A/N: Not Season 3 compliant. I own nothing.
Ten minutes. That's all it took. Ten minutes to possibly take another life. No, not possibly. He'd done it. No way Diaz could have survived that fall. Damn. Why couldn't it have been him? He hit that rail about ten times and never went over. How could this have happened? Ten minutes before he'd been in class, remembering why he'd dropped out of school in the first place, then suddenly, he was a murderer.
How does that happen? One minute his life finally had a future. One that didn't lead to prison. Sam had forgiven him for the lie about the medal. He was back in school and determined to stick it out. His dad had driven him to school and bought him school supplies. They had even talked about him living with his Dad to keep going to West Valley, even after his mom got out of rehab.
Then it was all gone. Over that rail. And he was a murderer. He never meant for that to happen. He guessed that didn't matter when someone was dead, though.
Sam had looked at him like he was a monster.
He'd ran. He didn't know what else to do. Everything was closing in on him and he ran. He ran as far and as fast as he could. Ignoring the pain in his chest, the feeling he couldn't breathe well. He ran out of the school and kept going until he fell.
He didn't know how far away he was as he laid there on grass still wet from someone's sprinkler system, drag in huge gulps of air. His chest was engulfed in excruciating amounts of pain with each one, but he couldn't seem to slow them down or make them smaller, his need for oxygen greater than the burning pain. Besides, he deserved it. At least he was still alive to feel pain.
He laid there until his breathing slowed, the pain in his chest had lessened to a stabbing pain, and he was afraid the homeowner was going to come out and see why a vagrant was sleeping on their lawn. Steeling himself, he made it to his feet. Walking slowly, he made his way down Reseda Boulevard until he could cut between two buildings to walk through the alleys. He was sure the police were looking for him. He thought he should go to the police station and turn himself in. And he would. He just had to know how bad Miguel was first. He had to know what he was in for before he threw himself to the wolves. He had to be prepared.
He wandered around for what seemed like hours before finding a bus station bench and dropping down on it to decide what to do. He couldn't go home. Hell, he didn't even know if he still had a home. He'd, at the very least, seriously injured, if not killed Johnny's star student and 'better son'. Shannon was in rehab and their apartment had already been rented out to a new family.
He sighed and forced himself to look around. He wasn't sure how far he'd gone. Or even how long it had been. He'd lost his phone at some point during the fight. Not that it mattered. Who was he going to call?
As he looked around, he had a vague sense of knowing the area. It was the feeling that things were different but somehow the same. He found himself staring at the playground across the way. A ghost of a memory danced through his mind. Playing on a playground like that. One where everything was in good shape, and they had those black mats instead of trampled down grass. He tried to remember.
A swing. A cup of juice. A little girl with black braided pigtails who would shake or nod her head extra hard to make the bows at the ends bounce. A blonde boy playing on the swing next to him. The girl threw her juice at him. No. Not at him. At the boy next to him who was sticking his tongue out. But maybe four-year-olds didn't have the best sense of aim, because it was his white shirt that had a bright red stain blooming over it.
His lower lip started to tremble. He'd been so careful not to get dirty. Not to be bad. Now Daddy was going to be mad at him and Mama was going to be mad at Daddy and now he was never going to get to come back here again. He wanted to shout. He wanted to hit the boy and push the little girl down. Didn't they know how much trouble this was going to cause? Mama was never going to let Daddy take him overnight again.
Before he could do either, she was there. A pretty lady with long black hair and red lips that were turned up in a smile.
"It's okay, Robby," she smiled, lifting him out of the swing and up for a cuddle, seemingly uncaring that her yellow dress was going to get red juice on it. "We will go back to the church and I'll get you all cleaned up." She hugged him tightly. She scolded the other two children gently and told the boy to be sure to hold tight to his sister's hand. Robby put his arms around her neck. She smelt nice. Like cinnamon rolls. The real ones at the bakery that Daddy took him to sometimes. She didn't smell like cigarettes and grown-up drinks. She had even told Daddy that he'd been a good boy and it wasn't his fault his shirt was ruined. He didn't know why she was being so nice to him. He didn't understand it. She wasn't like the giggly ladies who were nice to him as long as Daddy was smiling at them. She was just nice.
