Chapter Thirty- One: Dynamite

Recall the deeds as if they're all

Someone else's atrocious stories

Now you stand reborn before us all

So glad to see you well

And not to pull your halo down

Around your neck and tug you to the ground

But I'm more than just a little curious

How you're planning to go about making your amends

To the dead

I thought beating Sephiroth would bring me satisfaction.

I thought finding out the truth would bring me closure.

I travel home-ditching the rest of school- waiting for the dopamine to hit. Forty three minutes to the Huguenot train station, nerves start to tense as I think about the consequences to leaving Seph a bloodied mess on the floor. His friends finding him or him crawling to the nurse. The questions they will ask him- and how long will that faux honor code hold. The train, devoid of conscious life, offers a type of humming silence- like a mirror to reflect.

A meth head sitting at the other end of the train, the only other battered soul, reveals himself with a pitiful moan; head hanging over his body as he struggles to keep himself upright. Brown hair matted a clinging to his scalp. And every time the train makes a turn his head flies back and I can see his face marked with scabs, his chapped lips hanging open. No control. His limbs look more like rubber and I can see the black tracks along his arms. Clothing covered in streaks of mud and speckles of what could possibly be dried blood; but he's wearing a Jets t-shirt, that drapes over his bones like a blanket, and white Jordans. And despite his worn face creased with wrinkles and dark circles, he looks like he could be closer to my age. I cringe. This kid could easily be from one of the upper-middle class houses that line Tottenville. He probably has a mother wondering where he is right now; at the end of her own rope.

It's easy to pretend addicts are the poor who live in the slums and projects.

Make them invisible.

I pull my eyes away and stare at the trashed floor. The smell of piss and body odor familiar for this mode of transportation that it took fifteen minute to register the stench. How easy it is to judge. But here I sit with blood on my white shirt, and blood on my tie that blends with the fabric, and new bruises on old bruises. And the only reason why I may dodge the stares in my direction will come from the uniform which reveals my status. But how close am I to becoming that junkie on the train, or the junkie screaming obscenities on the ferry, or even the junkie on my body begging for their next fix. This is where it starts.

I get off at the St. George terminal and duck into a filthy bathroom to clean myself up. Avoid directly looking at myself in the mirror, because if I'm faced with my reflection I might consider doing what so many other hopeless souls have done in the past. The right side of my face tingles from broken nerves. Taste metal and salt in my mouth. I try wetting a piece of brown paper towel to alleviate the feeling of sandpaper against my skin as I wipe my forehead. The bathroom smells like straight up shit and I can't stand to be in for more than two minutes. I consider jumping on the ferry, going into Manhattan and walking the busy city streets. Drown in the sea of monotonous grey buildings and vacant faces. But to where? I need a direction-

I start laughing again.

Why the fuck am I at the ferry?

The numbers over the entrance of the terminal scream 2:45 in my face. Schools out.. And when I look at my phone I actually have a text from Reno. My stomach turns. He must be worried if he's going against my vicious demand.

Never talk to me again

I guess there's a line.

I hit my head with the phone; flinch when I scrape the cut on my head. I have no idea how to fucking get home from here. I've lived on this island my entire life. But I hardly ever left the wealthy community on top of the hill. Especially alone. Pathetic. And I used up all my money buying drugs, so I can't even call a cab.

I feel eyes on me.

I pretend to look at my phone, but out of my peripheral, I see two Police officers looking at me and exchanging words. And one of them is the same bald cop that keeps giving Barret shit everytime we travel to this part of the island. And with my broken face, and it still being technically a school day, I know they are waiting to approach me. Probably wondering what school my uniform colors represent- if it's worth the paperwork fucking with a white kid in the projects.

I swallow the bile that lurches into my throat at the mere idea of having to speak to a cop right now. With 3 xanax and an 8th of weed in my bag. Pretty sure that's intent to sell.

I shut my phone and head back towards the train stop, opposite direction. I could put on my most ridiculous fake accent and pretend I'm some German exchange student lost in the great big city. But then I'd have to both open my mouth which feels heavy and then recall my second language which would require brain function that I'm sure is completely void right now. I find a map instead. Try to remember boy scouts. Laugh again at the memory of me getting lost with my dad in the Green Belt when I was seven. And how he was able to keep his cool even though I was crying. And I knew he had to be afraid. Because my dad would have been yelling at me for crying like a baby. Boys don't cry, Cloud. But instead he told me to close my eyes-

Take a deep breath.

Count to ten.

For ten seconds you can be afraid, Cloud.

But when you open your eyes, you have to be brave.

And we did it together, he held my hand. And then told me everything will be okay.

Dad's got this, kiddo.

I close my eyes.

I thought I hit rock bottom.

Count to ten.

But I guess there's more floors to fall through.

