Title: Beside the Ocean
Author: BehrBeMine
Feedback: Leave it at the door on your way out, please.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Don't sue, I'll cry. ;p
Summary: The sickening realizations of a life gone wrong.
Rating: R
Distribution: Just please let me know and we'll be good.
Classification: Simon; Simon's thoughts on Ruthie and being a brother; a bit of Ruthie/Martin
Spoilers: 'Honor Thy Mother'
- -
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean...
Waves of uncontrolled rage wash up onto the large rocks behind you and warm water runs over your bare toes at the shore. The hard and the soft of all things creep over you along with the shadows that are emerging from beyond the setting sun. Its final rays have kissed you for the day to leave your steady tan glowing from the constant summer climate of the California air. You've lived here all your life, and you realize now that you will likely say that until your life comes to an end.
Suddenly you have never felt more claustrophobic. You itch to get out of the skin that claims you with the claws that will never let go. Because we truly never change. We shift from one phase to another, always jumping back into the same personality that doesn't end. Because it's who we are. And that fact remains even if it's not who we want to be.
You saw him kissing Ruthie. The baby girl of your family, your one and only little sister. Little sisters don't date, they don't grow up, they stay forever virginal and sweet with big brown doe eyes that never fail to seek your approval. They run away from all boys but you in their new sundresses, with their tightly spiraled natural curls waving along behind their retreating backs. They adore you because you're bigger and your opinion is God because they've never known someone cooler, and you play along because you like the role. You know you'll continue to play with that one special little girl because the fear of losing her utmost love to someone else paralyzes you and stills your heart. Someone else will break her spirit, will get her wrapped around their dirty pinky finger, will snatch her away from you when only you know what she needs, what is best for her. How can someone else automatically know? They haven't been there all her life. Not like you have. Not like you will continue to be until the day you die, which you insist on doing before her.
You pray that the day will never come when she will be taken from you, when that adoration in her eyes will suddenly be for him and when she looks back at you, the light will have gone out. Ruthie is strong and independent. You thought she would never need another boy that way, someone to be her other half when it's obvious that she can stand her own against all the force of the howling wind. You thought that because she was yours and you needed it to be that way that nothing could happen to change it.
Vincent didn't pose this kind of threat. He was a steady date, a bit of fun, the essence of casual. He didn't mean anything in the great scheme of things. He was there, but you knew he would be gone. And he is now. You were right.
But this time... It's different.
This time it's Martin. He's not the kind that becomes a passing fancy, he's the kind that will morph into a boyfriend that she will remember because how could she ever forget? He's going to mean something to her because he already does. You fear that he'll mean more to her than you, as childhood fondness has ties that can sever. This you are beginning to learn.
You wish that you could hate him. There should be no one easier to hate than the boy who seeks to become one with your little sister.
All the hate you could administer for Martin was a glare, and nothing more. Unfortunately, you like him. You know in your heart that if Ruthie has to be taken by someone, he has got to be the best candidate. He's a good kid, he has good values, he obviously cares for her a great deal. Never as much as you, but nobody could catch you now. Not when they're starting the race fifteen years late.
Your glare went unnoticed, in your family's backyard. You showed up with two canvas bags in hand, host to both clean and dirty laundry, some to be cleaned using Mom's washer and dryer that don't eat so many quarters, and some to be worn while you visited with this family of yours that seems to be growing apart from you, more so every day. You mourn the loss, but only just. The mourning has barely begun. You've been so wrapped up in yourself and your little problems that you have missed out on the nucleus of your existence, ignoring their phone calls that have slowly dwindled to nearly nothing, just a short message on the answering machine every other Saturday, all sounding somewhat the same: "Simon, it's your father. We... well, we just want to know how you're doing, how you're getting along. Maybe what girls you're dating these days. I sincerely hope that isn't truly plural, Simon, but I know the kind of life you lead now. Still... We know you're busy, but we would love to hear from you, we worry. Call your mother. She misses you. We used to talk about it all the time. I think it's painful for her to talk about you now, because you never do call. Call your mother. Or, call me. Just call. We worry. It's our job. One day, maybe you'll understand."
