A/N: SOOOORRRRRYYY it took so long to get up, but it's a really lengthy chapter! Nearly 1000 words longer! Holy damn! I had a lot to do lately, got my driver's license (yay!) but don't think that's any indication of my age, because, I'm a little old to be getting my license...not that old...I'm not an old hag (despite what some people may say...I ain't 25!) In fact, when I told my cousin, her exact words were, "Yay, you're not a loser anymore!" Thank you, cousin (dripping sarcasm).
Thanks to EVERYONE, I finally reached 100 reviews! As a gift, I'm going to be posting a spin-off one-shot (dual songfic) that takes place somewhere in the Where The Skeletons Lie timeline. Keep your eyes peeled, I'll probably have it up tomorrow soon as I have the other song picked out. SMOOCHES!
TNPD: You reviewed the last chapter twice...you must have really liked it or forgot to say something...oh, HK...your willing to share? No duel to the death...awww....I mean, yay, they worked things out, maybe...
RavenForever: (You got your prize, right, the e-mail? just want to make sure) Now, I just have to say, don't jump to any conclusions as there is still a butt load of stuff that needs to be revealed before you can jump to conclusions.
xSpazzyx18 (sarah): What's with the change of S/N? Not that I'm complaining, I was just stunned is all. Now, I never said that Gretch and Vince weren't in love, I just said I didn't believe they were. What do I know? I'm just the author of the story? Need I say this story had a mind of its own, I've lost control. Don't forget the ones in the back and remember to floss.
mischeif-maker: I can answer none of your questions, except Waldo is NOT really there. That's how they get you, you think he's there, but he's NOT! Now, I never said the breaking of the dolls was symbolic of the murder, same goes to you as RavenForever, do not jump to conclusions. Make no assumptions until you have all the facts (which you don't). As to my age, I reveal nothing (check my bio on that subject), I can safely say I'm not the oldest, nor the youngest on HOWEVER, my writing is really no indication to my age as I've always been told I wrote at a more mature level then my age. Oh, and NEVER apologize for long reviews, just keep writing them longer and longer! I LOVE LONG REVIEWS!
pixievix: TWO REVIEWS IN A ROW, I seriously hope that this is becoming a habit. I didn't realize my story was so creepy...everything seems so obvious to me, I even already know how it end...oh well. I'm glad everyone finds it creepy, as that was my aim! And don't worry, by the time this story is over...no wait, you'll still be hella' confused!
RT, Momo-chan, and DarkAngelGuadianLight, where are your reviews for chapter 23, I can forgive Momo-chan because her reviews have always been infrequent due to her sufficiently given reason...but RT and DarkAngel...I am saddened by your lack of review....sniffles....
Music RECOMMENDATIONS! Um...Ordinary Day by Vanessa Carlton, This Life by Mandalay, or Fuck the World by the Vines...or anything you find that fits!
WOW, Chapter 24...this is 137 pages long in Word, and I type single spaced in size 10 font....long....ENJOY!
Chapter 24: Sweet Memories and Facing Facts: part 1
When Spinelli walked into her home she could already sense the tension and anxiousness. Her father, sitting on the couch flipping channels but not really watching the set straightened as soon as the door opened. Her mother, the phone hanging desperately to her ear, spun around dropping said plastic ornament in shock and upset. Spinelli herself shut the door silently, realized that she undoubtedly looked like hell, and attempted to shrug off her parents' worry and rush upstairs past them to her room.
Upon discovering that the floodwater had cleared enough for Spinelli to return to her parents' house she had left the hospital without hesitation, running the several blocks to search for the sanctuary of her childhood memories. Now, drenched in sweat, fidgeting in pain from the severe cuts and bruises incurred by her "adventure", and staring blankly to avoid eye contact with her gaping parents, she quickly found herself regretting the decision to rush to that house. She had wanted a place to cry and pretend that the harsh world outside didn't exist, and in her haste to find that place she'd forgotten that that comfort was not, and never really had been, attributed to the small two-story she'd grown up in. Privacy was not a word in her parents' vocabulary unless, of course, it was applied to them.
"Where have you been?" was Flo Spinelli's first words as she moved forward staring openly at her youngest child with question and obvious relief.
"Here and there," came Spinelli's quick response as she began to maneuver past the outstretched arms of her mother. In those arms, Spinelli knew that the trembling in her shoulders would be quite evident and the sob she'd finally broken free of would once again capture her in its torturous hold. The warmth those arms offered...Spinelli couldn't accept.
"We were worried sick, Pookie, you couldn't call?" Bob Spinelli was off the couch, the television buzzing its nonsensical dialogue in the background.
"The phone lines were down, dad," Spinelli muttered, the new obstacle, her father, now unfortunately in the way.
"They were not," Flo argued, "I just got off the phone with Wally down at the station." Spinelli grimaced. Wally had been the Spinellis' "personal friend" since the eldest son Joey was first "brought home" in his early teens for being out past curfew. What kind of curfew was nine o'clock anyways? Spinelli herself had had a few of her own run-ins with the overweight officer, her particular favorite being for vandalism when she felt the need to express her disapproval of the middle school's budget cut, in which the art and drama departments suffered the worst and the sports and cheerleading not at all. TJ, despite being on the track team, had been right beside her along with several "artsy" students that Spinelli had never really gotten along with before that moment of unified outrage. After the incident TJ was kicked off the track team, but he shrugged it off stating that it only gave him more time to be with Spinelli.