I open my eyes. I scan the map next to the train times and follow the tracks. If I get off at the Dongan Hills stop and walk up, I could get home. I stare at the map until I have it memorized and try to pinch away the headache that begins to form so I can concentrate. Brutal. I consider taking one of the xanax in my bag, dry, and relax. But I don't know if the white stick is cut with anything. I grind my teeth and decide to deal with the headache and throbbing bruises sober until I get home. Maybe the first good decision I've made all day.

This train fills with students from S.I Technical School or LaGuardia. They don't have to wear uniforms. And yet, every student on the train looks better than I do. Some have button down shirts tucked into dress pants. Some wear cardigans over polos with cargo pants. Some throw strangled glances in my direction. Their faces contort when they see me. A few girls who noticed me in the corner move to the other end of the train to get as far away from me. Fucking irony. And a new sensation claims me during the 15 minute train ride: shame. Utter, hopeless, shame. And the shame runs deeper than my destroyed look in front of strangers.

And I have an entire twenty-five minute walk to dwell on all the different, uncomfortable feelings that take turns beating me over the head. I'm exhausted from all of this. It's possible to feel too much- and maybe that makes me more like my mother. How she must feel her own regret. Why she drowned herself in alcohol every day. I recall a story that Emily Dickenson felt too much, and it overwhelmed her to the point she locked herself indoors for a time. Because even a flower blossoming in her backyard filled her with too much emotion. Unbearable. Maybe if I write everything out, I'd feel better. But that would mean going through every event that has caused me this much pain. And I really don't want to relive those memories again.

By the time I reach my house, it's 3:30. The muscles in my legs burn. My arms feel connected to weights. My face pulses, and I can still feel some blood leaking from reopened wounds. I'm sweating through my uniform; my hair grown out and sticking to my forehead. And all of this punctuated by this devastating emptiness. Like I'm just floating through the vacuum of space.

I pull out my phone and I have one more missed call from Reno timed 3:00pm. My finger hovers over the call back button. It's become painfully clear that I need help. And it's also clear I can't hold myself up anymore. He's proven his ability to carry some of the burden-

But I don't even know what to say. How pathetic it is to crawl back to an ex-boyfriend who's hurt me in such a vicious way…

So I close the phone, drop it back into my messenger bag, and enter the house instead. I'm just going to repeat the pattern I've stitched on this quilt. Lay on my bed, take a white pill, and give my brain a moment to rest before I need to prepare a story for my parents.

And I guess I must be so consumed with everything else, I completely forget my mother exists. I walk into the living room to head to the stairs when we lock eyes. She's sitting on the couch with books and papers thrown about the coffee table. Still dressed in the outfit she wore to her meeting with the school; her hair now tied back into a bun. Her big gray orbs hidden behind glasses I didn't realize she needed and her mouth drops when she scans my disheveled form standing at the foot of the stairs.

"What-"

She begins, but I head upstairs, ignoring the flustered tone in her voice. But she follows.

"Cloud," she shouts after me, "Cloud turn around! What happened?"

"Nothing," I snap, ignoring her request, "I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" She grabs a hold of my arm to stop my ascent, but I jerk the limb away from her long, manicured, fingers as if her touch was harmful. I look back, to recognize the hurt that flashes across her face. And I resent this vision of a mother. More than the one that had been a fixture on the couch, passed out and half dead. Now she looks all over my face. Following the cuts and brewing bruises as if she can connect the dots. "Cloud, did you get into another fight?" Exasperated. And I clench my fist when the weak tone hits my ears.

"I'm fine, how many times do I have to fucking say that!" I bark and continue for my room. But she's on my heels. And every step she takes, causes my blood to boil and erupt. And I'm biting my tongue so hard, it might come clean off, as she pleads for me to talk to her. To tell her what happened, why am I getting into fights? Who is on the other end of those fists?

"Cloud please. Please talk to me." I hate the shatter glass of her voice. And I hate when I look at her, there's tears in her eyes. And I hate everything about this situation.

"Oh my god!" I boom, "Fuck off!"

Eyes like the broken dinner plates she's slung at my father in vicious fights. Her voice robbed long enough to give me plenty of time to unleash every ounce of anger I've held back like a caged animal.

"You don't get to peace out for sixteen, fucking, years and then decide you are going to be a fucking mother this week! I've seen this dance before. You leave to get your shit together, act like you're Carol Freaking Brady for two months, and then it's right back to the bottle. Where have you been? Do you even know anything about me? Do you know who I hang out with and what I do on the weekends? Do you know what my grades are and have you ever been sober enough to meet my teachers? Fuck!" The volume of my voice cracks and allows my eyes to betray me further.

And it's like an explosion. My words shrapnel that fly through the air. She stands there in the crossfire; shaking. Her lips tremble.

"Cloud, I'm so sorry-"

"Your sorry means absolutely nothing to me."

I storm into my room and slam the door in her face before she has a chance to counter- or say she's sorry for the three-hundredth time. I tear the destroyed uniform off my body- and my brain is a highway of phrases and words from better people slamming into each other like a 90 car pile up. And I can't focus on anything. Because I can't get my lungs to take in any more stale air. My hands shake-

Curl into a fist and slam them both against my head.