It was when you heard that message that you actually began to understand. Your life has been a sickening roller coaster since you lost your way, and recently you've been propelled from an expectant future with a thud. You're not ready to be so all alone, you never really were. All this running has left you gasping for the breaths you didn't realize you weren't taking. You were so eager to strike out on your own, get away, further away. For so long far away didn't seem enough. You were retreating from your own life as you'd always known it because you couldn't stand to face it anymore. You couldn't bare to face yourself. So you hid. You ran until you found yourself all alone and in that state, you fumbled in the dark for so very long, not realizing that the pangs in your heart were that of emotions you had given up on recognizing. Fear, guilt, shame, and empathy where you thought was apathy. You were so afraid of winding up failing that you didn't realize you had already failed.
Why did the answer seem so clearly to be that you had to get away from this life, this city, this country, in order to be happy? Why was your former comfort zone at fault? Everything safe seemed tainted after all you'd been through, and the unknown that marched in the cold before you seemed the only escape from this hole that you'd dug without looking.
You know that saying, about having made your own bed and now having to lie in it? You don't make your bed anymore. The parade of midnight aliases stream in so frequently now that the bedsheets only wind up getting ruffled, while the faded yellow comforter gets bent out of shape. There is no warmth in your version of seeking solace, there is only the stark cold grey of an unfamiliar face, eyes of no color worth recalling staring into yours that can't bear to stare back. You don't have the nerve to look directly at your bed partners whose names you make a point to forget. You choose instead to let your eyes scan, continuously, until they have drank in everything that has become impersonal to you, as you are detached from the world that these girls live in.
Your lustful eyes rake over their bodies, the smooth curves of their necks, the graceful bends of their legs, the sexy waves in their well-pampered hair. You appreciate what they are, not who they are. It's not about finding a mate, it's about finding a fuck, a girl who you don't care about who doesn't care any more about you.
Some of them try to attach strings in the morning, or sometimes days after. They call and you long for Caller ID every time you pick up the phone to hear a familiar voice, wanting to ask how you've been since that night, and if you've thought of her. You don't want to be so stand-offish, but you are, since you never were a good liar. You don't want attachments, nothing warm to weigh you down. You ran from that life; the last thing you crave is to create it again. You're sure some of those girls cry when they hang up the phone, thinking themselves unworthy of a boy who they haven't in any way wronged. You picture them questioning themselves because of your disgust at their desire to become more, to become closer, to become something to one another.
You are an empty shell, merely some faint semblance of what you once were. Ever since that night, that crash, that incident in your car when you took someone's life, and your own seemed to float away with it. You decided that day that you don't deserve the good things that always seemed your due. You did a bad, bad thing, and that made you a bad, bad person who did not deserve forgiveness, and therefore you wouldn't try anymore to earn it.
Into your backyard you stumbled that afternoon, aching to reconcile with this family that you've ignored, craving the stability of a father's pride, the comfort of a mother's hug... and the softness of a sister's little face. She was still five years old to you, with flushed cheeks that hugged a grin as she awaited a piggy back ride in exchange for the lucky penny she found while skipping along the sidewalk. You always took her money, and when she wasn't looking, you snuck into her room to feed it to her shiny plastic piggy bank. She was always so thrilled to empty it to find sixteen cents some time later, and your smile revealed nothing of your secret. It must have just appeared while she was being such a good girl. It was sweet the way she was sweet, sugary as creamy spread vanilla icing on a homemade chocolate cake.
That afternoon, you found no such cheeky smile, nor, if she had any pennies, would she have given them to you. She stood on the back porch beneath the baking sun, blue jeans tightly hugging her petite hips, a bright red shirt clinging to curves that you refused to acknowledge had developed. Standing next to Martin, she faced him, her face pensive as she listened to something he had to say. You stopped just inside the gate, expecting them to turn and notice you were there, but the two of them noticed nothing but each other. Your suspicions as you stared their way made you become pensive, as well.
