Title: The Motions of Falling (2/?)

Author: X_tremeroswellian

Email: faithboscorelli1@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: They are -still- not mine. Damn.

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Do you ever feel like you're falling? Just dropping out of the sky so fast and so hard with no net below to catch you? Falling has become a way of life. Occasionally I can grab onto a ledge and hold on for awhile, but then the rock crumbles beneath my hands and I tumble toward the earth again. Toward the black hole of nothingness that has become my life.

Category: Story

Subcategories: Angst, mostly. No deaths involved.

Spoilers: Up through and including "In Confidence."

Author's Note: The entire first part of this fic is based off a dream I had, and when I woke up my muse informed me it would make a good story...so where Holly goes, I must follow. Hope you like it. It's a little different than other stuff I've written.

The Motions of Falling (Part Two)

The scenery on the way back to Manhattan is as much of a blur as when we were leaving. The only difference now is that instead of the excited coversations between my husband and children, there are hushed conversations between the people behind me and the large man sitting beside me.

I wonder if they all know each other or if they are just engaging in friendly 'we're-trapped-on-this bus-for-nine-hours-together-so-let's-make-the-best-of-it' conversation. Then I realize that I don't really care.

I block all of them out and try to do the same with the tidal wave of thoughts flooding my very exhausted brain.

The man elbows me in the ribs and I wince, then turn to glare at him. "Is that you?" he asks, not noticing the look on my face.

I blink, not comprehending his words. "What?"

"Do you have a phone?"

I wonder why he's asking me this until I realize that the phone in my purse is ringing. I unzip the zipper and dig out the small cellular phone. According to the caller I.D. it is Emily Yokas--555-7668. I, however, know better than to believe my daughter is calling me.

I rise to my feet and chuck the still ringing device out the open window. "Not anymore," I tell the now open-mouthed man beside me as I sit back down.

I can feel him staring at me, probably wondering what kind of a psycho he's sitting next to. A wry smile forms on my lips, but it is fleeting.

I lean my head against the glass and stare blankly outside, watching the scenery fly by. The people around me have stopped talking.

By the time the bus arrives in the city, it's after dark. I don't have enough cash left to pay for a taxi and I briefly consider a Bosco-esque act, flashing my shield and gun at some poor driver and earning myself a free ride. I dismiss the thought, settling myself to the long walk. It's not like I have a lot to carry--I didn't stop by the hotel in Buffalo and grab my suitcases.

I think that I should have bought the bus ticket with one of my credit cards and then spent the cash on a hotel room so no one could track me down.

Not much point in running away if you're going to be stupid enough to leave a trail for anyone to find you. Oh, well. Hindsight is 100%, I guess.

And it's not like anyone will actually bother, anyway.

I doubt the thought will even occur to Fred to try something like that.

And if it occurs to Emily, she'll keep her mouth shut. Why would she end a wish that she was finally granted? My complete and utter absence from their lives is her dream come true. With any luck, she'll never have to wake up from that dream.

Good for her. Dreams are good things to have. I can't remember when mine died. I think and try to pinpoint the exact moment but nothing comes to mind. Maybe it was a gradual death that just chipped away at my hope until it was so completely diminished that I didn't even realize it.

Guess it doesn't really matter. I can't even remember what my dreams were. They must have been dead for awhile now.

A man steps out from the entrance of an alley way as I walk by. He flashes a knife at me. I stop walking, and my eyes focus on the way the light from the street lamp above dances off the steel blade.

A thought arises, warns me that I should feel some small amount of fear--or at the very least adrenaline pumping through my veins. But there is nothing. Not even when he moves toward me and grabs me by the arm. There's a moment where I feel a small amount of pain from the tight grip he has on my wrist, but it is distant and fleeting.

"Give me your money, bitch," he whispers harshly. His breath stinks of alcohol, his eyes wild and unfocused. Drunk, high and wielding a deadly weapon. Always a lovely combination.

I reach into my purse and instead of grabbing my wallet, my hand grips the handle of my gun. His eyes widen as I pull it out and hold it two inches from his head. "Give me the knife, asshole." My voice is flat, bored.

He drops the knife to the pavement with a clatter and puts his hands in the air. He knows he's fucked up. I hold the gun on him and reach into my purse to get my phone to call it in--an automatic reflex.

My phone, of course, is not in my purse, but scattered into little pieces somewhere along the roadside of 1-81 South between Syracuse and Binghamton.

Yet another case of damned if I do, damned if I don't. It doesn't matter what choice I make; it's always the wrong one. My whole life's been that way. I don't even know why I bother anymore. Nothing I do makes any difference.

I just can't win.

My resolve fades, then disintegrates completely. "Get out of here before I call the police."

The man doesn't hesistate before taking off in the opposite direction. A bat out of hell going back.

I put my gun back in my purse, then lean over to pick up the knife off the ground. I toss it into the nearest trash bin and begin my journey to the apartment once more.

This time my pace is slow. It doesn't matter how quickly I get there. The only ones waiting to greet me are the ghosts of sadness and regret.

And they're not going anywhere.