Fuck Cloud!

I want to scream to get my fucking shit together.

Breathe.

But I hear my mother's soft crying through the cracks in the door

And all I want to do is scream until my voice dies.

I tear through my messenger bag, tossing unused books around my room and my hand instinctively curls around the razor-

But I chuck it across the room. Let it slam against the wall like a gunshot.

Not today. Not today at all.

I find the baggie with three oval pills.

And there is a thought:

Don't overdose on my shit.

And I cackle again. The absurdity of it all.

Fine. I take one, dry.

Get some clothes on because...and these are the things I think about...I don't want anyone to find me naked and unconscious. How ridiculous? How just...so sad.

I lay on the bed and ignore my mother's murmurs on the phone.

I lay on the bed with the curtain closed and hope this shit isn't expired so I can really fall from under myself.

I lay on the bed and close my eyes and count to ten-

There's a misconception I have to address. I don't want to be this sick; but being sick is all I know. It's the familiar face in the sea of strangers. I know what to expect; I've been down this road before countless times. Getting better sounds like uncharted territory- the road not taken- and the moment I dared to take that path…

It felt good. I could lie to myself though, like I usually do. Tell myself it's too hard. And it is. The road sinks like mud. There's boulders to trip over. Dead branches to duck under. Challenges to overcome that someone with a clear mind would struggle against. What hope could I ever have? I can't do it alone and everytime I think of asking for help, water fills my lungs and my lips fuse together. Or the words get stuck in my throat. And the only person who ever made me feel comfortable enough to vocalize my needs is partially the cause of this drowning. That's the problem with placing all your hope into a person. People leave. They hurt. They disappoint. I learned that a long time ago…

The mistakes you make, you keep on making.

Vinny told me that after my birthday. And I didn't listen.

The sun hangs low behind the curtain, drenching the room in a red glow that matches the cuts on my knuckles. My body vibrates from the drug making its way through my system. My brain slows down- the phrases ricocheting like bullets turn to dust. And my breathing calms to an even pace. My eyes heavy but do not shut; instead they trace the shadows on the walls. This is definitely double my original dose; but the disconnect becomes a welcome relief. And maybe if I stuck with my prescription, and listened to my doctor, I would have better coping skills by now.

I don't hear my mom anymore; and I do have guilt about my actions now that rational thinking momentarily takes over. I could have asked for help so many times since she's gotten back. And she would have sprung at the opportunity. What have I done now? Do my actions cause consequences to befall her? I curl my body into a fetal position as a wave of nausea attacks my senses. And I just want this pain to stop.

The front door slams. The house rattles in response. And I know before I hear his voice, my father is not pleased with my performance- and that phone call must have been to him. Bile gives way to heat; that breeches my chest before turning to ice and falling like snow. His footsteps echo through the sparse house. And if I had nothing to offer my mother, I have even less prepared for him. He can yell at my unresponsive corpse for all I care.

He emerges into the room and his rage permeates four walled blue box. He's spewing hate. His words sound like the foriegn language I have every fifth period. He stomps against the floor as if trying to crack the wood. My face buried in my pillow, but I know he's throwing his hands in the air, demanding answers to questions I can't understand. I try to concentrate on the small tingles that tickle my finger tips and the cotton that wraps around my head like some kind of protective barrier. Muffling his words as if I'm under a canopy of blankets.

"What the fuck is this!?"

My eyes fly open.

Fuck.

"Cloud Asher Strife, what the fuck is this!?" He repeats, and when I turn my head the baggy with the two remaining pills glares over me. "Is this what I think it is?!"

"Sh-shiit." I manage to stutter through numb lips.

"Shhhhit is right," he mocks.

The garbage in my system must be expired. Or my tolerance increased. Because the panic I thought I leashed explodes like a bomb. There's a pause between us- he removes the baggy from my face and all I see is his. Disgusted. Enraged. His eyes straight blue. A pure dark blue that I haven't seen as he moves those two orbs all over me. Taking inventory of every fresh mark on my face. My wrinkled black shirt and ripped jeans. The sweat that beads along my forehead and greasy hair drenched.

"I knew it." he finally whispers, "I knew you stole your mother's medication."

I swear my soul vacates my body. Like, you're on your fucking own with this one. My mouth is as dry as the blacktop on the basketball court on a hot day. I'm trying to make sense of his accusation, but my muddled mind can't line up his logic.

"She tried to defend you, but I knew," he seethes, "a whole bottle doesn't just go missing."

God Damn you, Sephiroth. Even leaving him beaten and broken on the floor, he's still finding ways to torture me. He took the whole fucking bottle that night. My mother must not have noticed it immediately with everything going on in her life during that time. Then- I think about her words- the ultimatum she mentioned in the car. I beg my head to clear the fog. She must have noticed the drugs went missing and stopped taking them, or tried getting more. Sending her to spiral because she needs her medication. Fuck. It's all my fault. My mom's final fall is all my fault for not standing up to Sephiorth two months earlier. And now my dad stands over me with misguided evidence to my transgressions. It's like doing a math problem wrong, but still coming up with the right answer.

