Oy, again, I have to apologize for the long delay in posting this chapter. I have no excuse other than the usual real life and danged work issues, and this chapter seemed to have a mind of its own in where it wanted to go. I do greatly hope that it was worth the wait. And once again, I have to thank you all tremendously for the wonderful reviews - I'm absolutely beyond flattered, and it greatly helps make this fun obsession even more gratifying. And now... back to our story:
John coasted down the long, curved, gently sloped driveway, then just when he felt the bump of the curb, he jerked his feet and spun the skateboard in a 180. He pushed his way back to the top of the drive by practicing flips and clumsy spins, finding the garage by accidentally banging his shoulder into it.
The mid-day sun baked down on him, the air tasted of dust and sand, and the distant hum of traffic filled his ears. He missed the clean, salty air of Atlantea, missed the ever-present rush of the waves. Maybe once he'd learned to be a little more self-sufficient, he'd move to the coast and buy a place right on the beach so that he could smell and hear the ocean without even having to leave his house.
Repositioning the board, he pushed off hard with one foot, giving himself a burst of speed. He tucked into a crouch, going even faster, the grind of the board's wheels on the cobbled driveway loud to his ears. Over the sound, he heard a car nearing, and for a dizzying moment, he wanted to keep going and fly out into the street. The board's front wheels tipped off the curb, and the noise of the car's engine grew louder, almost in front of him. Making an unconscious snap decision, he hopped off backwards onto the driveway, flipping the board over with his foot and stopping its motion. The car came to an abrupt tire-squealing halt, startling him. The engine idled for a moment, then shut off, followed by the thump of a car door opening and then slamming shut.
"You know, John, I'm all for you regaining your independence and not allowing your disability to hold you back," a young woman's voice said a little breathlessly, "but I'm not so sure that boarding into the way of oncoming traffic is such a good idea."
"Yeah? Why not?" John teased, immediately recognizing his therapist Dana's slightly husky voice. He'd heard it enough during their five previous sessions – she'd talked a blue streak, he mostly listened, or pretended to listen.
"Two reasons," she shot back. "For one, aren't you a little old for that?"
"Never too old," John asserted. "I'd actually rather be surfing, but the ocean's kinda too far away to walk."
"True – the surfing bites around here," Dana agreed.
"What's two?" John asked, moving the board back and forth with his foot.
"Two?"
"You said two reasons."
"Oh, right," she said, stepping close beside him. "Okay, you know Tyler, my lunatic of a 12-year-old kid? He happens to have perfect 20/20 vision and lives for boarding, yet he still comes home from school just about every day with banged up elbows and knees – his chin has a permanent scab because he refuses to wear padding. I take away his board; he just borrows one off his buddies, so what can you do? Anyway, a month or so ago, he comes home from school, his eyes glazed over from a near concussion, his mouth looking like hamburger and his front teeth shattered. He tells me it was worth it though, because he'd finally 'oiled a twelve set and the wipeout was sick.' Cost a fortune at the dentist, I tell ya. So, two – I'd just really hate to see you mess up those nice teeth of yours, bud."
"Too late – been there and done that a couple of times." John curled his upper lip to show her his own teeth. "Both of these are capped," he said tapping the front ones. "Besides, I heard you coming."
"Well, you still scared the shit of me," Dana told him matter-of-factly.
"Well, you're late, and I got bored waiting," John said, equally casual. "Thought maybe you weren't coming, or I'd mixed up the days, or something."
"Yeah, sorry, there was an accident on the freeway, and you weren't answering your phone – obviously otherwise occupied. So are you ready to get started?"
"Yeah, let's get it over with, I guess," John said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
"That's the spirit," Dana said, patting his arm. From the very first session, John had understood why Heightmeyer recommended Dana. She only took on one client at a time, specializing in one-on-one individual mobility training in the client's own environment, which was all that John was willing to do in the way of rehabilitation at this point. Plus, Dana's straightforward approach helped John feel slightly less of a pathetic invalid. She reminded him of McKay a little, come to think of it.
He brought his heel down on the back of the board, flipping it in the air. He couldn't help a grin of triumph when he managed to catch it without bashing himself in the face.
"You know, Tyler would absolutely kill for that board," Dana said, guiding him with a light touch on his arm as they made their way into the house. "Is it custom made or something?"
"It was a gift," John said, unwilling to offer any further information than that. Nancy had seen him drooling over a similar board in a store window when they'd taken a trip to California. She'd bought him the almost exact same model – actually, this one was even sweeter – and had given it to him as a joke for his thirtieth birthday. For the old man, she'd laughed. Of course, he'd fallen in love at first sight – probably not the reaction she'd been hoping for.