"I'm sorry, alright," Spinelli spat, squirming her way past her parents and heading for the stairs.
"Stop right there, missy," Flo snapped, "We've spent the last several hours frantically calling everyone we could get a hold of, your brother and cousins are out there searching for you as we speak, and everyone in this household has been nearly overwhelmed with worry and all you can say is a snide little 'I'm sorry'! You better march your fanny back here and give us a much better apology than that, and an explanation would be nice as well."
It was a small rant, and what with being an adult, Spinelli really shouldn't have had to undergo the lecture at all, but it was just enough. Those were the final straws that broke her proverbial back. Rickety knees gave way beneath her, pride dispersed turning to shameful tears, and she shook with the full force of an onslaught of sorrow and agony.
"I said I'm sorry..." she croaked, "Can I please go?"
"Oh Ashley!" Flo cried out, rushing to her daughter's side, "What's the matter, Pookie?" But Spinelli wrenched from her mother's grasp, turning with dampened cheeks and pain-filled eyes.
"There's no letting it be, huh, mom? This is your fault, yours and dad's and Joey's! And Vince, this is his fault too," Spinelli sobbed, "And TJ...goddamnit!"
"Hey," Bob stepped in, "I will not have you using that kind of language under this roof, young lady, not while I'm still standing. I don't care how old you are, my daughter will not be talking like that! Now you better explain just what it is you think is our fault.""TJ!" Spinelli cried out the answer as though that were obvious from the moment she walked in the door, "It's your fault that he doesn't want me anymore...that we're not right for each other!"
"What on Earth are you talking about?" Flo demanded, confused and quite taken aback.
"It's your fault TJ broke up with me...because you and you, you're both so...so goddamned impossible!" Spinelli shot back.
"What? Broke up?" Flo stuttered, stunned, "I...we weren't even aware you were dating."
"Well, no shit. How could I tell you?" Spinelli screamed, "How could I let you in on that? But TJ...jeez, how could I, huh?" She broke into a desperate cry, hiding her face. Bob and Flo glanced at one another, silently acknowledging that it was the mother's place to handle this.
"Ashley, why did you feel you couldn't tell us that you and TJ were dating? We love TJ like a son," Flo moved forward gently setting a placating hand on her daughter's quivering shoulder.
"Because...you're you!" Spinelli hissed, convinced that it was a sufficient reason.
"Honey, I had always hoped that you and TJ would get together, but I never pushed for it," Flo whispered, "Because I knew that the friendship you two shared was special and I didn't want that ruined. I'm thrilled that you were dating...but, I don't understand why you broke up and how it's your father and my fault."
"Obviously," Spinelli hiccupped looking up with a dangerously ticked gaze, "You would have ruined it if I ever told you! You'd make it into this cutesy crap and TJ wouldn't be able to set foot near this house ever again, let alone live down the embarrassment you'd put him through! And...god, everything Joey and Vitto would put him through...and..." her voice caught in her throat.
"That's not true. We love you, we would never do that," Flo attempted but failed in sounding the least bit credible, "That's still not a good enough reason for not telling us. You could have told us now, you live in New York, we couldn't 'ruin' anything for you there."
"Jesus, mom," Spinelli cried, "You really have no idea! I couldn't tell you!"
"Why? I fail to see any..."
"Because, TJ and I live together!" Spinelli shouted, her temper aroused, her misery biting bitterly at her heart. It took Bob and Flo a moment to put two and two together. But, boy, when they figured it out, it was as though no time had passed when Bob exploded.
"What?" he exclaimed, his face turning a bright red, little flecks of spit flying from his mouth, and his nostrils flaring, "You what?" Spinelli smirked, ironically satisfied with being proven right that her parents would, in a word, freak when they found out that little secret.
"Now, calm down, Bob," Flo attempted, though her eyes were fluttering slightly, and her voice was a bit choked. The skin around her lips had turned a noticeable bone white, "Ashley knows are feelings towards premarital relations and I highly doubt that she would go behind our backs..." Spinelli snorted in detest.
"We share a bed," Spinelli put in all too eagerly and, rather, snidely.
"But..." with all hope in the purity of her daughter flying through the window, Flo seemed to collapse within herself, "I...I...don't understand..."
"I'm twenty-five years old, mom, you honestly thought I was still a virgin?" Spinelli spat. Bob appeared to be boiling in his skin, his hands grasped in claws of fury.
"Where the hell is that Dettwieler boy? I'm gonna kill him," Bob raged, storming towards the door, "I'll ring his little pretentious neck! I will not stand to have my daughter shacking up with the damned boy-next-door!"
"Dad don't..." Spinelli started, staring stunned at her father's unpredicted reaction. Flo had simply slumped on the couch, speechless, her entire face a ghastly pale. Spinelli leapt over the couch, blocking the door from her enraged father; "Dad, he broke up with me anyways..." she tried calming him. But apparently they were the wrong choice of words, only proving to infuriate him more.