And how do I explain this?

No, those aren't mom's drugs. Those are drugs I just bought because I sold mine already?

My lack of words further fuels my father's flame. "You need to start talking, immediately. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

I try to stifle the laugh that shoots through my throat; choking back the smile with a sick grin.

"Is this funny to you?"

I want to scream, no of course not! But all my mouth can manage is the weakest: "I have no idea what you are talking about." and that's only half a lie. He's speaking in riddles he expects me to solve when I'm high. And I know how pathetic that statement sounds. I know how that makes me look. But when he's bearing down on me, and throwing all of this shit in my face with broken sentences, I don't know what anyone expects.

"So you have no idea what happened to your mother's medication?" His voice scathing.

"No." I respond with a tone as blank as my face.

I see his cheeks bubble to a scarlet hue. "I'm tired of you lying to me!" He slams the pills against the wood. And goes off. But I've already activated that part of my brain that tunes out anything this guy has to fucking say. And I know this whole dance. And It's one we've done for years. I'm tired of hearing him lose his temper. I'm tired of his hypocrisy and that he blames the sixteen year old for the tragedy of his life, marriage, manhood. I didn't fucking ask to be born.

I ignore his words. They lack power. I slide off my bed around him. He continues to shout what are you doing? Do you have anything to say? While I jet my hand into my messenger bag and grab the pack of cigarettes and shove them into my pocket. And he's too enraged at my lack of responses that he doesn't even register the white pack. I guess we have entered the pick your battles phase of this argument.

Then he snatches my arm, and his strength jerks me out of the fog for the moment. When I snap my head to him, he growls, "What are you doing?!"

"Leaving."

"Excuse me, you're not going anywhere," he squeezes, "Do you have any idea the shit storm you just created? Your mother had to find a meeting after she talked to you because of how shitty you treated her. Look at you! You're a mess. And you're dragging everyone down with you!"

I grab his wrist, and with what little force I have not weakened by the drugs, I rip his hand off me and shove him away. He stumbles back, slamming into my desk, and knocking down the mess of old collectables I have collecting dust. Now he's wide eyed. Full of fury. And do I see even a tiny bit of confusion etched across his aging features? I don't take the time to analyze the pitiful view in front of me, I charge for my door- note the razor that I flung earlier and take it- and head for the front door. Another journey without a destination. And I squeeze the razor in my hand before hiding it in my other pocket.

But my dad's frantic footsteps shake the house as he makes it downstairs as I get my other shoe on.

"Don't you dare walk out this house, Cloud Strife," he yells, "We are talking."

I cackle, "Because this has been going so fucking well for us huh?"

"You watch your language! You are still a child and you are still under my roof!"

"Wow!" I smack my head dramatically, "you actually fucking noticed!? I'm so proud of you!"

"How da-"

"No no, how dare you." And I feel it coming. And I grip the item in my left pocket so tightly I swear I can feel it marking up my skin. "You haven't noticed a god damn thing I've done in the last sixteen years and now now you want to act like a strict parent? Are you for real right now? You just realized something is wrong with me? I got punched on Saturday! And when did you notice that? And when you noticed, when did you bring it up? You say you can't talk to me, but you don't even fucking try! And when you try you make it worse."

I'm trembling and my vision narrows. I'm going to pass out or vomit. Maybe both, at the same time, with my luck. But I can't stop. "You can't just pick and choose when you want to be a parent. That's not how this shit works. And you don't get to throw all the blame on me!"

"I'm not blaming you-"

"You just did!"

"You have to be held accountable! You have been running this ship for entirely too long. It's over."

"Things are going to change around here," I throw his words back in his face. "You've been singing that song since I was eight! Nothing's changed. Don't get tight because I know how to use your lack of parenting skills to my advantage, father."

Now he's up against me, his finger in my line of vision, "You don't get to talk to me like that!"

"Do something about it then, asshole!"

Mistake. I forget that my dad stands two inches taller than me. And that he actually goes to the gym. And he's not in his mid-forties to fifties like some of my other friends' parents. So I shouldn't be surprised he has the strength to slam my body against the wall and hold me up with just his hands on my shirt. But I am surprised that he had the balls to put his hands on me.

The oxygen in the house evaporates. The silence as tense and as suffocating as being buried under stone. I didn't even acknowledge glass shattering from a family picture by the entrance of the house. Their wedding picture. Technically I'm in there. My mother in her simple white dress and 1980's hair wisped into big curls. My dad sporting an unfortunate blonde mustache and pink bowtie. His hand on her stomach. She must have been roughly five months along and the bump evident even as she tried to hide it under her modest bouquet of pink and yellow flowers. And there's radiant happiness piercing through the cloud of fear that hangs in their eyes. There's hope in that picture. Hope for the family they created when they came together.

