I walked home… and I just saw… all around me, there was that haunting reminder that home would never be the same. The fact that when little Bubba has to draw our family, he'll have to draw two different pictures. The fact that all of the faerietales I was raised on were nothing but dirty lies. Nothing can match that kind of hurt.
So, a lot of people have their own ideas of how YJ Wally's past goes, but I myself like my boys with a little story to their face. I know Wally's parents probably didn't abuse him, but divorce rate is pretty high around now so I figured I could get rid of my pain by passing it off to everyone's favorite ginger. I mean, he's so emotionally strong when it comes to sad situations (see every episode of YJ starring him for reference) that seeing him break is a fun topic to toy with.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, the show or the Empire State Building.
The day was perfect.
The sun shone like a spotlight, the vibrant green grass sparkled with dew, the sky was the color of his best buddy's eyes, the clouds were just light enough to leave the sky nearly unblemished, the trees were alive, the light breeze distracted him from the summer heat, the birds' chatter was dimmed to a faint whisper, the light wasn't blinding, no head-ache inducing disturbances, no rude neighbors to call names; there wasn't a bruise to the day.
Something was horribly wrong.
Wally didn't have to be a genius to know that. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure that such a day wouldn't go without a consequence that could easily break a heart! Perfection wasn't a real term; simply a warning that nothing could go right from the moment it was declared upon the situation, like the ultimate silent jinx that always comes back with a venom laced bite.
Who died?
Did someone blow his cover?
Was he dying?
Was the house being foreclosed?
Emerald eyes and brownish-red eyebrows knotted up in worry, a frown playing over pale lips. A bothered blush drifted between his freckles, adding color to his pallor, but he tried to think positively.
It's probably nothing.
Red Converse picked up speed, hitting the asphalt of the road leading down the road with a rougher passion, not quite a run but nowhere near a walk.
It wouldn't involve him.
Curious heads parted billowing curtains to watch the ginger tear down the road at a fast speed, confused as to why he was in such a frantic hurry, his bag hitting the back of his thighs in a rough pattern.
He was over-reacting.
The wind carried a red and yellow tint, everything behind this odd gust suddenly drowned out by the colorful flying rainbow chunk, a distinct buzzing hidden behind its flight.
Something was wrong.
Wally practically kicked the kitchen door off its hinges in a police-like move, his eyes wide with fear, his frown straight, quickly allowing his eyes to dart to-and-fro to find the dangers that were surely awaiting him. He waited, hand to the open door, his eyes searching the sink for bloody knives and the flat-screen TV in the living room for the infamous snow that signified a demon was bound to step out and kill him like the rest of the family that he was sure was already bound up in pieces in the basement in little transportable vaults like in the Lovely Bones.
There was nothing there for him.
Except silence.
The quiet scared him worse than any gory murder weapon or wannabe Grudge girl could. He'd rather find himself staring down a loaded shining black barrel than to a house where not a heart beside his own beat.
Where was everyone?
Mom didn't work during the week days, so she should've been standing at the counter to inquire about his day like she regularly did. Dad was always off by this time to greet him with a well-intentioned scowl, scolding him when he answered his mother's question with a grunt or a growl. The silence couldn't supply him with the tedious question, the scowl or the scold that he so desperately depended on for his life to keep in its regular rut. How could he go back to his room to call Robbie when he didn't know where his folks were?
"Mom? Dad?"
He let his bag fall to the floor at his feet, shutting the door with his foot before he cautiously walked into the house, his feet sounding lightly on the wood floor. Soft thud after soft thud sounded his entrance, hopefully showing anyone within earshot that it was only him and they had no need to hide any longer. His eyes shot to the calendar, still in internal knots.
There was no excuse.
Something was wrong.
Wally frowned hard, continuing to slowly creep through the house, looking out into the kitchen. He expected the fridge to be bulging with a bloody arm poking out from between the doors, scarlet liquid dripping onto the wood.
There was no arm.
He slowly turned to the dining room, the room where the dinner table was occupied every night and idle conversation was shared, no matter how tense the mood. He expected it to be empty.
Nothing lived up to expectations today.
The tabletop, usually sparkling from the rag that had always swept it free off all blemishes, was invisible. The five chairs, two of which were never occupied, could only be seen by their arms and backs. The red rug beneath the polished wooden table, square and ratted from years of use, couldn't be viewed. Every inch- every centimeter- every breath- every memory… it was gone, replaced by…
Boxes.
There were big boxes, small boxes, medium boxes, specifically wrapped boxes. There were boxes with his name on them, with his father's name on them, random numbers and then just those empty boxes without the labels. A few were taped closed, but most of them were open, deeming to the top with stuff. With items. With furniture and accessories that regularly decorated the shelves and the coffee tables.
