. She turned to him and cocked her head to the side.
"To what?"
"To this!" He pointed at the gleaming tiles, the hot spray, her. "I can't stand this! Almost every single day, you fucking decide to join me while I shower, trying to pry shit outta me I don't wanna say. I mean, is there a fuckin' point to any of it?!"
A wary, wry smile graced her features. Silly boy. "Of course there is, silly," she guaranteed, turning away from him to grab the soap. He watched her intently, waiting for more than the mere response she provided. She was a woman with a laid out plan, a plan that, to him, seemed to be working almost perfectly. Alyssa disregarded his outburst wearily and proceeded to wash the soap off. She heard his impatient groan and turned to him.
As she began shampooing her hair, she sighed tirelessly. "I'm trying to help you, okay!" she admitted, her voice slightly carrying a bit of anger and baggage.
"It'd help me if I could kiss you," he declared. She blinked in a bit of confusion and then released another one of her countless sighs.
"What?!" she asked him. "Why? I thought that we were friends!"
"You ain't my friend when I wanna make out with you," he added, his matter-of-fact voice drowning out the roar of the spray. She could not believe his words, not for the life of her. Secretly, her heart cheered her on, pushing her, telling her to accomplish the task she had been dreaming of for months on end. Indeed, he constantly filled her dreams every night since he had been staying with his father, and her dreams tended to stray far from conventional fantasy. His probing eyes searched for an answer, and she masked her eagerness with doubt and attitude.
She pounded her hands against the wall. "Dammit, I thought I was helping you!" she almost screamed, awaiting a debonair, dashing answer which she had dreamed her Prince Charming would tell her.
"What you think you know has nothing to do with reality."
His sudden answer made her reconsider the offer. At this point, she was pushed up against the wall by his arched body and hungry eyes. Insanity was oh so near that she could taste it… "All right," she concluded with the fake, wise voice she used; "but after this, we remain friends, okay?" She knew he did not care—she cared not either.
He smiled lopsidedly. "Whatever."
She made the first move by approaching him with tiny steps. He seemed slightly hesitant and uncomfortable, but she hoped her soft, yet lustful eyes were somewhat comforting. Her face was nearing his every second, and every second seemed an agonizing eternity. Her first attempt failed somewhat strangely when he pushed his head slightly, but he responded even stronger than she expected when he captured her waiting lips. Her body relaxed instantly, and he swiftly took hold of her waist and pushed her gently against him. Their tongues met immediately and both fought a fierce battle to win, but eventually, his unskilled tongue won over hers. She sighed contentedly against his chest, surprised at how strong it actually was. Right before the unexpected session they were currently experiencing, a curious conversation concerning sexuality was struck up. He admitted his frustration at not being able to "jack-off" with his father in the room and she had asked if he was homosexual. He rebuked her with a powerful, negative answer, claiming a sarcastic "hello?" while he pointed at his obviously erect penis. She smiled and agreed, adding her "I was meaning to talk to you about that" before showering.
As the kisses become more and more urgent, he was near the breaking point when her hands began exploring every inch of him. A groan followed and then the harrowing climax came and he broke the kiss off to near the wall. Disgusted, Alyssa began showering, making sure that he heard that he was to clean the shower afterwards. The passionate moment gone, Sam leaned against the hot tiles and slid down to the floor, his eyes closed as if he were listening to some raging music in his mind. Alyssa took careful care not to bother him as she began stepping out of the now very hot shower. Placing one foot outside, she felt as if she was almost home free. Her triumphant reverie was broken as Sam's lusting eyes awoke with a start.
Seductively, he stopped her by forcefully grabbing the nearest arm to him and whispering, "Stay." Startled, Alyssa looked at his hand holding her arm first, and then his hungry eyes. She nodded, an eyebrow shooting in the process. He refused to let go of her arm and he followed with a tug. She kneeled in between his open legs in defeat. He let go of her hand in satisfaction, a smirk replacing his urging features. Her hand trailed a journey from his stomach to his chest, laying rest against his bare, heaving chest. All the while he watched, fascinated and tortured, as her hand trailed up to its current position. She scooted only a bit more and then she dipped her neck near his ear.
"Oh," she whispered, "I can't. Plans." Her skillful tongue played with the outside rim of his ear as she released a tiny giggle. Sam knew that she was playing with his body and his mind, and such a game was not to be won by her.