Now it lays broken at our feet, as the father has his son pressed against the wall in anger.

Then as if realizing what he's done, he releases me and my feet hit the ground. He stares at his hands as if they were compelled by another force. But I don't give him time to push forth a fake apology. I grab my jacket and take off into the evening. My legs sprinting away from that mansion that sits on the hill and the soulless wraiths that occupy those brick walls. But I have a destination in mind this time.

The final act.

The tar that sticks to my lungs devolves my dramatic exit into a coughing fit by the time I hit Link Road. My legs don't feel connected to my body. And I can't tell if I am just that out of shape, or if it's the remnants of the expired xanax still trying to make magic happen in my body. I allow myself a few minutes to take a breath; but I am not far enough from my house and my dad could be already in his car looking for me.

Maybe. I let the thought take residence in the back of my head. Try to keep out the opposing notion that he's probably hoping I don't come home.

I continue the speed walk.

I need to get away from this place. Go to a location where I can have some peace. I shove my hands into my pockets- one with the razor, one with the cigarettes. And I feel torn up between which I want to use first. The pack is still fresh, unopened. I take a rough inhale to pause the tears that gather in my broken eyes. I feel like the shatter glass in the picture frame. And no desire to even attempt to put myself together. I need quiet. I need my brain to shut off. Just for a minute; or forever.

" I just...wanted everything to be quiet for a minute."

I stop. Recall my words to Reno the night I told him why I tried. And for a minute, I want to call him. My brain is too loud and screaming for relief. And maybe he can help me turn it off for a minute. But-

In the chaos, I left my phone behind. No calling for help. What a strange and familiar place to be in right now.

...I guess there's nothing left but continue. To a place where I can make a clear choice. Where I looked at rising lights from a shared tragedy and thought about being reborn a phoenix. Or where I can take my metaphors of drowning in an ocean and make them tangible.

I make the hour walk. The sun just setting in the distance. The days are getting longer and I do not welcome these extended daylight times. I want the safety of darkness. The lack of souls on the boardwalk becomes my only reprieve; though I capture the shadows of fishermen at the end of the pier. Drinking their cheap beers as the search for sea life riddled with toxicity. Their attention not with me. I blend into the rising darkness with my back clothing. Hood up to hide the blonde hair illuminated by the waning light. Familiar smells enter my nose. The salt from the ocean, the wet seaweed, the stench of trash from under the boardwalk, and death. Rotting corpses of rats and horseshoe crabs that wash ashore and suffocate in the sun. The peaceful sounds of waves hitting filthy sand, taking into blackness of the ocean the heroine needs and empty bottles. A reminder of humanities stain on nature.

The white noise of moving cars going over the Verrazano Bridge becomes a welcomed comfort. Paired with the harsh honking and sirens from Father Capodanno Boulevard. The sounds of life. The sounds of New York City. A place I both loathe and love. No where else like it in the world. Filled with so many people yet...empty.

I sit on top of a bench facing the ocean. The glittering lights of Coney Island flicker in the distance like artificial stars. My feet on the seat- and I am sure if some old woman came up she would scold me for the way I'm sitting. But I don't care. No one seems to notice, the few who are still taking after dinner walks despite the cold air. I take out the pack first. Run my fingers along the plastic. I'm craving one bad. But I know if I open it, I made a decision to keep trying. Sounds so stupid to think about it. So stupid. But anything to keep me alive. I close my eyes when that thought hits me across the head. I'm tired. And I can't face anyone like this. Not my parents with their accusations, not my friends who need explanations. Not my enemies, who are waiting for the "rest in peace" comments on Myspace.

I close my eyes and take several breaths. And hope this wave passes as quickly as the real ones several feet away from me. And here I stay. The time ticking away. No technology to connect with anyone.

Me and my toxic coping mechanisms.

Slow footsteps break though the muffled noises in my head. It's amazing how the human mind works. How I know the owner of that stride without even opening my eyes. And my heart starts beating again. Then crashes to a halt when I hear his voice:

"Hey, I found him…"

I open my eyes and see him approaching me, phone to his ear.

"Yeah, he's fine."

I blink back a few tears. He's wearing my hoodie under his leather jacket. Black hat covering his red hair.

"I'll bring him home." His lips twitch into a forced smile when he sees me looking at him. "I got him. Don't worry." He nods- I'm assuming the person on the other side of this conversation sputters thank yous through sobs- and hangs up. He stands across from me, opposite of the stone chess table in between us, hands shoved in pockets. Eyes tremble with unease. And while my body wants to reach over and hold onto him like a floatation device. My brain spits venom. Reminding me of the last time he stood before me. With tears in his own eyes, as he ruined everything we tried to build.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss.

"You're mom called me." He states matter-of-factly, as if this is a common occurrence.

"How does she have your fucking number and why would she bother calling you?"