"So, he thinks he can just sleep with my daughter and leave it at that! Where is my bat?" Bob hollered.
"Mom, help," Spinelli sputtered, turning on her sheet white mother, "Mommy..."
"Um...d-d-d...uh..." Flo blubbered. Mother being useless, Spinelli returned attention to her father, holding him back as he tried to move her out of his way with gentle force.
"Daddy, please..." Spinelli cried, "Don't. Listen to me, please." He paused, regarding her, and for a brief moment Spinelli thought she'd broken through to the stubborn man.
"I don't even know who you are anymore," he finally told her with a flat icy tone. Spinelli shook with those words, slipping to the ground. Dizzy, emotional, sick. She hadn't anticipated the result of this sort of action. She hadn't prepared...she hadn't handled this situation well, with the careful care that was necessary of it. "You're not my daughter," Bob continued, "I have no daughter."
"Bob," Flo finally spoke up, "Stop."
"Flo, she..."
"I know," Flo turned to her daughter, "But she's not a little girl anymore. And...and we shouldn't expect things of our children that we ourselves couldn't uphold."
"Flo...she's my little girl," Bob protested.
"And she's obviously hurting," Flo stood up, crossing the room to her daughter and wrapping her arms about the huddled form, "She needs us to be understanding no matter how she yells and tries to push us away. No matter what she's done, we can't turn our backs on her in this obvious moment of need" Spinelli buckled into that embrace, slipping into the sweet recognizable scent of her mother. There, in that hold, she could fall apart with the safe knowledge that her mother would gather up the broken pieces and reassemble her once more. There was the place that she could cry. And she did. She let her wounds flow from her body in those tears, let her body slip into a relaxed shapeless mold, sunk into the warmth that reassured her that in the end she would be alright, that the world was a truly bleak and cold place, but those arms were the welcoming shelter to protect her from that harsh environment. She'd longed for that hold for so long, she just hadn't realized it.
-0-0-0-0-
Ashley A. strummed her fingers against the polished white counter top, her cell phone pressed firmly to her cheek, her eyes closed. Ashley B. stood beside the blonde woman studying her nails decorated with chipping yellow paint. She had a bad habit of biting them, and it showed as she raised her thumb to her lips, chewing thoughtfully at the hard enamel.
"You're not listening to me," Ashley A. whispered in the phone, "Bruce is dead." She paused, glancing up at her friend with a sad smile. She'd been on the phone with her husband, who happened to be on business in Paris, for the past half hour and showed no sign of the conversation ending. "Of course I'm not alright," she snapped into the phone, "Bruce is dead, don't you understand! No, I won't calm down!" She slumped to the counter top despite a disapproving glower from the secretary, "I'm sorry, honey, I'm just...stressed. Why shouldn't I be upset that Bruce is dead? He was my driver...my employee, he was my friend!" Ashley B. looked to the blonde woman with awe. Had she just called the hired help "friend"?
Jumping back from the counter in shock, Ashley B. realized her own phone was ringing. She saw Ashley A. wrapping up conversation she was having, saying, "good-bye" and "I love you, too." Ashley B. dug out her cell phone, clicking it on and lifting it to her ear.
"Hello?" she said into the phone.
"Ashley," came an all too familiar voice. Tapping her foot impatiently, nervously, Ashley B. fought the urge to hang up the phone, fought the rising bile of disgust, and fought the anger and emotions and tears.
"What do you want?" she demanded of the man on the other end of the line.
"I wanted to talk about this divorce nonsense," the man pressed, "I want you to come home, baby."
"I'm not your baby," Ashley B. spat a little louder than she'd intended and receiving a curious glance from her friend who was putting away her own cell phone, "It's going through. I don't care what you think or how you feel about it," she continued, dropping her voice level a few decibels, "I'm tired of dealing with your bullshit."
"Don't you love me anymore?" Ashley B. covered her eyes with an errant hand, shaking her head slightly and letting the tears struggle down her cheeks. It wasn't a matter of loving her husband, Donald, or Donny as she had once fondly called him. It was a matter of the strain, the pain he caused her and the devastation he wrecked on her finances.
"I don't want to talk about this right now," she muttered.
"You do love me still, baby girl, and you know it. You can't fight it, that's why I don't understand all this shit about a divorce," Donny continued, despite Ashley B.'s attempt to get him off the phone.
"Yeah," Ashley B. hissed malignly, "And you love my wallet and how nicely it supports your addictions." She slammed the cell phone shut, stuffing it vehemently into her pocket and with a maelstrom of frustration beat her balled up hands against the counter top with a silent scream, tears sprinkling against her hands and the counter.
"Ashley B.?" Ashley A. spoke up, gently touching her shoulder, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah..." Ashley B. blubbered, "I'm fine."
"No," Ashley A. told her hushed, "You're my best friend, and I know when you're not fine." Slipping an arm over her shorter friend's shoulders she led her from the counter to the plush chairs lining the lobby, which was quickly emptying what with the storm being over.
"I'm sorry, Ashley A.," Ashley B. sobbed, "I'm just...like, so overwhelmed."