Once again making the action of leaving, Sam took hold of her hand, and in one swift movement, she was laying against the water-streamed tiles. Confused only momentarily, she watched as Sam imitated her exact motions perfectly, whispering "Oh, I don't fuckin' care." She tried to stand, but could not because his tongue was working her body crazily. Unknowingly, she hissed as she felt cold water pummel her skin and Sam's lips trail scorching kisses down her soft neck to her collar bone, and then down her chest, all throughout her stomach. She moaned pleasurably, clenching and unclenching her hands in an effort to keep from screaming out his name. Sharp intakes of breath followed suit, along with urging pleas.
Sam noticed her reaction to his ministrations, not really knowing what he was doing. All he really knew was from natural instinct, the instinct to claim her as his, the instinct to receive rightful revenge. Alyssa Beck was a flirtatious creature with streaks that could only be called sexuality. She had power beyond her years and she knew how to use it for her benefit, yet she could not fight back when the exact same doings were done to her. The contradiction and irony were pure joy to Sam, and he used whatever power he could to keep her contradicting herself. At that very moment, both sex-driven teenagers were outside the bathroom stall, stumbling—among other things—around fruitlessly, trying to find a comfortable spot to rest on. They were kissing furiously, exploring each other in a tangle arms, legs, urgent lips and urgent bodies.
"We've—we've got to stop, now," Alyssa commanded through shivers and moans. Eyes sealed from the erotic vision in front of her, she felt that what she was doing was not right—at least not right in the area they were in. Sam disregarded her plea with a swift flick of his tongue around her collarbone.
"Do we?" Sam asked as his lips began making their way down her chest and stomach. "The last time I checked, you wanted to shower…"
"Now I get what I want…"
***
I see the world has folded in your heart
I feel the waves crash down inside
And they pull me under...
And I would give you anything you want, but no
You were all I wanted...
And all my dreams are falling down
Crawlin' around, and around...
*
(Sam)
Maybe, if he hadn't died, I would've been able to say that I was truly happy. I would've finally be able to leave the door open, turn down the volume of my music, laugh a bit more; cry less. I mean, I would've been able to tell the man that I truly loved him, that I was becoming something, slowly regaining whatever fucking humanity I lost from the ages of ten to sixteen. I could've told 'im that the crappy but rewarding experience of rebuilding an old shack into something wonderful made me really appreciate the fact that he was there, loving me, helping me, caring for me in ways Alyssa herself could not provide. There was a lot of shit that I could've—and eventually would've—told him had he not died on my sorry ass.
But he did.
And I miss him.
And I love him.
And it hurts to breath without him.
The funeral wasn't the greatest thing in the world. He seemed kinda fake in his clean, black suit, shaved face, and closed eyes and mouth. He was always talking, trying to instill some value in me. He was always smiling his lop-sided 'I-know-what-you-don't-know' grin and almost begging me to help him build the damn house. He was always… there.
I remember when Mom's silver Lexus stopped in front of the unfinished house. She just kinda stayed inside the car, staring at the finished frame of the house and the unlit lights that took me hours to put up. Her eyes were on the verge of tears when she finally decided to step out. She gave me this look—this look—that broke my sorry heart into pieces. Her steps were slow at first, like she was trying to stop time and take her own time in tellin' me. Then her steps shuffled a bit and she just began running to me, eventually just getting where she was supposed to be. I remember blubbering a bit, and then breaking down into this uncontrollable howl of a scream that I had the urge to call crying. My tears just rolled down my clean face and I stood there, motionless, as Mom hugged me real hard, squeezing me like I was her only lifeline. It felt so DAMN good to be in her arms, knowing that at least she was there to hold me, and not gone like my dad. She just let me cry, and when I tried to get away, she just held on a bit tighter.
I cried hard on that day.
My dad's finished house was not deep enough for my tears.
Afterwards, we sat in the middle of the skeletal house and we stared at everything around us: the wood, the lights, the nails, everything. We looked at everything my dad had put his hands on and for some odd reason, it felt good being in there. All the while, Mom just held me, and then I held her when she cried her eyes out. Mother-Son bonding… I laugh now that I think about it.
