My father came home to me picking up tossed pillows and abandoned glasses in the living room. It wasn't the first time I'd done something like this. Clara wasn't exactly messy, but she hadn't been raised to the same standards my father held.

Technically speaking, cleaning was Klein's job, but I never felt right leaving it to him, not when the cause wasn't the inevitable detritus of living, but a single girl. One who not be here if not for me.

And now, of the same cause, she would never be here again.

Father entered the room just as I set a pillow back onto the couch, which is something you do when your couch actually matches the décor. His suit clung to his frame a bit tighter and more rumpled than it did that morning, but only the most nitpicky of people would view him as anything other than perfectly composed.

I smoothed the front of my dress and turned, casting a surreptitious glance over the room. There was still a book or two to pick up off the floor, as well as a stack of dishes on the table, but at least it didn't look like someone had slept here.

I swallowed. "Evening, Father."

(It only barely counted as that anymore, but he didn't correct me)

"Weiss," he said, only glancing at me before looking at the rest of the room. "Where's the mongrel at?"

I didn't need to ask who the mongrel was. "She's gone."

Father stared at me oddly, before smiling. "Gone? This early?" He chuckled. "Here I thought I'd have to kick her out."

He began to undo his tie. I bent down to continue cleaning.

"I'm surprised you even knew she was here," I admitted, picking up a book with a picture of a near-naked woman on the front cover. Probably not one of ours.

Father snorted. "She was rooting through the fridge when I came home for lunch. During school hours, I may add."

"Like we'll notice the loss," I muttered half-heartedly, before standing with the book in hand. I crossed to the bookshelves on the other side of the room and looked through them, searching for an empty spot.

"It's the principle of the thing," Father said.

"Hmm."

I heard, rather than saw the pause that came over him. I wasn't paying much attention, but I knew he was looking at me.

"You're out of sorts," he noted, a rustle following his words. "Something happen? Your girl finally run out of excuses?"

I dropped the book onto the bookshelf, loudly. "Nothing like that."

"But something did happen?"

I paused for a moment, looking at the cover of the book. Clara's book. It had to be. She would want it back. Eventually.

"She's gone," I repeated, although it wasn't as easy to say this time. It had more weight behind it, more barbs that pricked my throat.

"Gone?" Father repeated, a hint of confusion in his voice. It vanished a moment later. "For good?"

I nodded, still facing the bookshelf.

Father chuckled. "Finally came to your senses, huh? Knew you'd figure it out eventually. People like that… well, not to sound like a broken record, but they're trouble. She's trouble. Always have been, and always will be."

The book creaked. "She wasn't the trouble."

He huffed. "Oh, she most certainly was. Crude, needlessly aggressive, a complete lack of self-control... she was a beast, Weiss. An animal. I have no idea what you saw in her, but—"

I slammed the book onto the bookshelf, knocking over a picture frame on its top.

"Of course you wouldn't," I growled. "How would you? You can't even see me."

"What are you on about?" Father demanded.

"You want to know why I dated her?" I turned around, looked my father in the eye. "You want to know why I asked her out? Her, the chain-smoking leather wearing poster child of delinquency?"

I took in a breath. "I needed… I wanted to prove you wrong. To show you this wasn't some fad, that what I am could have something real."

I looked down. My hands trembled. "Not that it worked."

Father's mouth parted, his throat bobbing before he curled his lips into a grimace.

"I'm sorry," he said.

I scoffed. "Right."

"I am," he stressed. "I just—I didn't—"

He sat on the couch, staring down at the coffee table like it held a secret.

"I never meant for any of this to happen," he said. "I just… I wanted you to be safe."

I crossed my arms. "Don't try to tell me you did this. I'm aware of whose fault it is."

"I've played a part," he said, looking up. "I've pushed you into a position you wouldn't have been, forced you into decisions you wouldn't have considered, otherwise."