"Tell me about it," Ashley A. prodded, "I'm listening."
"I can't...I just..." she shook her head, "It's Donny."
"Your husband? What's wrong with him? Is he alright?"
"Yes, he's fine, but we're not. We're not fine, we haven't been fine for a long time," Ashley B. cried silently, "He's dried up my trust fund for one thing, he has no job...he...I'm sorry. Everyone, you and all the other Ashleys, you'd be so ashamed of me. You all have perfect marriages...everything, and me; I'm like, so un-Ashley like. I've, like, totally trashed the Ashley name."
"Ashley B.," Ashley A. clucked soothingly, chuckling softly, "The other Ashleys and me don't have perfect marriages," she laid her head against her friend's arm, "We just don't talk about it...I guess that's why everything's so wrong in our lives. It would, like, so trash the Ashley name if you didn't tell me what was wrong and I didn't help you solve it."
"Thanks, Ashley A., you, like, always know what to say," Ashley B. sighed, "But, I mean, I just heard you on the phone with your husband. All the 'I love you's' and everything...you can't tell me your marriage isn't perfect..."
"Can I let you in on a secret?" Ashley A. interrupted and Ashley B. nodded thoughtfully, "Sergio can't...we can't have children." Ashley A.'s eyes glazed over with sadness, "I know it sounds...well, not like me, but I always wanted to have a small litter of brats...maybe a little girl that I could groom to be the heir to the Ashley name. My chances of having that...well, let's just say, I have no chances of it."
"But, I thought..." Ashley B. looked her friend over, silently taking in this new information. Ashley A. had never expressed a motherly want, or anything pertaining to "bumps" in her marriage.
"I was pregnant once," Ashley A. went on guessing what Ashley B. was hinting at, "I know I told you guys that it was an error...in the pregnancy test...but I lied." She choked on those words, tears springing to her primly mascara-ed eyes, "I...I was pregnant. There had to have an abortion. You see...Sergio has a low sperm count, and I...my body can't carry a child into the third trimester so...""Oh, Ashley A., I'm so sorry!" Ashley B. cried, thrusting her arms about her friend's neck, "I had no idea. An abortion...that must have been horrible." She nodded, attempting to smile through the choking tears.
"It nearly tore Sergio and me apart...we both blamed one another. We were separated for almost five months...he'd gone back to live in Italy and I had my apartment in Malibu. I was going to name the child...it was going to either be Hunter, if it was a boy, or...if it was a girl...I was going to name her...Ashley..." Ashley A. could barely get the words out past the rising lump in her throat, "One day, though, Sergio showed up on my doorstep. He'd heard that I hadn't left my home in weeks..." she brightened at the memory, "He dragged me out of bed and threw me, fully clothed, into a cold shower. He told me that it was time for us to talk...that he was my husband and I was his wife and that we had to stop hating ourselves and work out our differences," Ashley A. giggled somewhat giddily at that, "And we talked. Sergio's always been like that...my constant...my little reminder that the world can be a lot better place if you just smile and enjoy life."
"There's no talking for Donny and me," Ashley B. sighed, "We've nothing to talk about. We're over, and it's time he accepted it."
"There's always talking," Ashley A. put in, "You have to try."
"We've used up all our conversation time," Ashley B. shook her head, "He's a deadbeat, Ashley A. And...he uses my money on alcohol and more importantly, drugs."
"Drugs...Donny uses drugs," Ashley A. mumbled, shock evident on her pristine face. Ashley B. nodded, lowering her head in shame.
"Not often, mostly heroin, usually when he's partying with his friends," she spat out the word "friends" like a cheap wine brand, "We , about money, and his lifestyle, and...I can't even remember everything, all the little trivial things. He started getting drunk at home...when he'd get drunk, he'd get violent. He started getting jealous too. If I even so much as spoke to another man..."
"Ashley B.," Ashley A. murmured, stunned by this new revelation into the nightmare that was her best friend's marriage. It seemed to encourage Ashley B. to go into some of the more...unpleasant details.
"One night he was so wasted...I came home late, really late at night, and he threw me to the wall and started choking me, telling me he was going to kill me...that he thought I was prostituting myself or something...I don't know. The next morning he'd forgotten it entirely, and I forgot it...I thought it was just a one-time thing, that I could forgive him because I loved him. But it got worse...
"He'd throw me to the ground, spit in my face, call me a tramp or something equally degenerating. It was always when he was drunk and he never seemed to remember what he'd done...so I decided to take the alcohol away, which meant cutting him off from my money. He started stealing from my purse. He got a hold of one of my credit cards and charged to it nearly fifty thousand on God knows what. That's when I confronted him about it, told him he was going to have to change his act or get the hell out of the house." Ashley B.'s face contorted with the memory of that night, sadness crossing her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks more freely, "He thought it was a joke. I told him it wasn't. He slapped me, it was the first time he'd ever actually hit me, the first time he'd attacked me when he was sober. It didn't stop with one slap though...he kept beating me until I couldn't move..." her bottom lip trembled, "Then he dragged me into the bedroom shouting that I was his wife and his property and...he pounded himself into me." She flinched as though the words stung as they rolled off her tongue, "I woke up with him blacked out next to me. I went into the kitchen - though I could barely move - and grabbed a knife...