"Well, first she called Cid- who mentioned ya'll were in a fight over Tifa- and to call her. Tifa said she hasn't talked to you in almost a week, and to call Aerith. Then Aerith said to call me and gave your mom my number." He shrugged.

"And how did you know I was here?"

He scans the area briefly. "We came here once. Sat in the parking lot though." Then he shakes his head bitterly, "And, I called Rude to get Barret's number. Then called Barret and he said you might be here. Oh- by the way, he's super butthurt he was last in the phone chain."

What a mess. I run my hand through my hair and shake my head, too. Barret would know where I'd be. After Aerith and I broke up, he and I took walks on the boardwalk a lot to clear my head when it got too much. Never said anything to each other. Just the company was enough. I can't believe I forgot that. How convenient. How easy it is to erase the friends that have supported me. And how none of them seem to give away my true issue to my mother. The outing on Myspace.

Reno continues with a loud sigh, "Everyone's looking for you, man. Cid's calling police stations. I heard Tif and Vin are walking around Miller Field. Aerith is trying the hospitals. Your folks are driving up and down the whole island." He pauses. "I've been trying to call you all day. I know this ain't easy-"

"The fuck do you know!"

He takes a breath and folds his arms over his chest; I watch his mouth as his tongue glides behind his teeth. Armed and ready to unleash his own lecture. Perhaps remind me of his own outing. That he's been in this sinking ship before- fought this fight. And maybe even lost. But he runs his eyes up and down my form. As if playing the argument in his head. Anticipating my responses; how he sold me out to the executioner. His defenses limited.

"Okay, you can be pissed at me," he relents.

"Thanks for your permission."

"I'm just glad we're talkin'."

I look away. Hate myself for feeling the same; I missed the sound of his voice. And the way his accent drips onto his words like caramel. But seeing him is still unnerving. And doesn't bring me comfort. "Go away."

"That's fair." and I hate how fucking agreeable he's being. "But I'm not leaving until someone gets you; so who do you want to pick you up?"

"No one, just fuckin go." The anger creeps up my throat, stifled by the tumbling sadness. "I just want to be alone."

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that. Cloud. I have Rude on standby to get Barret if that's better."

Great. We have Rude involved in my shit now. "I don't want Barret. I don't want anyone. I don't want to go home! So please just fuck off."

"Nope."

I glare at him from under my blond hair. Nearly crush the cigarettes in my hand.

"I know you're tight," he continues, "but I told your mom you were comin' home one way or another."

Now subtle threats. My eyes drop to the space occupied by my own layered arms. I think about the first time we met. When I crashed into an unstoppable force and an immovable object; and here he stands the same stubborn boy I met six months ago. He's not going to let me go. And I'm too exhausted to fight him. And fuck the extra level of embarrassment I enter. Having my ex try to drag my drugged up body home to face the parents I've spewed vile poison at in the name of self-preservation. Or self-destruction. And I can't remember why I'm even here anymore. And what I really want to happen. I'm still being pulled in different directions and now I recognize the strain this has taken on me. I feel myself tear apart.

"Cloud," he speaks as if his words would break me. "Can we talk-"

"No."

"We need to talk-"

"I said no!" I shout. He rubs his face to try to steady his tone. I know I'm pissing him off because when he drops his hands to his sides, his eyes are narrowed into two perfect slits with just the slightest shimmer of turquoise blue.

"Okay fine, then I'm going to sit here," he jumps on top of the stone table in front of me and he gestures towards the other entrance to the boardwalk where a clump of tattered clothes sits huddled against the railing, "And I'll talk to the fucking crack head over there."

"Go away." I warn him for the last time. But he doesn't even look at me- instead staring at the blinking red lights on top of the baby blue bridge.

"Last I check, this is America and I can sit wherever the fuck I want."

I don't even know why I bother fighting him. Maybe to hold on to the last shred of dignity I own. I could get up and move, but he'll just follow me. I could swing at him; but even the thought of inflicting physical pain on him makes me sick. And that's a line. A line if crossed there's no coming back from.

Instead, I pull my eyes from him. And he breathes evenly as he stares into the darkening sky. The waves crash onto the sand like a ticking clock. We sit in silence as the temperature drops and the wind stabs at exposed skin. I taste snow in the air- last remnants of winter also exercising futility. Spring always returns. And I know I've been hanging onto hopeless causes; and the idea of new beginnings terrifies me. And that's why I've been so eager to hit the pause button. Or not exist. Having to own up to the shit storm I did cause like a F5 tornado, ripping through everyone with complete disregard. I groan at the realization.

None of this would have happened if I didn't get drunk.

And if I didn't call Sephiroth.

If I wasn't so easily manipulated.

"Why are you here?" I ask him again. "You could have told my parents where to find me." Why isn't he angry with me? My stomach feels like there's an alien trying to tear through my body. I'm all fucked up and I don't even know what to do anymore. He's fucking up the plan. Sitting there until I give into his demands.