He paused, pursing his lips. "And it hurt you. Is hurting you. That's what I'm sorry for."

I felt a little burst of elation at those words, almost enough to erase the pain that had been resting on my heart for most of the evening. It worked. He was wrong, and he knew it. It was everything I'd wanted out of this whole mess.

Now it felt like nothing.

"You're sorry." I snorted. "That's great. That's fantastic, really. You're sorry you treated me like dirt because of something beyond my control. You're sorry that I didn't turn out exactly the way you wanted me too. You're sorry you kept calling someone I cared about a—a bitch, practically, even if you couldn't spit the word out."

I saw his nails dig into his palms, but I didn't give him the chance to spout whatever rationalization he had tucked away. "Does this mean you've changed your mind? If I bring another girl home tomorrow, you'll be happy for me?"

He grimaced. "I… no. No, this… phase you're in is a mistake." He sighed. "But I won't accomplish anything by demanding you stop. God knows my own father tried that often enough. You need to see the consequences for yourself."

The words were said softly, almost, almost kindly, but they still hit like bullets. A frothy, hungry mass of pain settled in my stomach. I wanted to scream. I wanted to crawl up to a toilet and empty my guts into it. I wanted to grab my father by his neck and squeeze until I felt something break. I wanted to hurt something until I stopped feeling anything at all.

"You're right," I said, his head jolting up. "You're right. I made mistakes. I made dozens with Clara—and I made one with you."

I shut my eyes and shook my head. "I thought you could change."

"Weiss—"He stood, reaching out to grab me, but I stormed straight past him.

"Weiss!" He yelled. "Weiss! Don't ignore me when I'm speaking to you! Weiss!"

I did.

I walked down the hall, ignoring his increasingly feverent demands for me to return. He never followed, however. Not even when I went to the second floor, when his voice became no more noticeable than the wind outside the window. Not even when I entered my room, shut my door and locked it.

My room. Where Clara had just been in today, left her to sleep off another hangover. Where it still smelled of smoke and drink, but also a hint of something sweeter.

I looked at my desk. The smell came from a bottle of perfume. Not an expensive brand, not the kind my father usually buys for me, but one I had seen in a store one day when I was I trying to avoid going home for a few hours. One I had an interest in.

Clara was with me when I saw it.

I still had my hand on the doorknob, and it was for that reason alone I didn't collapse onto the floor.

I'm not sure what it says about me that I managed to sleep straight through the night, without any nightmares or 1:00 AM worry fests. I felt like I shouldn't have woken up to the sun streaming through my windows, and the calls of the few birds still unaware of the changing weather.

Maybe I just wanted rain.

At any rate, I pushed myself out of bed when my alarm went off and spent the first five minutes of my morning trying to rub the sand out of my eyes. The house seemed quiet as I journeyed to the washroom and back, so I hoped I might get through this morning without anyone bothering me.

The answer to that came with a knock on my door.

"Come in," I said, looking up only briefly from my half-filled backpack to see who entered.

My mother looked—well, harried isn't quite the right word, it never was. She could go through a hurricane and still come out composed. It was always the biggest difference between her and Father. No matter how hard he tried, he always got tired, always got sloppy. Relatively speaking.

Mother relaxed by straightening her hair.

Despite all that, I knew she was worried. I was—am her daughter. I didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see the stress eating at her—nor to figure out the cause.

She leaned against the edge of the door, eyes following my movement. "Sleep well?"

I shrugged. "Mostly."

She sighed. "You're father told me what happened last night."

"Of course he did," I muttered, setting the last book into my bag and zipping it up. "I told him all I had to say."

"Yes, he mentioned that part as well." Mother crossed her arms. "Look, I know your father can be a touch… unpleasant, at times—or most of the time, recently—but he does care about you. You're his daughter. That means something to him."

"Yes, I mean something to him," I muttered, throwing my backpack over my shoulder. "I don't have time to talk right now; I'm going to be late."