"I came into the bedroom," she continued, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as though trying to block out the image playing in her mind, "Stood over him with that knife in my hand...I wanted to kill him, drive that knife into him over and over..." she shook her head, shaking, "I wanted him to know what it felt like for me that night, having something rip into your body...but I...I dropped the knife in horror. I could barely breathe," her voice trembled, shaking, questioning, "I was sickened by those thoughts...I had...I had wanted to kill my own husband. I remembered Mary Anna...thought for just a moment, I'm already a murderer aren't I? I'd wanted to kill him in cold blood! That's when I knew...I knew I had to get out of there. I called up a friend, asked her to come pick me up. She took me to the hospital and...the next day I filed for divorce."
"Ashley B., I...I'm sorry," Ashley A. whispered throwing her arms around the battered and pained young woman, "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry you didn't think you could tell me."
"It's alright Ashley A.," Ashley B. assured her, "It's over now."
"No, it's not alright," Ashley A. told her, "That bastard...I could kill him...even if you couldn't. Nobody disrespects an Ashley that way!" Ashley A. pressed the hair from Ashley B.'s face, brushing her lips against Ashley B's forehead and they sat in an embrace, comforting one another's wounded hearts, "I'm going to be there for you completely from now on...I'm going to be there for all of the Ashleys from now on. We'll shake the world to its knees goddamnit!" Ashley B. chuckled and the two young women found themselves in a fit of giggles.
"We'll take the world on..." Ashley B. joined in, "The way we should have a long time ago."
"Right! And we'll exact punishment on those who deserve it all while color coordinating their outfits!"
"We'll start with Donny, 'cause boy does he need a fashion make-over!"
"A total attitude adjustment!"
"He needs to learn to tremble under the wrath of the Ashleys!" They grinned at one another.
"SCAN-DA-LOUS!" And were once again overtaken with a fit of giggles.
-0-0-0-0-
Randall slipped into his father's house, navigating his way through the discarded beer bottles and small piles of trash. The flood hadn't reached the small split-level and for that Randall was somewhat grateful. Though sometimes he did wish a flood would overtake the small house and wash it away. His father hadn't even seemed to notice his absent, still sitting on the couch watching the television and holding onto an empty bottle of Budweiser.
"Will you look at that crap?" Mr. Weems muttered to his son, as an acknowledgment of the young man's return, "These people don't know what they're talking about...the reporters they hire these days..." The set was tuned in on the news, one of the few shows the elderly man watched, it was either that or Magnum P.I. Mr. Weems imagined that he was Magnum some days, telling Randall inventive, and undoubtedly delusional stories of a youth spent as a private investigator. Randall, however, knew that Mr. Weems had been a mailman, now "enjoying" retirement.
"Yeah dad," Randall nodded, having only paused a moment before pushing his way to the kitchen. He stopped, looking over a picture stuck on the small thirty year old, olive green refrigerator. He smiled sullenly, "Hi mom," he whispered in greeting of the smiling portrait of the beautiful brunette young woman. "I was at the library again today...sitting in your spot, reading your favorite book. I didn't get to finish it though...there was a fire." He traced the image reverently, his smile fading away to a look of focus and concentration. "I'm sorry," he told the picture finally before shaking from its trance and opening the fridge in search of a beer. He was always apologizing to that portrait. Somebody had to.
"That's a load of shit and you know it!" Mr. Weems screamed at the television and Randall winced. His search ended and he downed half the bottle in one quick slide down his throat. He shook his head, more used to the bitter taste than he would have liked to be. He snuck to the back porch, frowning at the mess. His father was a packrat in a way; never throwing away anything even after it broke or became useless and obsolete. In a way, those objects reflected the old man, useless. There was a rusted old lawnmower in the middle of the overgrown weed of a backyard lawn, the grass itself was all dried out and dead, being the only weed the Weems family couldn't manage to grow. There was a pile of beer cans that never quite made it to the recycle bin to one side of the house, a broken bike, a rotting cardboard fort, a dust covered sofa, a plastic child swimming pole with a hole torn in the bottom, an ancient teddy bear, and so many other discarded remnants of various forgotten objects. It was an obsessive-compulsive man's nightmare, but Randall seemed to overlook it simply because he'd grown up in that mess.
Making his way over to a pile of abandoned handy-man projects, and with a purposeful stride, Randall knocked over one of the gray cement bricks with a nudge from his foot and let a sedate smile slip across his cracking lips as he stared unsurprised at the small old package that had fallen onto the dirt clot better identified as once being grass. Plucking the package off the ground and opening it with hope-filled eyes he let the smile broaden slightly, crookedly as he stared eagerly at the white stick of paper rolled cancer, pried it from the crushed packaging and pressed it between his lips, igniting the tip of the cigarette with the flame from a silver lighter he produced from his back pocket. Shoving the lighter back where it belonged he crossed the backyard to the brick wall and pulled himself up to the ledge with ease, squatting and looking out at the open lot behind his father's house. He swung his legs to hang down the side of the wall and pulled the cigarette from his lips, banishing the withered ash to the ground and relishing the bitter sweet taste of the alcohol and smoke dancing along his tongue. For a rather rare moment, Randall allowed himself to relax, willing the tension in his muscles to slip away with each puff of his cigarette and each swig of the beer.