"I'd offer to let your kid take it for a spin," he added to Dana out of politeness, "but I'd hate to be the cause of more dentist bills."
"Much appreciated," Dana said. "Three steps up," she cautioned when they neared the wooden stairs to the porch and front door.
During their first session, where she had evaluated William's home and instructed John's father on removing any potential hazards, Dana had been straight with John. Learning to get around would be challenging, as he was classified as NLP – no light perception, or suffering total blindness. She'd then reassured him that many people with the same degree of vision loss eventually learned to become independent and were living full, meaningful lives. John had been skeptical and told her as much. Besides, this wasn't living – this was merely existing, but he hadn't vocalized that – some things you needed to keep to yourself.
The lesson for the day was getting around in the kitchen – making coffee, putting a simple meal together and setting the table. Since that first assessment, William made a point of making himself scarce during John and Dana's sessions, usually hiding out next door, at his friend Norman's place. John wasn't sure if William wanted to give them space, or if he just couldn't stand to see his son reduced to this.
The making lunch lesson ended without too much of a mess, or so John hoped, although managing a can opener had been a son of bitch. By the time he and Dana finally sat down to tomato soup and ham and cheese sandwiches, his stomach was growling.
"You know, food's a lot more enjoyable when you actually taste what you're eating," Dana said after he'd nearly inhaled half of his sandwich. Self-conscious eating around other people, John had gotten in the habit of wolfing down his food, therefore getting the ordeal over with as quickly as possible. Dana, of course, didn't let him get away with that. So far, she wasn't letting him get away with anything.
Feeling his face reddening, he nodded and picked up the other half of his sandwich, which Dana had instructed him to position on his plate at two o'clock. He took an exaggeratedly dainty bite and chewed it far longer than necessary.
"Much better," Dana praised dryly.
He ignored her and tackled the soup. When he hunched too far over his bowl, Dana directed him to sit up straighter and take his time to slowly guide the spoon to his mouth. John said nothing, biting back his growing frustration. After what seemed to be the fifth time she'd corrected him, he tossed his spoon down with a clatter and pushed the bowl back.
"Hey, you're not even half-finished."
"I'm full," he said even though he was still hungry.
"A big guy like you can't possibly be full from a few mouthfuls of soup and half a sandwich."
"I had a big breakfast," John drawled, pretending that he didn't hate every damn second of this. He stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest.
"Okay," Dana said, letting it go for the time being. "We'll try some more later."
"Actually, I don't even like soup," John told her. "I mostly live on burgers and pizza."
"All things you can eat with your hands," Dana replied, not missing a beat.
"Yeah, so?"
"So, maybe one day, you'd like to go out for a nice dinner and impress a hot date with your impeccable table manners and choice of swanky establishment."
"Yeah, right," he snorted. "Like that'll ever happen."
"Why not? An attractive guy like you—I bet you had to fight off the girls with a stick in high school," Dana said, a smile in her voice.
"Not really," John said. Although he did know a girl who'd liked to beat the crap out of him with two sticks. He quickly pushed back the thought of Teyla, or anything to do with Atlantis. "You know…" he added, slouching back in his chair and tilting his head slightly, quirking his eyebrow, "this could constitute as a come on."
"Nope. I was just stating a fact," Dana replied, not put off in the slightest. "You are cute."
John couldn't hold back a faint smile at that. "Well, at least I still have my looks, huh?"
"Yep," she agreed. "And that was not a come on in any way, shape or form. I'm just saying, don't rule out any possibilities – your life is not over and there's still so much that you can do."
"Well, I think I'm gonna hold off on the wining and dining, for now," he said. "I kinda suck at the whole dating thing anyway."
"Yeah, me, too," Dana agreed. "Men are way too much trouble."
"And women are worse," John countered, glad they'd gotten that settled and agreed upon. "So, umm, what made you decide on such an… unusual choice of career?"
"My little brother, Darren," she said. "Yeah, I know – Darren and Dana Dawson. My parents are evil personified. Darren was born prematurely and has limited vision – he works part-time as a counselor for the visually impaired, too. He also plays the sax in a jazz band. He'd do it full-time if he could – he's always loved music."
"All I ever wanted to do was fly," John said softly, almost to himself. "That's all I was ever good at."
"I'm sure that's not true," Dana said.
