AN: Thanks again for the amazing reviews! I've got the story all written out; it'll be between Shawn and Henry's perspectives. I'm still trying to see if I can squeeze out an epilogue, maybe from Gus' perspective, but I'm not sure yet. And if anyone's wondering, yes, I always keep your guys' comments in mind. If you suggest or ask for something, I do consider it, and if it's possible, incorporate it into the story. Oh, I know someone asked...let's say Shawn's using a mixture of signing words and letters.
It had been four weeks since Shawn had been found. Three very long weeks of Shawn doing his very best to get out of the hospital, despite the fact he couldn't move by himself, and one week of Shawn doing his very best to leave his father's house. Henry crossed his arms as he saw Shawn coming into his kitchen. Most of the bruises were gone, the cuts and the stripes across his back were healing well. He would always have scars, but that wasn't what Henry was worried about.
In the four weeks that Shawn had been free, he had yet to make a sound. At all. There had been no words, no laughter, no hoarse attempts at any sound whatsoever. Henry knew his son had been fighting nightmares, since he checked on him several times during the night. Henry knew the dreams were intense, but Shawn had never made a noise.
There was no medical reason for this. The bruising and swelling in that area had been gone since Shawn was released from the hospital.
"What do you want for dinner?"
Shawn tilted his head and started to sign. Henry took a few steps until he was right in front of him, putting his hand over Shawn's and stopping his movements.
"No Shawn, I need you tell me. Out loud."
He saw Shawn's eyes widen as he shook his head. He tried to pull away, but Henry put his hands on his shoulders to stop him. "It's okay, Shawn. Go ahead, try to say something."
Shawn paled, and Henry saw his hands start to shake. Shawn's mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. No sound. Shawn shook his head vehemently, pulling away from him roughly, anger and fear obvious in his actions. Shawn turned away from him, putting both hands on the counter for support, and Henry gripped his shoulder. "It's okay, Shawn. You're fine. You're fine," he soothed. He felt Shawn's shoulders tremble slightly and felt anger boil up. Cort Holland was very lucky he was in jail.
He felt Shawn regain control of himself and pulled away, not surprised when Shawn left the house without glancing back at him. Shawn was obviously upset that Henry had tried to force the issue; which in turn, triggered a memory he was sure Shawn would have preferred remain buried. But Shawn needed to face this. His healing wouldn't be complete until he did.
…
Shawn couldn't get his hands to stop shaking. He squeezed them into fists and then spread them out, watching numbly as they continued to tremble. "Go ahead, psychic; try and say something now." The rope was tight, too tight; he was choking! Stop, please… "What's the matter? Nothing sarcastic to say now?" Black spots were dancing around the corners of his eyes as the rope was pulled tighter. No! No… Cort's laughter seemed to echo as the darkness swallowed Shawn.
It hadn't taken Cort long to become fed up with Shawn's commentary. Shawn knew the man wasn't completely sane, not after the things he had been doing to him, but one time…One time he had snapped completely after Shawn had spouted off another comment. And then…
Shawn pressed his hands to his eyes, forcing away the memory, the fear. He looked across the ocean, watched as the waves got closer and closer to where he was sitting on the beach. He tried to slow the rhythm of his breathing, tried to match it with the waves as they crashed in and out. This had become one of his safe havens ever since getting out of the hospital. For two weeks, his world had been contained to two rooms. One that Shawn could only associate with pain, the other a pitch-black prison. He could count the glimpses of sunlight that he had seen on one hand.
Now…now Shawn could see the sky. He could see the ocean, see where it melted into the distance. He tilted his face to catch the warmth from the sun, the breeze flowing across his face as he breathed in deeply. This was freedom.
But Shawn wasn't really free.
When his father had tried to get him to say something, he was right back in that factory, Cort laughing at Shawn's futile struggles. He could feel the rope cutting off his air, feel that sick feeling when he realized there was no escape. Shawn shoved his fingers through his hair, gripping his head in frustration.
"Go ahead, psychic. Try to say something now."
AN: Does my comment that he's not out of the woods make sense now? :)