My dad didn't have the greatest life. In fact, it sucked from my view. I mean, marrying then divorcing, ending up with a kid like me, watching them both drift far away, and then DYING in the middle of possibly regaining your family again. It must've hurt SO bad to be him for all that time, watching yourself rot. That's worse than a Marilyn Manson song.
I read the letter and the will, and I knew the house was left to my name. Mom suggested keeping it, renting out, anything but the decision I had in mind: givin' it to the girl who was in the car crash so long ago. Dad could never stop wondering about her and her life, and if she had rotted just like he had. For some weird-ass reason, I just felt like giving it to her, trying to make up for my grandfather's sins. Mom tried changing my mind so many times that I had to almost do it myself. Eventually, I gave it to the girl, who was now a full-fledged lady with her own kids, and she was surprised. I explained my reason and she accepted it after a lot of persuasion. When I was about to leave, I remember her wheeling up to me and then hugging me and thanking me. Ah hell, I thought, not another crying session. It didn't turn into that, thank God, but she did shed a tear or two. So did I. We all did.
Now, life's returning with a new school year. I cleaned myself up that summer: the blue streak didn't exist anymore, I took out the "thumbtack," kept only two earrings in my ear, stopped all the anger (including all my shit), went to rehab for a while, fell in love.
'Course, I haven't seen Alyssa in a while. I don't know how she'll react to me when she sees me back at school. I just hope that it involves a nice hug and kiss…
***
Somebody
save me!
Let your warm hands break right through
Somebody save me!
I don't care how you do it...
Just stay...
Stay, c'mon, I've been waiting for you
*
The invading thought of reentering another school year finally condensed itself into the harsh blaring of a digital alarm clock. It roared continuously throughout the cluttered room and its occupant finally awoke from a fretful night's sleep. Dashing young eyes searched and scanned the area, as if trying to remember its specifications. Fortunately, they soon recognized and they began to dazzle and twinkle.
"Shit, I'm late," Sam whispered as he stood from his cluttered bed. He stretched his aching muscles and headed towards the bathroom, his eyes partially closed and begging for more sleep. As he entered the bathroom, the bright glare of the lights made him squint in pain. He shook his head angrily and proceeded to brush his teeth and take a long, hot shower without Alyssa's normal intrusion. He was back home now and enjoying every comfortable minute. Life was quiet and stable and more love seemed to fill the once-troubled household. Robin, his mother, refused to take back her husband; she was now filing for divorce consciously and happily and noted that she was an ex-wife once again. Thankfully, she willingly let the father of both her younger children enter and leave the house as many times as he pleased—she encouraged love and peace, not anger and destruction. She finally began enjoying her life after George's death: she was beautiful, successful, and loved, all at the same time. Her eldest son reformed considerably and she knew that such a change would benefit his character, not cause it to crumble.
Sam entered his room and shut the door, refusing to lock the door this particular time. He headed to his closet and chose a discreet pair of baggy blue jeans and a bright, red t-shirt. A few nights before starting school, he and his mother shopped for suitable clothing that adhered to her tastes as well as his. Dark boots and a dashing pair of Oakley shades tastefully added and completed his toned-down look. After a quick and appreciative glance in the mirror, he gently brushed his soft, black locks in place, giving him the appearance of what teenage females would consider "cute." Not fully giving up on the earrings on his bedside table, he grabbed a tiny, silver hoop and hooked it on to his waiting earlobe. He smiled as he grabbed his backpack and rushed down the stairs.
Robin could not help but beam as her son appeared before her, decked out in fresh clothes, no makeup, and pearly smile. He took hold of the glass of orange juice sitting on the table and gulped it down, careful to not stain his shirt. He only had fifteen minutes to get to school, and time was ticking away in anticipation. After destroying both of his brothers' neat hairstyles, he rushed out of the house, only to be followed by his mother.
"Sam!" she called out to him. He rolled his eyes and turned to her, the shades covering the anger that was slowly welling up in his eyes. He watched as his mother latched on to his hand and forced him to follow her. Silent curses began streaming through his head as he followed dutifully.