He sighs, "Yeah, I could have. But I didn't think you'd go with them. And, I don't know, parents sometimes suck at making us feel better. Ya know." I nod in agreement, still avoiding his gaze. And he continues, "I thought, I guess, maybe since this is my fault, I could fix it?"

I shake my head, "I don't know…" I want to say, it's not all your fault.

And the way he exhales, like he doesn't know what else to do anymore, breaks my heart even more than I thought was possible. We sit in strangled silence listening to the crackhead humming Frank Sinatra tunes in the distance. And if I wasn't poisoned with devastation, I might have cracked a smile at the sheer ridiculousness of this scene.

"I guess I never really told you about my parents, eh?" Reno starts, and I can hear his opening his own packs of reds and pulling out a cig. "No, I guess I didn't. Not so good at talkin', so don't take it personal or anything. If I was gonna tell anyone, it'd be you." The lighter ignites with a hiss. He takes a few moments to enjoy the bitters of nicotine.

"Everytime I thought about telling you, felt stupid bringing it up. Thought it was better...just keepin' it to myself. Didn't want you to worry."

I know his eyes are on me. I feel them through my skin. Words begin a dangerous crawl up my throat; like why does he have to wait till we're at the brink to tell me anything? Have I been coming off that selfish in the relationship, that my feelings are more important than his? Some of the ice in my chest begins to melt. And I bury those words for the moment.

"My parents were never the warm and fuzzy type. Pretty sure my dad hated me even before he found out I'm gay. And my mom just doesn't have a fucking soul." He rips the cigarette from his mouth with a sharp laugh. "I ain't even exaggerating. She got nothing behind those eyes."

Our eyes meet for a fleeting moment. And I see the hesitation take root. His mouth crashes to a frown. But silently, with just a look, I urge him to continue. Because no matter how disappointed I am in how things ended for us, I know he's been having his own internal battles. And I can't help but want to offer him a reprieve. All the times he stayed with me as I fell apart in his arms; then meticulously glued me back together without complaint. His turn, I suppose. And maybe there is a bit of selfish curiosity. How bad could it be? Bad enough he had no choice but to give me up?

Reno sighs- dropping his eyes to the floor- and in between painful drags, unloads his story.

"I never wanted them to find out. I just knew they wouldn't take it well; things they said in passing. I thought about runnin' away a lot, but too chicken shit I guess. Not like I had anywhere to go- no one would take me in. So. Just figured I could keep it on D.L. Not like they really paid attention to me anyway. Probably could have gotten away with it, if my ex-boyfriend wasn't such a fucking pussy.

"Honestly, my bad," he snorts, "I should have seen it coming. He'd threatened it, but I didn't take him seriously. Outing me meant outing himself, and I doubted the kid who couldn't even say the fucking word could." Another bitter laugh. "I got cocky. Called his bluff. Well. .me.

"He went straight to my parents. Kind of a bitch move. I knew when I walked into the house he had done it. He was sittin' there, on the couch, in between his folks; he couldn't even look at me. None of them did. They just stood there in silence like mannequins. But I could see my dad's eyes. And he never had a warm look or nothin', but he had some Norman Bates eyes. Completely gone. But like he was thinkin' of all the ways he wanted to hurt me. I don't think I'll ever forget that look.

"My dad waited until Rod and his parents left." Reno places the stick in his mouth for another long inhale, blowing the smoke into the night. Delaying the admission. "My dad's a prick but he never hurt me before; my mom was the spanker. And even when he was comin for me I didn't think- jokes on me again, I guess." Long pause. He stares off into the distance, as if reliving the event for a second time. "Should have been able to block the first shot," he whispers to himself. Then he sighs dejectedly, "You know the amount of force it takes to break a human bone? I blacked out after the first snap. Came to in the hospital."

He removes his hat to run his slender fingers through his bright red hair. I see the pain in his eyes. How he's fighting against his instinct to break down. Too proud to show the true extent of his father's torture. "Not enough therapy for this shit," he mutters. "Not even at the worst fucking part."

"Reno." I choke out his name and it sounds like the saddest E-cord. And I had a question burning at the tip of my tongue- is he telling me this for his benefit or mine- but I lose the urge when he snaps his eyes at me. And seems to relax when our gaze meets, as chips form in my flimsy guard. I want to reach out to him; tell him he doesn't have to keep going if he doesn't want to, that I get it now. But if this brings him any comfort, even small, then he should keep going. Give me all of it. He swings his legs around, so his feet rest next to mine. Our thighs touch sending tiny sparks up into my stomach.

Cautious, I take his hand in mine, running my thumb against his knuckle.

"I don't know how to go into the next part," he admits.

"You don't have to unless you want to," I assure him.