So Martin realized he liked her, and blah blah; Ruthie asked why he had taken so long to just say that, and blah blah. Ruthlessly she confronted him about his confrontation. Maybe it was their banter, or maybe it was the way he stood so agonizingly close to her and she didn't move away, but the world around you started to spin and you began to really feel the heat of the weather beat down on the too many clothes on your body. You begged for a breeze to cool you down or perhaps carry you away, but your prayers went unanswered, which seemed only just considering that no longer do you ever pray. But it was like God was looking right at you in that moment, daring you to break these two kids up and ruin what they're stumbling upon together. You did nothing; only looked right back.
Your mouth dropped as if you'd been threatened with a weapon, shock forcing the air out of your lungs as though you had been punched in the stomach as Ruthie's shoulders lowered in acceptance, and she moved in closer to Martin. He dared to place a tentative hand on her hip, and you glowered. Wasn't he aware of the hands-off policy when it comes to your little sister? He might as well have been groping her for the way your insides reacted.
Air sailed out of your head as he lowered his lips to hers, leaving your body ready to fall over and just die right there on the grass. Their lips touched, and you lost grip on your two bags. They fell with two soft thumps absorbed by the well-manicured lawn where you stood, in this world that was suddenly all turned upside-down, spinning and spinning and moving on without you, the controls out of your reach, your little sister leaving you standing with your memories in the fading dust that settled around you, the loser, the possessive, the poor older brother with the worst timing ever fathomed in life.
You wanted your insides skewed as you endured the agony of watching your sister kissing a guy. Few things could wig you out more. It was as disturbing as walking in on your parents together at a very inconvenient time, except more so because little sisters didn't do this! More importantly, they didn't do this to you! - - Make you feel this way, make you face that though you won't believe it, they grow up, too.
As they finally broke apart from one another, and Ruthie reached up to pull Martin into a nice hug, your blood officially curdled, and you hightailed it out of that spot. Leaving your baggage behind, you raced back to your car, locking yourself in and securing the seatbelt around you so tightly it might as well have been cutting off your circulation. You sped off, just to get away, very much wanting to vomit right then and there.
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance...
You drove for hours straight, away from that house, and that kiss. To the calm of the ocean, where the waves lap up quietly or crash into the rocks, bubbling over your toes or cascading down in a tumble of salty liquid all the way to the sand at your feet. The water, today, does not want to decide its own pace. It is sporadic, working in sync with no time at all. You like this chaos as your companion.
You make your way to a large rock made of an ugly shade of grey, and plop down onto it with a groan as all your weight smashes into the semi-sharp crevices. Water crashes before you; water droplets sting the breeze. You pull your knees up loosely towards your chest, and rest your folded arms upon your knees that are slightly spread apart. You stare into the distance, at the red sun that is fading beyond the crest.
Ruthie and Martin. You feel like she's corrupted already. And you just die inside as you picture all of those girls without memorable names, the ones that you always sent home, sometimes not even waiting for the morning. Shining blonde hair, or brilliant brunette; fair skin and freckles, or a healthy tan. Thighs spread apart in preparation for your entrance, mouths forming words that you are deaf to, that you don't care to hear. You ignore their gasps and the way they might moan your name. You use them to free yourself, and then politely cast them from your sight.
Such immoral behavior. Such disrespect.
If your baby sister were treated that way - - just the thought of it, you would have to tear something apart. But it occurs to you now, thanks to the very boy who took her, that if not for your relation, she could have been one of the girls you refuse to call yours. Borrowed, then tossed away.
If someone were ever to do that to her... You'd go crazy. Because you'd tear your face off to save her from the very kind of pain you so often inflict.
You'd think that would make you change your ways. But not you, no, not you. You'll think about it some more, and then get back to business in the morning. For you are weak, and this is your salvation, and all you can do is pray for Ruthie, pray that the one who gets her is nothing like you.
- -
end
italicized lyrics from Lee Ann Womack's 'I Hope You Dance'