"Yes… it is," he corrected, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. The skin was too warm and prickling with incipient sunburn.
"So then you just have to find something else you're good at," Dana told him, her voice firm. "What do you like to do?"
John thought a moment. "Surf, skateboard, ski, run, fly planes, fighter jets, helicopters… anything that takes you into the sky." He pretended to think it over some more, drumming his fingers on the table. "Yeah, that's about it."
He realized that he sounded angry, and wasn't surprised to find that he was angry It seemed to be the only thing he was able to feel anymore.
"Yeah, well…" Dana paused, momentarily at a loss for a snappy comeback. "I'm afraid the flying's gonna be a thing of the past, bud," she finally said in a soft voice, further gentling her words by giving his fingers a quick squeeze, halting their nervous motions. "Running, boarding, skiing – we can maybe figure something out for that one of these days. But first, you need to learn how to get from point A to point B. Not just at home, but out there, in the real world, too. What do you say we start with that?"
She didn't say anything more. She just waited and kept hold of his hand until he reluctantly nodded. He pulled his hand free and swiped it over his eyes, surprised to find that his lashes were wet. "Okay," he said quietly.
One breath at a time, John, he heard Teyla's voice whispering in his memory. And sometimes, that was as far ahead as he was willing to allow his thoughts to stray, because the future was still much too terrifying to contemplate.
In the few weeks following the terrible night that Rodney found him on the balcony, John had sunk into a despair so helpless and so complete that he'd found it difficult to summon the energy to move, to even speak. Elizabeth and Dr. Keller had also informed him that he'd been officially placed on permanent disability, and the SGC were in the process of releasing him from the military on an honorable discharge. Elizabeth had then regretfully informed him that he had been deemed well enough to travel and they were sending him home in seven days – the following Monday.
He thought it strange how she called it 'sending him home.' Earth was no more home to him than the moon. Atlantis was his home and they were evicting him from it.
Somehow, he'd managed to nod in reply – after all, he'd been expecting this any day. Elizabeth had continued to talk, to apologize to him as though this whole thing was her fault. Somehow he'd managed to tell her that it was okay, that he'd be all right, even though his chest and his stomach hurt as badly as if someone had punched him. He'd wished that she'd go away before he couldn't hold the terrible pain and grief in any longer. In the end, he'd turned his back to her, shutting her out. She'd taken the hint and finally, reluctantly, left.
In an attempt to lift his spirits, Dr. Keller had allowed him to spend his last week on Atlantis in his quarters on the condition that someone was always with him. If he'd cared enough, John could have told her that the condition wasn't a problem – McKay had scarcely left his side since that night. They'd even settled into a routine, of sorts.
Rodney would bring his ever-present laptop to John's room and work while John largely ignored him, sometimes cranking up his iPod and tuning him out. Sometimes, Rodney would talk him into coming to his lab with him, and John would sit on the low-back swivel chair that Rodney had designated as his. John would press his back against the far corner, staying out of the way, speaking only when asked a direct question. Rodney would tirelessly bustle around the room, talking non-stop without expecting John to contribute to his steady monologue. The almost continual taps of Rodney's fingers on various keyboards were strangely hypnotic, and John would listen to his friend's chatter without really registering anything he said, just focusing on the tap tap tap until it became the only sound he'd hear.
The day when Teyla stopped by the lab and offered to teach John to properly meditate, to help him 'attain some peace and acceptance,' as she'd put it, was when the despondency and safe routine fell apart.
The trouble was, when John had been with the almost Ascended for six months, he'd hated meditating. He'd hated it when he'd tried coaching McKay only a few months ago, and the idea was even more ridiculous to him now. The emotions he'd suppressed for so long started rising to the surface, threatening to bubble over.
"Meditate?" he echoed, managing a snide laugh. "As in close my eyes and think of nothing?" He gestured at his sightless eyes. "In case you hadn't noticed, Teyla, I'm already in the dark, and it's pretty fucking bleak in here."
"John, I did not mean—" Teyla broke off uncertainly. "Perhaps… you and I could talk, instead?" She lightly, almost hesitantly touched his arm. "You have become so silent, it is as though you have disappeared from us."
John chewed his lip a moment. "Okay, we can talk," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Hi, Teyla, how's your day going? Mine sucks, but that's nothing new."
"John," Teyla said almost in admonishment.
"Why is that everyone's answer to everything, anyway?" John said, the rising anger beginning to take full hold. "'Get in touch with your emotions, John, and you'll feel better. Talk about what you're going through so we can help you with this.' How the hell is talking or fucking meditating going to help me feel better?"