Robin sighed and pointed to the closed garage in front of her. "Um," she began, "I know that every boy wants to impress the first day of school"—once again, Sam rolled his eyes—"and I have taken it upon myself of doing the dirty work for you. Now that you're a junior and already have your license and can drive responsibly, I've—"
"No way!" Sam interrupted abruptly. Robin nodded, a wide grin spreading throughout her handsome features. From her pocket, she procured a tiny box with three red buttons, obviously the control to the garage door. She handed him the box and he took it away from her and swiftly pressed the first button. He waited impatiently for the spotless white door to open, all the while shaking his head in amazement and excitement. Oh my God! Oh my God! Thank you! Thank you very, very much! he screamed internally when the door finally concluded its agonizingly slow process. His eyes widened suddenly when he spotted the object of every teenager's dream.
He gaped as he stared at the futuristic curves echoing elegance and the bright but somber black paint. He narrowed his eyes to read the name of the car: Z3. It's a BMW! A fucking BMW! He exalted what seemed to be a cry of joy as he ran to his mother and locked her in a tight, passionate embrace. He whispered his thanks over and over again, all the while staring at the beauty in front of him. He neared the car, gently touching the hood, loving the feeling of the sleek, metallic touch. The beautiful convertible seemed almost otherworldly as he opened the door and stepped in.
He inhaled the sweet smell of new leather appreciatively. "This is the coolest present anybody's ever given me," he whispered as he took hold of the wheel. In a moment's notice, the keys flew into his waiting hand and he eagerly started the engine to the automobile. The engine purred almost sensually as he began backing out of the garage. He drove until he reached his mother, and at that moment he stepped out, and hugged her once more. He whispered a rushed "I love you" before running to the car and then speeding away, leaving faint trails of smoke in his past.
Early in the morning, Robin could hear the distinct screams that accompanied a Marilyn Manson song.
***
And all my dreams are on the ground
Crawlin' around, and around...
Somebody save me!
Let your warm hands break right through me
Somebody save me!
I don't care how you do it
Just stay... with me...
I made this whole world shine for you
Just stay!
*
The day had been progressing well enough. The male students stared in envy and jealousy as a tall, somewhat well built junior stepped out of a brand new BMW Z3. The females were quite impressed with the car, but they were more interested in the handsome young man that walked down the hall with expensive Oakleys and smiled as if he was the king of the school. Many of them noticed that the golden boy was nobody but Samuel Monroe, the former addict who did nothing but slack off, smoke more than he could handle, and deliver harsh comments with biting accuracy. Others frowned as he walked by them: they were quite disappointed that they were no longer graced with the presence of an all-day drug convenience store.
"Hell, I don't care who he was before," a pretty, brown-eyed freshman commented, "as long as I can get some of that, then I can truly say I enjoyed high school." Her peers agreed with her totally, and the rest of the day, Sam was handed the look of interest from the most unexpected of females.
Unfortunately, Alyssa had been out of sight. She was not in any of his classes and he had not even caught a glimpse of her throughout most of the morning. He shrugged sadly as he took out his portable CD player and the lunch the maid had prepared early in the morning. He walked to his usual spot by the large weeping willow, placed his headphones on, turned on the music as high as it could reach, and unwrapped the mouthwatering sandwich lying in front of him. He dug in and closed his eyes.
He stirred as he felt the ground below him rumble slightly with oncoming footsteps. He watched carelessly as Alyssa sat on the stone bench by the tree. He watched as her eyes widened significantly when she saw his new image. He also took notice of her compact entourage and felt a sudden urge of hatred surge throughout his body. Alyssa's friend, the short redhead with a biting tongue, could not help but make a useless, unfriendly comment about his change. Sam shook his head knowingly and his eyes flew back to the beauty of the sky and his attention to the loud roar of the music echoing in his ears.
Alyssa waited patiently as she watched Sam close his eyes again. Carefully, she stood from the bench and made her way to Sam's side, ignoring her friend's useless pleas. She sat softly by his side and let her fingers caress the contours of the headphones. She picked the left headphone off the ear and giggled at her friend's shocked face.
"You look good," she whispered. Sam serenely turned his face to look at her. He raised an eyebrow smugly.
"You do too."
She made the motion to stand, to leave him again. "Stay."
"Oh, I can't. Plans," she told him, echoing her words from earlier in the summer. He let out a bright, happy laugh and grabbed her arm, forcing her down to sit by him.
He neared her ear, letting his breath play with her senses momentarily…
"Oh, I don't fuckin' care."
(Just stay, c'mon... I'm still waiting for you)
***
Sonnet 19
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lions paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as though fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
-William Shakespeare