Note: I neither profit nor want any profit from my stories. Tite Kubo is the boss and I merely bow humbly at his creative abilities. This is AU. The characters are merely used because...well, I wrote this before and I just applied it to Grimmjow's character. Although, I do think it fits his rather...warped psychological issues. Mommy issues. Family drama. That kind of thing. x)
Enjoy. Leave a review if you wish. I'd actually like to hear if I suck or rock.
Shadows
I can smell it coming. The still air is heavy and thick, muting the sounds of our desert metropolis. A thrilling secret hangs in the air, concealing itself from the inhabitants of Phoenix, Arizona. I inspect the world outside…watching, listening. Tires screech on the sticky asphalt outside of our apartment complex and traffic is slowed as people make their way home before the storm arrives. Outside a horn cuts through the still air, then another, and another.
My mother has been in rehabilitation for the past three months, and today she is coming for a visit.
My younger brother catches me staring anxiously out of the dusty window, and I flash him a smile. He is only eight, and can't remember what a major storm smells, looks, and feels like. I keep the secret knowledge from him for a bit longer. He crosses our cramped living room and puts his hand on my father's forearm, distractedly fumbling with the big silver company wristwatch. My father pats his head, smiles at me, cracks open a Pepsi, and settles onto the couch. Running his hand through his graying hair, he turns on the news and we watch from the warmth of our apartment as threatening clouds stick their rolling claws into the sky.
The doorbell rings, and my father sighs and glances at me as he opens the door. When my mother steps inside, I stare at the can of Pepsi, following the beads of condensation as they trickle down and soak into the heavy Spanish oak coffee table. I grab a coaster.
"Well… you're looking well," my father says curtly as he takes my mother's raincoat.
"Yeah, I suppose that's what treatment will do for you." Her voice is full and clear, and I tear my gaze from the can of Pepsi to look into her eyes. Her freckled face is flushed from the humidity outside, and she squeals when she sees my brother and me. I grimace, unsure of what to do with myself, until she pulls me from the couch into a squishy hug. She smells like vanilla and I breathe in the sickly sweet scent, holding it in my lungs, allowing it to extinguish the faint trace of cigarettes that emanates from her clothing. "Thank God I made it here before this storm set in; it's looking nasty out there!"
Her enthusiasm for storms envelops me, and I laugh quietly, watching her every move. My brother settles into my mother's lap on the couch, chatting animatedly about the new school games he has to teach her. She is listening, but her soft blue eyes return to me, and she gently but firmly holds my hand. We have moved the couch in front of the sliding glass door, which faces the parking lot to watch the tempest unfold, and my father heaps blankets on us and settles himself in his recliner. The first heavy drops have begun to strike the asphalt and steam rises, playful phantoms dancing in the dim light of the storm. Lightening splits the sky and stretches its thin fingers onto the rooftops.
The stale air bursts to share its secret, and it shrieks in gusts around the apartment complex. My father eyes the glass door warily, but my mother's shift from the storm to my face, back and forth, back and forth, and I hope that in this moment the storm will be ours to share. A memory worth reliving. She squeezes my hand and smiles and my eyes grow large as I excitedly watch the sweeping rain. Suddenly, the lights flicker in the apartment, going in and out, and when I look to make sure she is still holding me tight, the sputtering light makes her ruby nails gleam…
… My mother is smoking at the poolside, absentmindedly scratching her neck with her blood-red acrylics. I wave at her, chlorine water pooled in my ears and mouth. She doesn't wave back. She flicks the butt of her cigarette into the pool, heaves a great sigh, and turns her face away. When I dip my head under the surface of the water, all is silent. I can't hear her sigh. I don't see her crimson-tipped fingers, or smell the smoke wafting over the patio. Under the water, I focus on the air trapped in my chest, and in a great bubbling burst, I send it gurgling to the surface. For a moment I am delighted, and I have forgotten the mother I left in the world above. When I break through the surface, the mother I left towers over me, puffy eyes narrowed, and pulls me from the warm water…
I gasp as the rolling thunder shakes my chest. The rain's tempo intensifies on the carports outside, a thousand cap guns ringing through the night. The glass is streaked with water and it shakes, warping from the wind's great strength. The thrilling sensation I received when my mother squeezed my hand is leaving me, and I want the drumming rain to stop; it hurts my ears. Car alarms begin to ring, mingling with the rain on the glass front. Pulling the blankets more snugly around my wriggling frame, I hear a siren in the hazy abyss. My mother is getting excited, and as she lights a fresh cigarette, the smoke creeps into my lungs, choking me…
… I'm being led through a dimly lit hotel room, past men dealing playing cards with exposed women plastered on the backs. My eyes smart from the cigarette smoke and I try to cover my face but my mother slaps my hand away. She makes me sit on the couch while she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. My fingers trace the rough edges of a cigarette burn on the armrest. Around and around and around. Twenty minutes later I am on the city bus with the shadow of my mother slumped against the dirt-smeared window, her eyes open but unseeing. I am dropped off at my father's apartment and he hugs me close. The smoke from my clothes stings my eyes again and I know that now it is okay to cry…
The rain is relentless, and I notice that my brother is crying. My mother's hand tightens around my wrist. I look up at her and instantly the parking lot, the room, our bodies are showered in white hot light; a broken wire hisses, firing scorching sparks into the downpour where the lightning struck and we are blanketed in darkness as the power goes out. My breathing has become labored and suddenly, I am alone.
My mother squeezes my hand and I gasp as the lightening continues to strike, our faces distorted with shadows. In the storm we are not ourselves. I look up wide-eyed at my mother, and she is gaunt and terrifying in the sharp light. This is not my mother, and I gasp as a branch falls against the glass door, splintering against the chairs on the patio…
…I'm living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. My brother and I are frightened and crying as my mother throws all of our toys into the hallway. She smashes our Super Soakers, shatters the Etch-A-Sketch, and tramples Lego castles. We beg and beg for her to stop and explain why she is breaking all of our things. We are told that we are disgusting, that we don't deserve any toys, that we are bad. She is drunk, and she doesn't really see us. She pushes through the debris, crosses through the front door of our trailer home, and with both arms tangled in a knot around her stomach she staggers down the cracked pavement to the 7-Eleven on the corner…
A clap of thunder brings me out of my reverie and I struggle for breath. The storm is violent and in the effort to pull the blankets up over my head, I let go of my mother's hand.
In my soft cave the outside world is muted, I am slowly consoled by the repetition of my heartbeat as it decelerates. My fingers trace the thick threads, outlining the seams, noting where the fabric has ripped, and I think of the rain as the distant memories fade. The couch swells up beside me where the weight of my mother once was and the deep voice of my father can be heard over the howling wind. I wipe the tears from my face and pull the blanket away. Pale light flickers from fresh candles on the coffee table, and when I scan the room for signs of my parents, I find my father standing in the kitchen doorframe with his arms crossed. Tapping a pack of cigarettes nervously on the table, my mother sits nearby. They are talking in low voices, my father gesturing vaguely in our area; my mother's lips are pursed, but she smiles softly when she catches my eye.
Shadows from the candles dance along the wall, and my brother giggles and places his hands in front of the glow. His stubby fingers weave together creating animal-like figures on the white wall behind him. I can't help but smile as he lets out a harsh cry; the hazy outline of a great flapping bird moves past the rain-streaked glass door, up to the ceiling, fading into the dark beyond the candle's glow.