"Why are you helping me?" His curiosity got the better of him as she was helping change his shirt and clean the one, he'd been wearing. That was good. Mama wouldn't be mad at Daddy then. He might get to come back.
"Because that's what we do here. We try to help people who need it," she replied.
"So, if I need help, I can come here?" His voice lilting up in that childish way.
She had knelt down in front of him and smiled, "Robby, you can always come here, or to Mr. Bobby and me, no matter what. You don't have to need help to visit us, but yes. If you need help, you can come here and we will do what we can." Then she leaned in and kissed him, leaving a red lipstick print on his cheek.
Robby shook his head and looked away from the playground. He knew now that it wasn't that easy. That had been a very simple explanation of what a church was, but still, the Pastor and his wife had been friends of his Dad. Maybe they could help him. He knew he was going to have to turn himself in, but maybe they could find out how bad it was before he did. And they couldn't turn him in, could they? Churches can't do that right?
Without much more of a plan, he got up and started walking again. He wasn't sure he could even find the church. Maybe that wasn't even the same playground. But if it was, then the church was just a few blocks away. It hadn't been too long after that, that his Dad had started seeing some woman and Mom had cut off his visits, telling him that Dad had wanted his girlfriend more than him. Whatever. Mom was sick. In some way, he'd always known that. It was just easier to deny when she wasn't willing to talk about it. When some guy was paying the bills. When she wasn't sitting on the LaRusso's sofa telling him she needed to go to rehab. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he'd walk past the doors without even realizing. The plain entrance looked like any other business on that strip.
He backtracked and opened the door. The blast of the air condition was a shock to his system and he shivered slightly as he caught sight of his reflection in a decorative mirror on the far wall. He was bruised and bloody. He looked like a murderer. Which he probably was. This was a bad idea. He turned to leave when he heard someone behind him.
"Can I help you?"
He turned around to see a tall, dark-haired man in a nice suit standing behind him. This definitely wasn't his dad's friend. This man was way too young and had too much hair. Of course, they weren't here anymore. Didn't Pastors move around a lot?
"Can I help you?" The man repeated.
"Um…, I'm looking for…," Damnit! He couldn't remember their name. What was it? Her name…, it was…, the only thing he could remember was giggling about someone being named Soapy. But surely no one was really named Soapy. He'd give anything to be able to remember their last name. This guy was going to think he was nuts, but what other choice did he have? He looked at the floor and mumbled, "Soapy."
"Did you say 'Soapy'?" The man asked, looking angry.
Well, this was great. Anger wasn't a reaction he'd been prepared for. Shock, laughing, mocking, getting thrown out, sure. But this guy looked like he was going to deck him. Robby flinched back without realizing it. "Yes."
The man huffed and folded his arms across his chest, rolling his eyes. "Follow me." He practically barked.
Robby nearly bolted. He wasn't sure why he was following the young man. This didn't seem like it was going to end well for him. Still, what else could he do? Go back outside and wander around until the police found him or he collapsed again? He dared to glance around as the man led him through a chapel, then to a long hallway on the other side. He stopped at the far end of the hall and opened the door.
"Dad," he said, arms still folded across his chest. "We have a visitor."
Robby saw the older man drop his pen on the desk and cover his face with a heavy hand. "Not another parent. What is the point of a text alarm system if none of the parents are going to pay attention to them? I've sent out four messages that the school riot was at West Valley. No one at the school here is hurt." He shook his head.
"No. Not a parent," the other man replied, stepping into the office and motioning for Robby to follow him, shutting the door behind him and standing in front of it, blocking his exit. "Looks like Soapy has been LARP-ing 'How to Catch a Predator' again. Can we call the cops on this one?"
"No, Brandon," Bobby sighed, looking at the beaten and bloody boy in front of him. "This isn't Sophie's mess. This one is here for me. Have a seat, Robby."