"My stuff…"
Wally stepped forward and peered into the box, pulling out a big frame. It was a family photo, the one regularly outside his door! It wasn't the frame that upset him over all though.
Where's dad's face?
The empty hole in the picture burrowed its way into his already tender heart, making it ache in one of the worst ways he knew.
Why?
He put the frame back, looking in every box. He recognized mom's jewelry box, the lock busted from when he tried to pick it at age seven. He saw mom's clothes, folded neatly into squares, tight and tucked, the way she liked. Everything was so neat, organized and packed, as if the objects would never return to the West household.
He denied it.
Wally pushed himself from the boxes, confusion tearing at his heart as he dashed through the house, every spot of emptiness killing him that much more. He didn't know why the boxes were there, but the worst of all feelings was building up hard in his stomach, slowly tearing him apart. There had to be a good reason for all this!
Parent's room.
He bolted in, catching himself in the frame with a surprised hand, stopped merely by the sight in the room. The bed, box-spring and frame were gone; the very three things that held his parents' bodies at night. The big dresser that usually held the house phone was nowhere to be seen. The phone itself rested on the carpet in the back corner where Wally found himself in a moment, the phone in his hand and his feet back to the wood of the dining room in a blink.
Sickness.
He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His stomach turned painfully, the agony trying its hardest to make him double over in pain. Weakness was for civilians that didn't have spandex costumes hidden away in their second home though, so he stood as strong as he could, his back desperately pressed to the side of the arm chair as he used it as a crutch for his failing legs.
Desperate fingers calling for help.
One ring became an empty click.
No answer on the line.
Left alone.
In fear.
After being demanded to leave a message, Wally held the phone to his ear with a shaky hand, the fear bubbling up like a tidal wave out in the ocean, carrying the surfers towards the shore with an angry passion. These surfers were tears, but they weren't making it to shore. No, the sharks would get them soon enough.
"Uncle Barry…"
The name was thrown into a snow globe, shaken and stirred in a way so that when it snowed down, all that fell were glass shards. He tried to clean them, but all he did was bloody his hands in a hopeless effort, only ruining the mess that much more.
So afraid.
So helpless.
So useless.
Wally gritted his teeth, hanging up and setting the phone to rest on the arm of the chair, hiding his face for a minute. There had to be a reason the boxes were here. It couldn't be what he thought.
Mom's going on vacation.
They're moving.
They're having a yard sale.
There's been a recall on the objects.
They're going to go shopping and replace these objects.
Deep down inside though, Wally knew these were lies. If he couldn't be honest with himself, what kind of person did that make him? He didn't have to wear sunglasses all day in front of his closest friends; he didn't have to pretend that he was normal to keep his friends; he didn't have to deny the fact that he could become a monster time and time again without his controlling. No, that wasn't him. He was Wally, KF, the Wal-Man, West! He was the honest prick that everyone pretended to hate when really, they loved him with all his heart.
All a lie.
The happy endings he was raised on. What about Cinderella? Snow White? Sleeping Beauty? Did they get to be happy just because they were girls? What about him? What about the knights? Were the suits of armor meant to shine in pain while their wearers suffer to keep their lovers happy? Wally wouldn't take that. He wouldn't be one of them. That princess could save herself.
He was going to ride away.
Somewhere, there was going to be a land that would welcome him with open, happy arms, but he didn't know where it was. Where did the happy endings really live? Where could he get true love? Where could he keep two fighting parents together for their son's sake?
Nowhere.
Not even in his head.
Now he knew it all. He'd have two houses, two addresses, holidays to split, issues to deal with, counseling to attend, a heart to mend, tears to dry, two family portraits and so much more that he didn't want to deal with. This was divorce? Why did it sound so easy? Why wasn't it called 'Hell'? 'A stab through the heart'?
That would be too easy.
Of course, he couldn't ever be happy with life. Why make it that easy? No, now he'd just have to stand amongst the boxes and be shipped away…
Away from the life he'd come to love.
From everything he was used to.
Everything that made him smile.
Tucked in tight, sealed, pressed, taped and dragged off against his will in a car to a home he'd never be able to compare to the original, trapped in a box he'd forever have to call by his name. Wally West had married parents. This toy in the cardboard in front of him... he didn't know who it was... but he wanted to ship him back.
The new style is from Darren Shan, the guy who wrote… the most amazing books ever. I mean, I hate how he writes, but I wanted to try it by mixing my style with his. What do you think? His parents got divorced, by the way. That's why there are boxes. His mom's moving out. Review?
-F.J.