"You've got over an hour before school starts," Mother said. "The only thing you'll be late for is cleaning your locker."

I blinked.

Mother smirked. "Don't look so surprised. Your father does talk, and I have been known to go to those parent-teacher conferences."

She looked down, smile fading. "I suppose I shouldn't be happy I've accomplished the bare minimum for parenting. I'm sorry I wasn't able to stop that, but there's—"

"Only so much the staff can do when they don't know who's responsible," I finished.

She huffed. "Something like that."

She paused for a moment, visibly ordering her thoughts.

"I… I'm sorry about Clara," she said, draping an arm across her chest.

I narrowed my eyes. "Sorry for the break-up, or sorry I dated her in the first place?"

"The first," Mother said, huffing. "The second's up to you."

"How generous of you."

"Weiss, please," Mother said. "I know this isn't easy on you, but I'm doing the best I can."

That startled a laugh out of me.

"This is you trying your best?" I stepped forward. "You've barely looked at me for the past three months! I've talked with the principle of my school more than I have with you!"

"I know that," she said. "I'm trying to fix things, Weiss."

"Only after Clara left," I pointed out.

Mother hesitated.

"It's not like that," she said, finally. "Her departure… showed me how far I've let things slide. How I let my… my cowardice get in the way of being your mother."

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "When you came out all those months ago, I was angry, and worried, and confused, and… and scared. Terrified."

Mother looked away. "I don't know what caused this to happen to you. If we did something wrong or if it's somehow genetic, but I know this is a… a painful life."

She swallowed and looked up. "But I am not afraid of you. Of this. Of being your mother. I won't say I'll understand, but I'm here."

She stepped forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. It felt warm, comfortable. Familiar, even though I couldn't remember the last time Mother was this close.

"I'll always be here."

Tears pricked at my eyelids. It was almost too much—all of it. Mother, Father, Clara, the locker, that damn girl that started this all. Part of me wanted to scream, to run until I got back to something normal. Until my mother wasn't talking to me and I didn't talk to father and Clara smoked in my room even though I hated it because I needed her to stay.

But there was nothing to go back to.

I dropped my backpack.

"You said you talked to father," I said. "Did he tell you what I asked him?"

Mother grimaced. "Weiss—"

"I asked him if he would care if I brought someone else," I continued. "A girl. He said it wouldn't matter, but only because he considered it all a mistake."

She narrowed her eyes. "I'll have a talk with him about that later—"

"But you don't disagree," I said. "I mean, people don't wonder what they did wrong when they succeed, do they? They only look back when they break something."

"It's not that simple, Weiss, I—"

"Then what it is?" I asked, stepping forward, her hand falling off my shoulder in the process. "Because you can't 'Always be there' if that you can barely look at me the moment I start dating someone."

"I know," Mother said. She paused. "I know I have done everything wrong, but I am trying to do better."

"You said you were worried you did something wrong to cause this," I pointed out. "Like it's a problem."

Her forehead crinkled. "Wouldn't you call it that? Your life is… it's always going to be more complicated, more difficult than anyone else's. There's always going to be so much more between you and the people you love."

I raised a brow. "Aside from the fact it's been you two causing a good chunk of that…" I sighed, crossing my arms. "This isn't about pain or complications. It's barely about love, honestly."

"I thought—"

"I'm not saying it's not a part of it, just that it's not the point." I looked down. "I'm never going to stop liking girls. Even if I'm not dating a girl, even if I somehow wind up dating a boy, I'm still—it's still going to be a part of who I am."

I swallowed. "And if you mean what you say, then… then you have to accept that. Or it doesn't matter."

Mother didn't answer. She crossed her arms and looked down, face clouded.

Then—then, she smiled.

"You sound just like your grandfather," she said, giving a small laugh. "Accept him as he was or… or watch him leave you in the dust."

She looked back at me. "There's worse footsteps to follow."

