And I will go on shining
Shining like brand new
I'll never look behind me
My troubles will be few
When Allison is born, she's a tiny thing, small even by a baby's standards. Her mom drifts off to sleep soon after having her, but Chris—even after having stayed up thirty-four hours straight—gathers his daughter into his arms and stares down at her in wonder. She's swathed in a green blanket, her black hair still sticky, her eyes big and round like the moon. Chris can't quite believe that this is his life—a normal life like he's always wanted. You'll be a heartbreaker for sure, he whispers into her forehead, and kisses her goodnight.
They bury her on a Sunday, under the shade of a sycamore tree. Chris stares at the trifecta of Argent graves—sister, wife, daughter—and wishes it were him in the ground instead.
When Allison is five years old, she slams her bedroom door on her fingers and breaks them. There's no blood; only four pale, twisted soldiers that Allison stares at in fascination. The pain hits her a moment later, wracks her knuckles and her forearm and her everywhere, but she doesn't let herself cry.
Chris packs up the apartment in a day. They'd downsized, moving here from their house full of ghosts, and by the time he's sorted everything out forty years of his life have been reduced down to one duffle bag and his .45.
When Allison is seven-and-a-half years old, she punches a boy in her class for calling her a girl. His jaw cracks satisfyingly under her fist. Later, in the principal's office, she apologises for what she did, but it's a lie. Allison has never felt more proud of herself.
He finds Isaac by the SUV, backpack slung over one shoulder, scarf piled haphazardly beneath his jawline. Chris takes one look at the kid and says no. Isaac gets in anyway, buckles his seatbelt in silence, and when Chris slides behind the wheel he doesn't say anything else.
When Allison is eleven years old, she wins her first archery competition. It had been a bring-your-own-bow event, and where everyone else shot from those plastic and wood toys that were so easily broken, Allison took her military-grade gear and pulled back a weighted bowstring that even her father would have a hard time drawing. Taking out first place was of little surprise to her.
They drive east. Chris doesn't have any particular destination in mind. The SUV crosses through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming and Nebraska before he asks Isaac's opinion. Anywhere but Beacon Hills is all the kid has to say, and Chris couldn't agree more. They keep driving.
When Allison is thirteen years old, she gets her period during Math class. The blood is sticky between her thighs, a sickly shade of brownish-red, but instead of running to the office like Sophie had done last week, Allison layers toilet paper in her stained underwear and waits until she's home before grabbing a pad. Her mom doesn't find out until a month later, but by then, Allison has it all under control.
They ditch the SUV when they reach New York. Even though they're on the other side of the country, it still doesn't feel enough. Chris takes one look at Isaac's pale, drawn face and books a one-way flight to Paris.
When Allison is fifteen years old, she brings home her first boyfriend. They fool around in her bedroom for a while, but she doesn't let his hands creep beneath her sweater or her jeans. She has too much self-respect for that. When he tries to do it anyway, she rabbit-punches him in the kidneys and pushes him out the door. Over dinner that night she tells her parents they broke up.
France is peaceful, warm and, most importantly, different. Chris doesn't feel the ghosts of his family breathing down the back of his neck, and as far as he can see, Isaac has outrun his spectres too. They rent a little two-bedroom apartment that looks out over the Seine, and Chris laughs himself to sleep at the irony of being in the city of love with a burnt-out heart.
When Allison is sixteen years old, she meets Scott McCall, and his goofy, crooked smiles remind her of everything she isn't. She falls in love for the first time, loses her virginity and has her heart broken. It changes her. It makes her stronger.
He leaves Isaac in France and makes the long trek back to Beacon Hills. He never thought he'd want to go back, but that place is like a tumour—cut it out and it'll only regrow somewhere different. As California looms closer, Chris stifles the nausea rising up inside of him. If Allison could do it then so can you, he tells himself, and crosses the border.
When Allison is seventeen years old, a sword slices through her abdomen and she coughs up blood. Strangely, there's no pain; she feels detached, somehow, like she's floating, but that can't be right because she can also feel the solid weight of the ground beneath her. Scott is crying, and Allison thinks softly I still love you, before she closes her eyes with a sigh. And then she doesn't think anything anymore.
He rents out a place on the other side of town to their old house. It's small, and dingy, and the curtains smell like mould, but it's all he needs. He stows his .45 under his pillow and his clothes in the wardrobe and his one framed photograph of his family on the bedside table. You'll be a heartbreaker for sure, he thinks as he stares at Allison's glossy smile, and lets out a bitter laugh, because yeah. She was.
Author's Note: Not exactly canon. Because I do what I want. Title and header from Supertramp's Goodbye Stranger.