"It's the reason I had to give you up," he whispers, and his voice sharpens like icicles. "They sent me to a place after school. Made me give up anythin' unique to me. All my hockey shit. All my CDs, and DVDs, and video games. Even books. Made me burn that shit in front of them. Tried to convince me to be ashamed of who I am. That what I am is disgusting. And I should be disgusted." He curls his lips inward with a small resentful shake of his head. "Well, they fucking tried at least. Once I realized they had no boundaries, I faked it. Yes'd them to death. Whatever they wanted to hear. I gave it to them. Boom- cured."

Another acidic laugh as he squeezes my hand, "Made a promise to myself I wasn't gonna let them win. But I know, I can't go through that shit again. I won't. They'll find a way to break me."

I should have put the pieces together. The scars on his body and his wariness to approach this relationship in the beginning. The rules he established in an effort to protect himself from further abuse. Abuse. I toss the word around my head. I knew it existed- even if never explicitly uttered. And me so focused on my own garbage, I failed to notice his suffering. Had him shoulder the weight of all my problems while his clung to his ankles and dragged him further down.

"I'm sorry," I falter "I-"

"I didn't tell you to make you feel bad," Reno counters, "You shouldn't feel bad. You should be pissed at me." He pauses and I open my mouth to protest his defense of me. But he continues, "And I didn't tell you so you'd forgive me. I told you because I want you to know the whole story. You deserve at least that. And maybe you'll realize that you have someplace to go. You have parents who care a whole lot about you even when it seems like it doesn't. And you have friends who, even if they're kinda ticked off at you, are worried enough to go searching for you on a school night. And...You got me, even though I fucked up."

I consider his words. The trail of woes I've left in my wake. The people in my life who I desperately tried to push away, to convince myself I have nothing to live for, the same people searching for me all over this fourteen mile island. And Reno risked everything to be with me, even on the days where I felt weighed down by all my nightmares and burdened him with them. Never once gave me a strained look; always there when I needed him. Even now when I never asked. Fuck.

I tremble as a tidal wave of guilt smacks me down. But Reno, as if sensing the turmoil, dares to lean in closer. "Hey," he calls out, "I know you're going through shit right now. And I know it's my fault. Okay? Even if I am, I don't know, concerned my parents would send me to that place, I should have told you from the beginning what the stakes were. And I can not tell you how much it fucking kills me that I did this. If you did anything to yourself, I don't know what the fuck I'd do. That's why I need you to please let me take you home to your parents. They fucking love you, babe. You gotta know how lucky that makes you."

Before he walked up that wooden ramp, I decided to end it all. I knew the last chain holding me back started to snap. But I can't. Or I no longer want to? Too many dominoes that would tumble and fall if I do. I think of my mother who has been begging me to reach out to her. Cid, who tried to help me even though I hurt him. Aerith, who I've spread harsh rumors about, but the only one who showed up at my house when I didn't come to school. All these hands reached out to pull me from the cold water, and I've been slapping them away. And that's just not fair. And I know this sensation will expire. And I'll be back at square one. I need to ride it home, find some more hope along the way. Make it to the next second.

I nod my head; making a choice myself for the first time. "Okay."

He exhales. Relief. And slips off the table. I take one more look at the black sky mirrored in the darkened ocean. The rising mood casting ripples of light against the calming waves. I think about how exhausting it's been keeping my head above water and how I thought my only option was to sink. But maybe I see a light in the distance. Maybe land isn't as far as I thought.

And I have another hand to hold onto...

I dance my blues to his form. He's also staring into the open sea, car keys in his hand. Part of his face covered by the hat and mess of hair, but I see the rise and fall of his throat as he swallows away some of the pain etched across the sharp angles of his face. There's a strong urge to wrap my arms around him. Forgive him for all he did because now I understand. I wish he would have told me. I...I would have given myself up. I hop off the bench and stand next to him. Our fingers brushing up against one another. I know part of me mumbles reminders that his inability to talk things out got us here. And maybe I should resent him for that- but, he's been through enough. He's been through it all; more than any of us. I don't want to hurt him further with my misplaced anger.

And blaming him is easier than accepting my own role in this mess. And I need to accept accountability. Heh. Maybe my dad isn't always wrong. I hang my head in shame, at my dirty converses stained with mud, dirt, and even blood from unnecessary fights. The pull to collapse pulls at me again. But I try to shake it off. Focus on one thing at a time.

"This is the most ratchet beach I've ever seen, yo" he grimaces with the gentle shake of his head.

A sad smile breaks across my face. "Yeah." I inch closer to him and instinctively, he brings his arm around my waist. We listen to the evening music- clash of cold water, airplanes hum over head, the crack head in the corner screaming about the end of days. And I know we've only touched the surface of the iceberg. And there's so much uncertainty; and tomorrow being a new day doesn't bring me much comfort. And I'm plagued with new questions. New fears. My heart begins to race but, like he can feel every spark of nerves, he rests his head on mine and pulls me closer.

I think we're both at a crossroads for different reasons. And neither path is easy

Maybe we're both adrift. Two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl.

And I wonder if there's a way to save us both.