"Does that mean you—"

She nodded. "I can't claim I'll always handle it perfectly, but… I'm here, Weiss. For now and evermore."

She said it as a fact. As if she made an observation of the world as and was now informing me of it. Like it was as simple as that.

Like I hadn't asked the same of my father.

I wanted to believe her, but even that best-case scenario came with the cloying taste of bitterness and regret. Yes, I'd gotten what I wanted. A parent that accepted me for who I was, without acting like it was something that would change.

I got what I wanted out of Clara.

I clamped down on the urge to throw-up. "That's a start, I guess."

Mother's face fell before she forced her lips into a smile. "I can't ask for anything more."

She glanced at her watch. "I suppose it is time for you to leave."

"It's been for a while." I bent down and picked up my backpack, grimacing at the weight. "I'm walking."

Mother stepped forward, reaching to adjust the straps on my bag. "Klein's not busy; he can—"

"I'm walking," I repeated, harshly.

Mother stopped, blinking before stepping back, hands folded neatly in front of her. "Of course. It is a beautiful day out. The last of the season."

I glanced at the window behind me. A raccoon skittered across the lawn, holding something in its paw.

"I suppose so," I said. "Excuse me."

I brushed past her and into the hall. I heard the door shut behind me, along with a few hesitant footsteps as I made it closer to the stairs.

I had my hand on the railing when I heard my name. "Weiss?"

I stopped and turned. Mother stood just outside my door.

"I didn't expect you to be quite so… adamant. Not after what happened," she said. "I know that can't have been easy."

My eyes slipped down. "We broke up, mother, that's it. I'm not happy about it, but I'm not about to collapse either."

She smiled. "I should have known you'd be stronger than that." She took in a breath. "Still, when I said I'd be there… that includes stuff like this. If there's anything you want to talk about, then…"

I hesitated for a second, before shaking my head.

"There's nothing to talk about," I said, shrugging. "We just… we weren't what we wanted out of each other."

My mother gave me a sad smile. "Few people are."

"I can't argue with that," I said, ignoring the way her words made my heart ache, how they awoke whispers in my head I desperately wished to silence.

"Still, I'm… I'm sorry," she continued. "I know it must have been painful."

"I…" I pulled at the straps on my chest. "I have to go, mother. I'll see you tonight."

"Of course," Mother said. She hesitated for a moment, before opening her mouth to say something else.

I like to think she said, "I love you."

I don't know.

I was already gone.

You've had a moment like this, I imagine. An innocuous decision made only because you feel like it. Nothing to think twice about, but then the world shifts, and you never stop thinking about it.

I should have taken my mother up on her offered ride. I was late enough as it was, adding a half hour of walking would only make it worse.

I didn't. I couldn't.

I wanted an hour where I didn't have to answer well-meaning questions or plaster a fake smile on after overhearing a snide comment about carpets. I wanted time to sort through the whirlwind I'd stumbled through, figure out what the hell I thought of half of it.

It might have been the right choice, or as close as anything could get to "right" in a situation like this. Like ripping off a band-aid, except—no, not like that.

Then or later, it was like ripping a scab off too soon. It hurt, not just in pain but in damage, and you'd carry a scar for the rest of your life, but that couldn't stop you from doing it.

Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference in the end. Whether I was in a car or on foot, it wouldn't have changed what I found.

I might not have been distracted, angry and upset over what happened and upset I felt that way. I may not have kicked a pebble down the length of the driveway, may not have heard it plink off an overturned garbage can.

I might not have turned the corner then. I might not have seen it until that night—or at all, if Klein or Father or some passerby saw it first- but it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't have changed what was there.

Spilled trash and paw prints.

The smell of alcohol and bile.

Tattered clothes.

Blood.

And Clara.

There is a bit more to Weiss's story here, but we're moving back to Ruby's perspective to hear it.
Which will be done... soon.
Geologically speaking.