Title: Her Door
Author: Tracy
Rating: PG
Category: Angst
Summary: Sometimes, the destination is more important than the journey.
Thanks: Big bunches of roses go to Traci for her help with the hurdles I couldn't quite jump over by myself, and to Kate, for being a sounding board when I needed one.
~x~
The Journey
Saturday
He walked along the darkened streets with his shoulders hunched, hands fisted in his pockets, trying his damndest to avoid the one destination that would make it better. It was raining, and he was wet and cold and shivering, and feeling hollow from yet another difficult visit to his mother. His hair was plastered to his head and the force of the rain stung his eyes, but he didn't care. In fact, he welcomed the discomfort the elements provided, because they offered a much needed distraction. While the wind tore through him he didn't have to think of where he'd been and what she'd said. While the rain pounded him he could ignore where, against all his better judgement, his feet were carrying him. Because even though he'd started by walking in the opposite direction, he'd somehow turned himself around so that he was slowly but steadily heading towards her. Not her, the sick woman he'd left that afternoon who'd thought he was trying to poison her coffee, but the other her in his life. The stable her. The her that was there when he needed a friend, whose presence was his one constant, and most importantly, who didn't think he was trying to kill her.
He swallowed that thought bitterly; the rain wasn't doing its job, because his mind was still racing. He tried not to take her behaviour personally, but it was hard to distance himself from the disease while retaining a tentative closeness to the woman. Even as a child he'd struggled to find that balance, and now as a man he was no closer to the solution than that scared little boy had been. He trudged on, repeating the mantra he'd picked out for his own when he first learned to spell the word 'schizophrenia.' He hadn't known what it meant then, but he'd memorised the letters regardless.
She's sick. She can't help it.
He was seven when he'd memorised the term, 'chemical imbalance.' Nine when he'd arrived home from school to find the kitchen doused in petrol and a lighted match in his mothers fingers. Twelve, when – He swallowed that memory too. He didn't want to remember that one; not in the dark, and especially not while he was alone. But even with all the bad things she was still his mother, and no matter how hard he tried to quash it, a part of him still remembered the woman she was before the illness took control. Better for him maybe if he was more like his absent brother, choosing only to remember the things that she'd said or done that had caused maximum hurt and that could never be taken back or undone. Then maybe the guilt wouldn't be quite so heavy. But he couldn't lie to himself. He remembered some good times, and that made it all the harder to visit her each week and see where he kept her locked in and what she'd become.
He turned a corner, aware that this was the way to her, but convincing himself that when he reached the next one he'd turn back. The memories quietened, as they always did when his thoughts turned to her, and he reached the next corner and kept walking. His purpose was clear now, his destination acknowledged. He always ended up there. He couldn't help himself; she was like some kind of beacon that drew him against his will, like the light draws a hapless moth. He struggled against it, but in the end the beacon was too powerful and he always succumbed. It didn't matter that every time he burdened her with his inability to cope alone he promised himself that it would be the last. Promises like that meant nothing, because he'd discovered that he had no self control where she was concerned. Instead, he'd turn up unannounced and uninvited, and watch as her eyes lost a little of their lustre and her lips tightened. It was a subtle change, but it was there. He wasn't quite sure what it meant, but he did know that dark eyes were never good. Dark eyes foretold trouble. Dark eyes delivered hurtful words and harsh punishments. And even though he knew her dark eyes were nothing like his mothers dark eyes, he was always, always careful.
Still, she always admitted him. That too, had to mean something.
Keeping this thought firmly in his mind, he finally ceased struggling and hailed a cab. To her door.
Author: Tracy
Rating: PG
Category: Angst
Summary: Sometimes, the destination is more important than the journey.
Thanks: Big bunches of roses go to Traci for her help with the hurdles I couldn't quite jump over by myself, and to Kate, for being a sounding board when I needed one.
~x~
The Journey
Saturday
He walked along the darkened streets with his shoulders hunched, hands fisted in his pockets, trying his damndest to avoid the one destination that would make it better. It was raining, and he was wet and cold and shivering, and feeling hollow from yet another difficult visit to his mother. His hair was plastered to his head and the force of the rain stung his eyes, but he didn't care. In fact, he welcomed the discomfort the elements provided, because they offered a much needed distraction. While the wind tore through him he didn't have to think of where he'd been and what she'd said. While the rain pounded him he could ignore where, against all his better judgement, his feet were carrying him. Because even though he'd started by walking in the opposite direction, he'd somehow turned himself around so that he was slowly but steadily heading towards her. Not her, the sick woman he'd left that afternoon who'd thought he was trying to poison her coffee, but the other her in his life. The stable her. The her that was there when he needed a friend, whose presence was his one constant, and most importantly, who didn't think he was trying to kill her.
He swallowed that thought bitterly; the rain wasn't doing its job, because his mind was still racing. He tried not to take her behaviour personally, but it was hard to distance himself from the disease while retaining a tentative closeness to the woman. Even as a child he'd struggled to find that balance, and now as a man he was no closer to the solution than that scared little boy had been. He trudged on, repeating the mantra he'd picked out for his own when he first learned to spell the word 'schizophrenia.' He hadn't known what it meant then, but he'd memorised the letters regardless.
She's sick. She can't help it.
He was seven when he'd memorised the term, 'chemical imbalance.' Nine when he'd arrived home from school to find the kitchen doused in petrol and a lighted match in his mothers fingers. Twelve, when – He swallowed that memory too. He didn't want to remember that one; not in the dark, and especially not while he was alone. But even with all the bad things she was still his mother, and no matter how hard he tried to quash it, a part of him still remembered the woman she was before the illness took control. Better for him maybe if he was more like his absent brother, choosing only to remember the things that she'd said or done that had caused maximum hurt and that could never be taken back or undone. Then maybe the guilt wouldn't be quite so heavy. But he couldn't lie to himself. He remembered some good times, and that made it all the harder to visit her each week and see where he kept her locked in and what she'd become.
He turned a corner, aware that this was the way to her, but convincing himself that when he reached the next one he'd turn back. The memories quietened, as they always did when his thoughts turned to her, and he reached the next corner and kept walking. His purpose was clear now, his destination acknowledged. He always ended up there. He couldn't help himself; she was like some kind of beacon that drew him against his will, like the light draws a hapless moth. He struggled against it, but in the end the beacon was too powerful and he always succumbed. It didn't matter that every time he burdened her with his inability to cope alone he promised himself that it would be the last. Promises like that meant nothing, because he'd discovered that he had no self control where she was concerned. Instead, he'd turn up unannounced and uninvited, and watch as her eyes lost a little of their lustre and her lips tightened. It was a subtle change, but it was there. He wasn't quite sure what it meant, but he did know that dark eyes were never good. Dark eyes foretold trouble. Dark eyes delivered hurtful words and harsh punishments. And even though he knew her dark eyes were nothing like his mothers dark eyes, he was always, always careful.
Still, she always admitted him. That too, had to mean something.
Keeping this thought firmly in his mind, he finally ceased struggling and hailed a cab. To her door.