"Hey, Sheppard," Rodney said in a slight warning tone. "She's just trying to help."
"Yeah, well, you know what?" John countered, finding himself unable and unwilling to stop. He couldn't see either of their expressions, of course, and somehow, that gave him the strange freedom to say whatever the hell he wanted. "I wish that everyone would just back off and stop trying to help so much, because it's all bullshit, and it's not making one damn bit of difference!"
Rodney started to say something else but Teyla shushed him.
"John…" Teyla grasped hold of John's forearm and he wanted to slap her small hand away, but he wasn't that far gone yet. "I am sorry," she said carefully. "Please forgive me if I have offended you or upset you."
John took a deep breath, startled at the watery, tearful sound to her voice. He was suddenly ashamed of himself. He shook his head. "No, you… I… I didn't mean—"
"I have perhaps a better idea," Teyla interrupted his helpless stammering, her voice steadier. "Will you trust me and come with me now, John?"
The renewed confidence in her voice made him curious enough to pull himself from his corner and go along with her. They left Rodney with his laptop, and Teyla held his hand as she silently led him to the transporter elevators. They went down a few floors, neither of them speaking as they headed down a long hallway. They paused a moment, and he heard the swoosh of doors opening. Once inside, John recognized the smell immediately. Wood, oil that smelled a little like sandalwood, and the faint tang of old sweat. The training room.
He frowned in puzzlement. "I did say that I was sorry, right?"
Teyla laughed a little. "That is not why I brought you down here, John."
"So you're not gonna kick my ass?"
Teyla didn't answer, and he heard her padding away from him, then the familiar clatter of their fighting sticks. She stepped close to him and placed the sticks in his hands.
"I think you're forgetting one vital detail, Teyla," John said. Even still, he twirled the sticks experimentally. They felt good in his hands.
"I have practiced many times with my eyes covered," Teyla reminded him. "You must rely on your other senses. The sound the stick makes as it rushes through the air, the brush of wind on your skin just before the stick falls, the sound of your opponent's breaths and footsteps. The dance of your own feet as you match them, step for step."
John realized what she was trying to do and smiled a little despite himself. "You're totally going to kick my ass, aren't you?"
"We shall go slowly, as you are still recovering," she corrected. "Are you ready, John?"
He nodded and raised his sticks. Teyla came at him and lightly tapped his upper arm. Sidestepping her, he swung his other arm, moving almost instinctively. He heard the satisfying crack of Teyla blocking his strike, the thrum of the blow vibrating up his forearm. Raising his other stick overhead, he brought it down with a quick snap. Teyla quickly countered it, but then something unconscious and instinctive seemed to take over. He went into their familiar routine as best he could, trusting Teyla to guide him. She easily deflected the swing of his sticks. Even as he stopped checking the strength of his blows, she met him strike for strike, seemingly effortlessly, but it didn't matter. Every crack of the sticks was a release. He railed against the blackness, the unfairness of having everything that mattered taken from him. The terror of spending the rest of his life away from the only home he had ever cared about, and the team who meant more to him than his very life.
He began to swing wildly, furiously, losing all sense of where he was.
"Focus, John," Teyla called out, sounding not even the slightest bit out of breath. When he didn't listen, she tapped him on the back of his thigh, just hard enough to sting a little, to get his attention. He jumped back, nowhere near ready to slow down.
He swung in a wide, low arc, and she nearly knocked the stick from his hand with her return strike. They kept going, faster and faster until he was moving around in a tight circle, his breath coming as harsh rasps, his muscles trembling. He managed to catch Teyla on some part of her arm, and the thud of the stick hitting flesh startled him. He stumbled, somehow managing to trip over his own feet. He fell hard to the mat, instinctively throwing out his hands to catch his fall.
"John!" Teyla was beside him in an instant. "Are you all right?"
He sat up and tore a hand through his sweat-tangled hair. "Yeah," he gasped, unable to catch his breath and realized that he was crying a little. He hoped Teyla wouldn't notice from all the sweat dripping down his face along with the tears.
"I think that is enough for one day," Teyla said. She gently wiped his face with something soft, then surprised him by suddenly and tightly wrapping her arms around him. He hesitated a moment, then returned her embrace. He felt something wet against his neck, and Teyla sniffled a little before letting him go.
"I'm gonna miss this… you kicking my ass," John nearly whispered. "This place… all of you. I don't know what I'm… how I'm going to…" he shook his head, unable to articulate his fears, pressing his lips tight together.