The sound of my key turning in the lock is hollow. I opened the door and step inside, but I don't turn on the light right away. I just stand in the doorway motionless.

The apartment is equally silent and still. There's a slight chill to the air and it causes goosebumps to rise up on my bare arms.

Everything and nothing is as it should be.

I force myself to close the door, then jump as the sound reverberates through the room. I imagine the sound to be words: "intruder, intruder, get out, get out."

Unwelcome, uneeded, unwanted.

I close my eyes briefly, setting my purse on the floor before I walk back toward the master bedroom. I don't bother turning on the light. I don't want to see myself in the mirror beside the bed.

I move to the closet, open the doors and search the floor for a bag. Ironically I now recall that all of our bags are a few hundred miles away in Buffalo.

That's okay.

Plastic bags work fine.

I move to the kitchen and pull a drawer open, grabbing two small bags from inside. I walk back to the bedroom and pull a few shirts off hangers. I grab some underwear, socks, shoes and jeans from the dresser. The closet and dresser drawers are still full of my clothes.

Correction. Full of what used to be my clothes.

I wonder briefly what Fred will do with them. Sell them? Maybe he'll give them away to a nice charity. I guess it's not really any of my concern.

My eyes linger on the three cleaned and pressed navy blue uniforms hanging up. A hint of nostalgia tugs at me, bids me forward and I run my fingers over the material. I jerk away suddenly, yanking myself out of the memories that I don't want to remember at this point in time.

I grab the two plastic bags off the bed and start to leave the room. Then I pause, my gaze dropping to my hands.

Without any feeling at all, I twist off the gold band that adorns my finger and leave it lying on the pillow.

I leave the room without looking back. I briefly consider writing them a note, but can't imagine what I'd say. Congratulations, you're free? Happy Abandonment, best wishes? See, dreams do come true? Ding-dong the bitch is gone?

A flash of pain hits me with the last bitter thought and I recall watching The Wizard of Oz with Emily when she was six. She was terrified of the Wicked Witch and had flung herself into my arms and buried her face in my neck. The knowledge that at one point she actually did love me, that she looked up to me as a protector--as a safe, trustworthy person--tears at me. I suppose the thought should be comforting or soothing.

It is neither.

I bite down hard on my tongue and the memory dissipates with the sudden physical pain. I can taste the coppery tinge of blood in my mouth as I walk to the door.

I can see that the answering machine is flashing and out of pure curiosity, I walk to it and see that there are fifteen messages.

I don't hit play. It's undoubtedly Fred making some attempt to 'bring me to my senses.' The sad part is, the whole reason I'm leaving is because I finally came to my senses.

You see, a person doesn't have to actually say the words that they don't want or need you around. Unless the person happens to be very direct. Like Bosco. No, most people aren't quite that verbal about it. But there are oh-so-many ways to say it without ever actually speaking.

And I've been getting the messages loud and clear from everywhere I look.

I leave the apartment, lock the door behind me, then slide the key underneath underneath the threshold. I won't be needing it anymore.

Bags and purse in hand, I walk out of the apartment building where I grew up and lived my entire life but that was never really my hom4e.

I have no home.

I don't belong anywhere.

The motel is cheap and not very clean. I watch with disinterest as a cockroach crawls across the floor of the semi-dark room. It's not the first roach infested motel I've stayed at and it definitely won't be my last.

I'm sure I'll be living in one of these crapholes until I can get a job and get an equally crappy apartment. Doesn't matter. All I need is a place to sleep.

I flip through all five channels on the small black and white television. Not surprisingly, there's nothing on. God forbid there be something, -anything- to distract me from my thoughts.

I give up and shut off the t.v. I lay back in bed and stare up at the ceiling. I can hear little feet running around in the room above me.

For an instant, I doubt myself. My decision. Am I doing the right thing? Am I making a mistake?

I try to recall the last time anyone in my life actually needed me for something besides money, or to take care of them when they were sick. I honestly can't remember. Emily and Charlie don't talk to me. There are never any mother-child heart-to-hearts in the Yokas household.

No. The mother is the breadwinner, the absent one, the bitch when she is there. The one who ruins everyone's good time.

Then there's Fred. The Christian, the smart one, the good parent. The one who's always there.

Can't compete with that.

I remember my father telling me in a drunk rage one night that I was worthless, that I'd never amount to anything. That I would end up alone and unloved.

Father knows best, right?

Tears stung my eyes but I fight them. "No, I couldn't be one of your kids because I actually see you. Your kids don't have a mother. Maybe rollin' up on your daughter in a squad car counts as quality time...you've got a great set up. Things go wrong with the kids, you weren't even there. You've got Fred to blame at home, you got me to blame at work. Then there's St. Faith, the martyr. You really think that you been carryin' me around?"

I curl up on my side on the bed, my arms wrapped around my stomach as I cry.

The numbness was much more tolerable than this pain. Better than this empty, hollow feeling inside my heart.

I don't think it will ever be filled.

I cry myself into a dreamless, restless sleep, hoping that I don't wake up in the morning.

Go to Part 3

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