Sometimes...sometimes...Randall imagined that he could jump over that ledge to the lot on the other side. And he'd pretend, in his mind, that the empty lot was a passage to another world, another life and if he ran hard enough, fast enough, he could escape the life he so desperately wanted to leave behind.
-0-0-0-0-
TJ stood in his room weakly, having sent his parents away disdainfully. He was grateful for their fussing, yes, but it was too much...too overwhelming. He couldn't handle it. What's more, he didn't deserve it. They shouldn't waste their worry on him, he'd told the wide-eyed couple, he dug himself his own mess. It was the people he left behind in the wreckage that deserved his parents' concern. He gripped the corner of his desk, steadying himself from a rush of blood spinning to his head, his eyes blanketed with black. Regaining his composure, he focused in on the red hat hung lazily over the back of the desk chair. He stumbled the few feet over to it, and in his condition it wasn't an easy move.
That red cap was magic to TJ. It held in its very seams a world of adventure and memories that, as his fingers laced around it, flooded into his mind's eye. Plans, mistakes, laughter, pranks, detention, time-outs, kickball games, Saturday morning cartoons, paper airplanes, spit wads, an entire childhood spent with the best of friends. Trembling, TJ set the hat down on the desktop, shocked at how much it affected him, the past that is. He closed his eyes. People he cared about were in danger. People who had learned to always rely on him, and yet...he was failing them one moment at a time, one mistake after another.
It's not worth it, hating yourself. You'll always lose that way. TJ frowned. What had Vince meant, coming in that room and saying all those things? Did he really expect things to better, just like that? TJ ran his fingers along the brim of his red hat, frowning and concentrating entirely on the slow movement of his shaking appendage. Vince had spent the past fifteen years hating TJ, not the other way around. TJ had only just begun hating Vince, and that was simply because of...TJ looked away, closing his eyes. Spinelli. Don't call me that. You can't call me that. He hadn't seen so much hurt, so much anger and pain along her face, burning in her eyes. It was enough to make TJ hate himself, want to hurt himself just to feel the pain, even so much as kill himself in hopes of even easing her misery slightly...
TJ shook those thoughts from his mind. Felt the tears dripping down his cheeks. He wiped them away, embarrassed. He heard the door open behind him, and fought the urge to verbally assault the intruder for not knocking.
"TJ?" the voice was one TJ hadn't heard in a long time. He reluctantly spun around, staring at that round face with the dirty blonde curls wisped around soft blue eyes. "Hey, little brother. What's going on?"
"Becky?" TJ questioned, looking the young woman up and down. He hadn't seen her in a long time, and was oddly stricken confused with this need to hug her and greet her warmly. This, his older sister, who'd tormented him, and equally tormented back throughout his life. She was slightly shorter then him now, he'd finally passed her up in height; which was somewhat pleasant to know. She hadn't been cursed to the extent TJ was with the Dettwieler freckles, and her body had rounded out nicely into a voluptuous feminine figure.
"You look like you've been through hell and back, T-Jerk," she grinned. Even TJ had to let a smile press across his lips at the teasing nickname she'd given him such a long time ago. "You never call," she mumbled, the grin fading, "Or write."
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Yeah...well, you really are a jerk," she told him, slapping his arm, "Almost dying today." It took TJ a moment to register the tears streaming down his older sister's face, to understand that those tears were for him. Without hesitation, his arms slipped around the young woman pulling her into a tight embrace.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, "It's alright. I'm alright."
"Who would I tease if you were gone?" she went on, her words catching, "You're my baby brother, TJ..." TJ felt a deep ache in his heart that he didn't recognize, as Becky's arms sidled around his waist and her tears seeped through his shirt. It hadn't occurred to him, how much some people cared for him. Did he really deserve this affection? "What would I do if we lost you?" she whispered, sniffling. It's not a matter of deserving. TJ pulled away gently, and with a steady hand, wiped away his sister's tears.
"You shouldn't bother with me," he assured her, "Remember, I'm the pain in your side?" She smiled through the tears, snorting softly. They were silent.
"I heard you and Spinelli broke up," Becky finally whispered. TJ winced.
"Mom and dad sure have big mouths," he muttered.
"I heard it from Joey," she told him, "Mom and dad wouldn't tell me anything, said I had to ask you about it. Joey said that...that you...is it true?" TJ looked away, running his hand through his hair. "Don't," Becky commanded him, "Don't act like that. Look at me and answer me." He refused and she grabbed the sides of his face, roughly pulling him to look at her. "Whatever happened to my cocky brat of a brother?" TJ shrugged.
"You're hurting my face," he informed her quietly.
"Tell me," she pressed, pinching his cheek.
"Stop," he squirmed, "Fine...what do you want to know?"
"Why did you break up with Spinelli? Did you...did you really sleep with someone else?"