"John, listen to me when I tell you this," Teyla said firmly as she took hold of both of his hands. "You are strong, one of the strongest, most courageous men I have ever known, but that strength lies in your heart and in your indomitable spirit, not in how well you fight, or fly a jumper or see the physical world around you. You must not allow what you can no longer do to become who you are. You must always be true to the man you are in here." She let go of his hands and placed her own small hand on his chest, right over his heart. "Will you promise me that, John?"
He thought over her words, and he wanted to listen, but it wasn't so simple. He wasn't even sure if she was right. He knew that he was no longer the same man he'd been before this happened to him. He would never be the same again. "I don't know if I can do that," he admitted. "I don't know what it's going to be like… going back."
"Then you just take things one step at a time," Teyla told him.
"Everybody keeps telling me that and—" he protested.
"And if that is too much," she broke in, her voice tremulous, "then you take it one moment, one breath at a time, until all that matters is that you can still breathe, that you are still alive. And know that we will always be thinking of you and missing you, no matter where you are. It will not be the same here without you."
She gave him another quick, almost fierce hug, then took his hand, offering to help him stand. He staggered a little at the trembling ache in his muscles, but at the same time, he realized that he felt a little better, calmer somehow.
"Can we do this again tomorrow?" he asked, hopeful, and through her tears, Teyla laughed and told him that they most certainly could.
One breath to the next, he kept telling himself, and it became his mantra when he got so frustrated that he wanted to smash his fists through the walls. Or when he longed to shout at William, or shout at Dana and tell her to stop coming, when he wanted to just roll over and surrender.
But in time, it had begun to get a little easier, or maybe he was just getting used to life in the dark. He'd learned to walk around in public using what he called his gimp cane, with Dana walking a few feet behind him, encouraging him in a soft voice from time to time. They'd started in the park and gradually worked their way up to the nearby shopping mall where John had mortified himself by having a panic attack, overwhelmed by the cacophony of voices and intermingled, clashing smells. Dana had quickly gotten him out of there, apologizing profusely for pushing him too hard and too fast. When he'd recovered enough to talk, he reassured her that malls had always had that effect on him, even when he could see, earning a relieved laugh and a slap on the arm from Dana.
On their second and much more successful trip, Dana all but dragged him into a store playing some screechy rock music that was so terrible it made John wince.
"Hey, what do you say we pick out some new stylin' attire for you?" Dana said, her voice all mock innocence, but he'd come to know her well enough to figure that she'd probably been planning this.
He plucked at his faded, old denim shirt. "What's wrong with the clothes I already have?"
"That's just it – you don't have any clothes," Dana said, "unless you're unnaturally attached to the same three shirts and black T-shirt I've seen you in for the past two months?"
"I don't think shopping was in your job description, was it?" John asked suspiciously.
"Hey, I'm a woman, and women always want to shop for men. It's genetically predisposed."
He mulled it over a moment – his shirts probably were getting a little rank. Besides, he couldn't do this sort of thing for himself anymore, and he wasn't about to trust William's fashion sense, or lack thereof.
"Okay," he finally agreed, "but I only wear stuff that's black, white or gray."
"Those aren't colors, Sheppard, those are mindsets."
"All right, fine, Dawson, blue is okay, too," he amended. "So long as it's denim blue, and nothing even vaguely resembling stripes."
"Aw, and here I had this nice chartreuse and purple dress shirt already picked out for you."
"If you even think about sneaking in anything purple or chartreuse, I'm firing you," John threatened. "What the hell is chartreuse anyway?"
"Puke green," she answered, laughing at John's involuntary shudder.
Though he hated shopping, he had to admit that Dana picked out his new 'attire' with remarkable speed, describing each item in detail for him, and turned the experience into yet another lesson when she'd stood back and watched him struggle to pay for his purchases with his credit card.
When she dropped him home that evening, John took his time folding his new clothes and putting them away. Before he'd lost his sight, it used to be a simple task, one of those day-to-day chores you did without thinking, or grudgingly, because there were so many other things that you'd rather be doing. But now, it was one of the few things that he could do for himself, something he could easily manage on his own, and it lent him a much needed sense of accomplishment, of independence. Funny how things changed.
John found that not all that much had changed with his father, though. Even retired, William was still a man who loved routine and order. Up at 07:00 every morning, Sunday was bacon and eggs for breakfast and grocery shopping in the afternoon. Monday was mowing the lawn. Tuesday was bowling. Wednesday and Thursday were for household chores. Friday was poker night, and Saturday was drinks with 'the boys' at the Legion. John often found himself alone in the small house, feeling trapped, caged, while the world went on without him.
