*** He doesn't want to go, but knows he should. Who's going to be there for Mary? I think we all know the answer to that question. ***
You call me strong, you call me weak
But still your secrets I will keep
You took for granted all the times
I never let you down
You stumbled in and bumped your head
If not for me then you'd be dead
I picked you up and put you back on solid ground
– Kryptonite, 3 Doors Down
Marshall stood on the dark porch and stared at the door he had pulled shut behind him. Instinct screamed at him to stay with her; experience wholeheartedly stiff armed him from arguing with her. She was tired and on edge, and honestly, he was surprised she had been as civil as she was. Even more surprised she had told him the story about Robert without badgering or threat. It all boiled down to Mary behaving slightly uncharacteristically, though, and that always pinged his radar.
"Annnnd…if she catches me loitering on the porch I'll be handed my own ass," he muttered to himself as he turned to walk to the truck.
He blew out a breath as he settled into the seat, pausing before turning the key in the ignition. There had been a look in her eye beyond tiredness. A window to…sadness…that evoked memories of his own past. Of comforting witnesses or friends who looked at him the same way; haunted by the actions of the ones they had trusted. Betrayed that final time when forgiveness could no longer be offered.
The radio hissed and spit at him on the drive home; reception expectedly poor on this station at this time of night. The disjointed snippets of voice and song told Mary's story. Unexpected beginnings and endings with jarring periods of noise and unnerving moments of silence. There was no pattern, no rhythm to match and grow comfortable with. Start. Stop. Run. Hide.
He thought of the last year. The twists and turns of misfortune and fate that mimicked her early years. Abrupt, unwelcome changes that left her reeling. Culminating in a slow abandonment that left her standing alone. Marshall wasn't sure if Mary Shannon truly knew who she was without the detritus of the past gathered about her. She had been fighting herself and everyone around her for freedom these last few months, and he worried she may have found it tonight; only to now stand before herself with no direction.
The ticking of the cooling engine again engaged his consciousness, and Marshall realized he was parked in his driveway just staring at the dark garage door in front of him. Shaking his head, he levered out of the truck and walked slowly to the door. A pile of mail and two catalogues greeted him on the hall table; a tall glass of water called from the kitchen. Within a half hour he was comfortably ensconced in his recliner, remote in hand, when his eyes fell on his cell phone.
Maybe I should call her? He deliberated with himself.
Sometimes it was hard to tell when her pushes were real. More than once he had looked a little more closely only to discover a cry for comfort buried deeply within the harsh words or hurtful action intended to drive him away. Tonight was one of those times, but he also saw a plea for understanding; for patience.
Marshall shook his head with a sigh and turned on the TV. He needed some mindless drivel to keep his thoughts from wandering back to stories of violence and pain. To keep him from forming plans to hunt down past nemeses to mete out justice long since due. How do you beat a child and live with yourself for even an hour afterwards? How do you watch your own flesh and blood struggle for air and cry in pain without committing murderous acts yourself? The plastic of the remote cracked in warning and Marshall released his grip to drop the device in his lap.
"A special place in hell," he murmured to himself as he again tried to focus on the screen.
The sound of gunshots permeated his dream, and Marshall saw himself kick open a door to witness a scene that made him shout in denial. Mary floated face down in a pool of filthy water as Jinx drank a bottle of Bourbon and laughed.
He sat straight up in the recliner with the shout, remote hitting the floor with his feet. Taking deep breaths, Marshall tried to rub the sleep from his eyes as he oriented to his surroundings. A week of witness battles and one sideways transfer had forced them both to exhaustion, and he wasn't surprised he had fallen asleep in the chair. Glancing at his phone with a groan due to sore muscles, Marshall was surprised by the time; he had slept nearly three hours. Standing to stretch, his mind quickly replayed the dream and turned to thoughts of his partner. And that box.
The unsettling sense of being needed just wouldn't let go. Combined with the dream and look in her eye as she ushered him out…Marshall tossed caution to the wind and called her phone.
No answer. That could mean anything, and especially the fact that she just wanted to be left alone, but his gut spoke louder than his common sense at this time of night. Looking down at his state of dress, he only had to throw on boots to be decent. Keys in hand, he was out the door a few minutes later.
The house was dark when he pulled up and Marshall again second guessed his decision to return to Mary's. He had no sense of danger or impending doom, but just this nagging need to check on her. It was this behavior that that earned him pitying looks from fellow office mates, and even Stan at times. His willingness to come to her aid, defend her, even after she had dressed him down with invective moments before. And it had been worse in the last few months, especially after the breakup with Raph. She was hurting. They had mended a few fences after the relocation of Walter; the long drive and much needed time together allowing them to talk without distraction or time constraints. Mary vented. Marshall listened. He asked her for some considerations and she relented. It was better, and he knew she would try.
Maybe that was why her reaction to the picture had disturbed him so deeply. She had been wired so tightly for so long, and he watched the strength just seem to drain out of her as she traced the figures in the photo. She covered quickly with anger, but as he talked to her later in the living room he knew she was running on empty. No fuel to even evade his questions or muster up a cover story. He worried.
Marshall knocked once. Twice. No answer, and he considered ringing the bell. If she was asleep, however, he didn't really want to wake her. He just needed to know she was all right. He shook her key from his key chain and quietly opened the door. The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and creak of the door as he closed it behind him.
"Mare?" he called softly, announcing himself so he didn't get shot. Nothing in return.
Marshall was headed to the bedroom when he saw her lying on the floor with her head resting on the hearth. For a moment his heart leapt into his throat thinking she was injured, but then he noted the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deeply in sleep. He stepped over to crouch down next to her.
Her fingers were dirty with soot and there were dark streaks on her face where she had wiped at her eyes or nose. Crying, he assumed. Brow furrowed, Marshall reached out to brush a few pieces of hair from her face. She didn't even stir with his touch. He saw the charred piece of paper she loosely held in one hand, and his eyes traveled to the fireplace where scraps and remnants of other burnt paper products littered the ashes and hunks of burned down logs. He recognized the pattern on the piece of box lying there; the one she had brought from her room. More curious now, Marshall gently removed the larger scrap from her hand. Mary's fingers tightened reflexively and she sighed. Sure that she slept on, he smoothed the paper and read the words.
Marshall sat down next to his partner as his mind worked through what he was seeing. A letter from her father. Likely the one he had left for her when he walked out of her life, based on the wording of the few sentences he was privy to. He realized she had burned more; many more. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Marshall didn't know whether to feel anger or angst. Angry that she had lied to him about being in contact with her father; sadness that these letters had likely provided false hope of his return all these years. His thoughts were interrupted by Mary muttering in her sleep and shifting restlessly. He watched her.
There were those who wondered why he stayed. Hell, there were days he wondered why he stayed. But it was times like this, looking at her now, that he knew why he could never leave. They never saw this Mary. They never heard the stories or the unkind words flung at her by her family. Didn't know about the monsters in the past or the demons that haunted her now. Little Match Girl. He wouldn't abandon her like the rest; wouldn't leave her unprotected.
Mary shivered slightly and Marshall knew he should wake her and coax her into bed. If she slept like this any longer she wouldn't be able to move in the morning. Leaning over to rub her arm, he called her name.
*** This boy can tie himself in more knots than a Gordian orgy! But he's there...and he knows what she's done. Will she talk to him? Or will he be taken for granted again? There's not much left to our story, but please keep reading 'til the end! Oh, and please REVIEW! ***