"I was drunk when I...well...don't remind me of that," TJ shuddered, fighting the disgust and illness washing over him. It had only intensified with the knowledge of who exactly he had slept with, "I just..." pulling from his sister's grasp, TJ crossed the room to his bed, slumping on it, "I never understood why Spinelli was with me, what she saw in me. When I saw her...with Vince, I realized how nicely they matched, how right they looked together. I couldn't take it anymore, all right. She's...and I'm...I don't deserve her; she should be with someone she fits with, someone that's right for her. I'm not right for her."
"And how exactly did you reach this conclusion?" Becky inquired, her brow bunched up in a pile of wrinkles from obvious confusion.
"Well, have you seen us together?"
"Yes," Becky said firmly, "And I've never seen a more perfect couple."
"But look at me..."
"I am looking at you," she whispered, "I asked Spinelli once..." Becky continued, taking a seat next to TJ on the bed, "Why she'd chosen you, when I knew that there were some hot guys at your school that wanted to date her. Hell, there were hot guys at my school that wanted to date her." TJ grimaced at that comment.
"What'd she say?" TJ asked, not certain he wanted the answer, his stomach lurching in a horrid knot.
"What do you think she said?" Becky retorted, pausing for a moment but continuing when there seemed no chance of TJ answering the not-completely-rhetorical question. "She said she didn't even notice any other guys existed to date. Which trust me, I found shocking. The point is TJ, what you see in the mirror isn't what Spinelli's sees in you. She's loved you her whole life, how could you possibly doubt her now?" TJ rubbed his forehead furiously, warily.
"I love how everyone keeps telling me what I mistake I made," TJ muttered, "Now will someone please tell me how to fix this damn mess!" Becky smirked, pulling herself off the bed and walking over to the desk. She paused, turned to face him and motioned for him to come over; which he obliged suspiciously.
"I don't know, TJ," Becky finally told him when he stood in front of her, "But I'm sure you'll come up with something," in one swift movement she slipped the red hat atop his head, grinning up at him when it sat in place. He smirked slightly, adjusting the cap to fit his head and turning it backwards as he was accustomed to. Becky placed her hands on his shoulders and, giving him a quick hug around his neck and a peck on the cheek, she left the room. Calling over her shoulder, "I'll be downstairs. Get in bed, you're sick!"
TJ touched the brim of his cap, went to run his hand through his hair and stopped, realizing he couldn't. Smiling serenely, he felt a slight confidence take a hold on him, and, feeling slightly dizzy, he decided to heed his sister's advice, slipping beneath his covers and, with his head leaning against the headboard, closed his eyes.
-0-0-0-0-
Spinelli made her way, shakily up that staircase she knew so well, tracing every nick in the wood with an eased hand. She held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest, and frowned at the soft-carpeted floor at the top of the stairs.
Despite her mother's protests, Spinelli had decided to make the short trip four houses down to the Dettwieler residence to retrieve her bags. Standing on the porch, fidgeting slightly and knocking gently, she had time to regret her decision. However, when the door swung open, she had no time to rectify the choice she'd made. She was surprised to see Becky standing in the doorway, looking down at her with a pitying eye and a soft smile. Without asking for reason or explanation, Becky had widened the door and stepped back, allowing Spinelli inside and directing her upstairs. Which was now exactly where Spinelli stood.
She'd hoped for a moment that her bags were still outside of TJ's room where they'd left them what seemed an eternity ago during their brief fight in that exact spot. But the bags were gone and there was only one possible place for them to be. Spinelli made her way towards TJ's room, recalled the painful memory of happily standing beside him in front of the door the day they'd arrived at the house, and brought a quivering hand up to knock. She waited, and when no one answered, opened the door and entered.
The room was dark; it was late after all. Spinelli flicked the light switch and her eyes fell on the form lying silently in the bed staring up at the ceiling. For a moment, everything seemed silent, moving in slow motion. Her stomach was twisting within itself, her head spinning, and she seemed incapable of thought. She assumed she was dead for a moment, because that was the only rational answer for her heart stopping the way it did. She was already dead on the inside anyhow.
"I doubt you're here to talk," TJ finally said, not even so much as glancing at her. He looked like his old self, the red cap securely in place on his head, wearing a white t-shirt and large jeans and dirty white socks. He'd kicked the covers to the foot of the bed and was rubbing his arm nervously. He looked slightly dazed, his back pressed against the headboard of the bed, his eyes searching for...for something.
"Where are my bags?" Spinelli asked, suddenly finding her voice. TJ looked to the corner of the room where the bags were piled unceremoniously together, hers with his. She crossed over to the bags, bending and attempting to sort through them, praying it didn't take too long because she could already feel her tears returning.
"I'm sorry," TJ said. Spinelli clicked her tongue, chewing her lower lip in frustration.
"You don't want me to forgive you, so stop apologizing!" she snapped.
"I'm not apologizing for that," TJ told her. She paused from her work, leaning back and sitting on the floor, indicating that she was listening, and did she ever want to hear this. What else could he possibly have to apologize for? He continued, "I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I thought...I wondered how could anyone want to be with someone like me? Someone who looks like me?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Spinelli bit.
"Every time I looked in the mirror...I just never wanted to see me in that mirror," TJ tried to explain, "I'm fat."
"You're not fat," Spinelli interrupted, "You're soft...."