Father and son continued to behave like polite acquaintances who really weren't certain if they even liked each other, and John had no idea how to break down the wall they'd built up around each other. Maybe, like he'd told Rodney, some things simply couldn't be fixed.
They finally sat down to dinner together for the first time in an almost a week – it was Thursday, a night at home for William – and John listlessly poked at his plate of spaghetti. William had made it from scratch – yet another dish that 'any idiot could figure out how to cook,' according to the William Sheppard philosophy of cooking. John pushed his meal around on his plate, hoping that William was too busy eating his own food to notice that his son wasn't eating much. It tasted good, but John had given up trying to twirl it around his fork, a feat that seemed near impossible without being able to see it. He didn't want to make a mess in front of his father.
After a long silence, William cleared his throat. "Things going all right with that girl?"
William always referred to Dana as 'that girl,' and it never ceased to irritate John. "She has a name, dad," he said, checking his impatience. "And things are going good. She thinks that you don't like her, though."
"What the hell difference does it make if I like her or not?" William said, genuinely incredulous. "She's your therapist, not mine. Makes no difference to me."
"It's just that she comes here four days a week, and you haven't said two words to her," John shrugged. "Some people might take that the wrong way, is all."
"Well, she is an oddball," William said shoving his chair back a little from the table. "Dresses like some hippie and her hair's even more of a mess than yours. Never know what color it's gonna be from one day to the next."
John smiled at that. "Cool. What color was it yesterday?"
"I dunno – purple, or blue or something that doesn't exist in nature," William groused. "Didn't really look all that closely."
John poked at his plate, the tines of his fork screeching against the porcelain.
"If you don't like it, don't eat it," William said.
"No… it's good," John quickly said, surprised at the wounded, resentful tone to his father's voice. It's just that…" He mimed a twirling motion with his fork.
William was silent a moment. "Oh. Ahh, right. Dammit." He snatched the plate from John's hand, startling him. John heard the scratch of a knife against the porcelain – his father cutting up his food for him. William set the plate back down in front of him again so quickly that it cluttered on the table a moment. John was too stunned to say or do anything.
"Why didn't you say something?" William snarled, dropping back into his chair, not making any effort to hide his impatience.
John's face burned with humiliation and his hands started shaking a little, but he took a few polite bites anyhow.
"Christ, you're just like your mother sometimes," William gritted out, and John froze at that. "She wouldn't open her mouth to save her damn life."
"Maybe that's because she was afraid of you," John said slowly and carefully, anticipating the brewing storm of his father's reaction to that.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" William said in the tight, threatening voice that John remembered all too well from his childhood. He remembered the many times William had shouted and ranted at his John's mother until she'd cried. Sometimes, the sight of her tears, her weakness, would only rile William even further. John remembered all the times his father would berate her, sometimes roughly grabbing her and shaking her as though he could violently force her into becoming the perfectly poised, self-assured wife that he demanded.
"John, I asked you a question," William said when John didn't answer.
John took a deep breath. He wanted to remind his father of all those times. Of all the times William had vented his volatile, unpredictable anger not only on his wife, but John, too. Of all the times William had bullied him, all the times he'd called John a sissy, a mama's boy, a troublemaker who would never amount to anything.
But John didn't say any of that. There wasn't any point.
"Never mind, dad," he said instead. He reached for his glass of water and misjudged the distance. It tipped over, spilling on his plate, the table and onto his lap. "Shit!" he cursed, jumping to his feet, shoving the chair back.
William cursed at the same time and came around the table. John tried to find his napkin to help clean up and ended up nearly putting his hand in his plate.
"I got it, John!" William snapped, batting his hand away. "Just… just leave it."
John stepped away, unconsciously backing up until he found the doorway. Without another word, he stumbled from the kitchen, leaving William to shove chairs around, mopping up the mess he'd made. John found his way outside to the front porch, gripped the railing hard and imagined that he was standing on his favorite balcony on Atlantis, instead of this heat-blasted, suburban hellhole in Nevada. He forced back his churning emotions, crammed down the memories. He realized that the terrible nervous fear he'd lived with nearly every day as a kid in his father's house was back. The fear of never knowing what to expect. If it would be a good day or a bad one.
John took slow, deep breaths and tried not to think anymore.
One breath to the next.
--- tbc ---