"Flabby's more like it..." TJ put in, "And...my hair is always a mess...and these freckles."
"I love your freckles, Teej," Spinelli muttered, staring blankly at the bags, tears streaming down her cheeks. How come he never told her all of this before; that he felt like this way?
"Well, how could you ever stand to look at me? Be in bed with me..." TJ mumbled. Spinelli closed her eyes, enraged.
"I didn't think it mattered what we looked like," Spinelli enunciated each word in a hiss.
"Well it wouldn't matter for you, I mean...you're beautiful." He whispered the last part and Spinelli blushed slightly. Beautiful was pushing it, she thought.
"Beautiful?" she snorted in disgust, "I'm a tomboy, Teej," she argued, "Some days I just roll out of bed and don't even bother brushing my hair and I go throughout the day like that! Sometimes I'm too lazy to look for clean clothes so I wear the same thing I wore yesterday...even if there's a stain on my shirt," she choked on her words, all the flaws she'd noticed about herself, spent hours thinking about and wondering if TJ thought about them or noticed them, "I'm small...short..." Spinelli closed her eyes, squeezing out any liquid in them that had been threatening to spill anyways, "I never really filled out like a woman should have...I still have this boyish figure...my boobs are non-existent!" She buried her face, reminded of Clara. "She was well endowed," Spinelli spat and TJ didn't bother asking who "she" was, he already knew, "I bet she rolls out of bed and every strand of hair is already perfectly in place and her face is probably already primly powdered." Spinelli suddenly shot up to her feet, grabbing one of her bags indignantly, not caring which bag it was. For all she knew, it could simply be holding all her socks and underwear. She made her way to the door.
"I'm sorry," TJ repeated, more softly, "I'm sorry you thought that it mattered to me...that I thought it mattered to you..." he closed his eyes, breathing sharply, "If you think I liked Clara's body, you're wrong. I don't know why I did what I..."
"I'm not going back to New York," Spinelli interrupted, and TJ fell silent, "I'm going to stay with my parents for the rest of the school semester, I'll drop out of my classes. Maybe...maybe I'll go back next semester, get a dorm room." Spinelli touched the doorknob, fiddled with it slightly before turning it and beginning to step out. TJ seemed to be contemplating these words, thinking them through. It didn't really surprise him; it made sense after what he'd done that she wouldn't want to return with him. Even though a part of him had thought that when they returned to New York it would be as though nothing in that small town had ever happened, that their lives in New York would be untouched.
"I need you to do something for me," he called to her and she snorted softly, turning back in the room, fury burning in her red-rimmed eyes.
"You're really the last person who deserves any favors from me," she spat.
"I know...but you're the only one who can do it...the only one they'll all really listen to," TJ whispered. Spinelli raised an eyebrow.
"I know that look," she told him silently, "Say it." TJ nodded, meeting her eyes for the first time since she'd entered the room.
"I have a plan."
END A/N: YAY, TJ has a plan! Now be honest, who shouted a whoop of glee upon seeing those words written on the screen? Anyone...ah...well...maybe it was just me...
Ah...how sad, the lives of the Ashleys. Isn't it fun? Everyones starting to revert back to themselves...wonderful! I couldn't find a way to end the Ashleys' segment but then it hit me...a spouting of their infamous catchphrase to...well, get whatever symbolism you want out of that, as well as TJ's redonning of the hat. I was torn between who should place that hat on TJ's head, and originally it was going to be Spinelli...but...well, that idea was shot, several times in fact. Ah...Randall, I'm glad so many people are liking his persona. I'm actually considering doing a spin-off for Randall, because his life is just beginning to really interest me.
Now, a little lesson on Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (a.k.a OCD). Perhaps the most well-known OCD suffering character as of right now would have to be Monk (the defective detective). I imagine you're all saying, well, WHY does Randall do "this" or "that" if he suffers from OCD and you think of how Monk would NEVER do "this" or "that". Keep in mind that while Monk suffers from OCD, he is also a sufferer of almost any kind of phobia you can think of while Randall, is not. OCD is attributed with the sufferers "need" to do something...usually associated with numbers (Randall's affinity for even numbers as well as things that'll be evident later on in the story). Most serial killers suffer from OCD among other things (mostly sociopathy!). Yup..they have a need for neatness, and live by the ideal "A place for everything and everything in it's place". I don't claim to be an expert on OCD, these are just things I know. Does anyone remember the show on Nickelodeon "Truth or Dare"? Yeah, the host of that show had OCD. Can you imagine working on that show with said disorder? Fun facts!
Now, yes, Randall smokes and drinks. I do not by any means condone smoking, it is a dirty habit, but it fits Randall's character. Eh? What was that? What about drinking? Er...don't drink and drive! And, about his mother, I'm playing on the fact that the series never showed a mother for Randall, though his father was shown (looked like an older version of him).
Yup, that's about it...er...IF YOU READ ALL OF THAT, please go forth and REVIEW. YAY. That means you Momo-chan, RT, and DarkAngelGuadianLight! Okay, thanks.
THANKS for Reading, and please excuse any grammatical or typing errors. LOTS OF LOVE! Ja ne!