Thank you very much for all of your fantastic reviews! I forgot to mention this in the first part, but this is my first shot at fanfiction, and so constructive criticism would be really helpful – thank you again, and if you'd like to review again, then that would be really nice! Thanks.
II
He stood in the shower, motionless under the cascading torrents of water. He wanted to be cleansed. He wanted to be cleansed of her. He wanted every trace, every resin, of her touch to be gone from his body and he wanted to be free of this aching psalm of hopelessness.
His tears ran into the waterfall and the salt water permeated his body. He still wasn't fresh; he still wasn't free. He was dirty and trapped and so, so lost in the realms of an almighty labyrinth. Even if he found his way to the centre, the Minotaur would rear its ugly head. And so, he realised, movement was futile. Movement took him further away from her and nearer to something more terrifying. So he didn't move. He sat on the floor of the bath, his arms wrapped around his shivering body, and he did not move.
He sobbed. For hours, he sobbed.
That is where his son found him, pushing the bathroom door tentatively open; terrified of what he might see - shaken by the image of crimson mixing with water that had imprinted itself on his retina the last time he had been in this situation. Yes - déjà vu is a cruel master.
He looked at his father with long-suffering, long-fearing lamps shining brightly through the dimness of the room. He saw; for the first time, he saw.
Chandler sat, crouched, in the shower. Shaking, crying. Alone.
Marcus, choking with pity, grabbed his father by the arms, pulled him, unrelenting, to a standing position. He pulled a towel half-heartedly around him, hauled him out of the shower. Still Chandler did not move.
"Come on, Dad," mumbled Marcus. "You've got to give me a hand here."
Nothing.
"I can't do this on my own, Dad."
Chandler moved his head a millimeter to the right. It was something. It was progress. "Just get out of this room and I promise it'll be okay. We'll work it out if you can just move for me. Come on..."
He was lying. They both knew it.
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"He's been like that before."
"You weren't there, okay? It was different this time! It was different. He's getting worse. Seven fucking years, and he's getting worse... I can't take this! I shouldn't have to take this! I can't go out with my friends because I have to stay home and make sure my fucking father doesn't try and slit his wrists! It's not normal, Sam! He's not normal! Someone normal would go to the doctors, get some pills, and get over it."
As soon as the words were out, he regretted them.
"You're even more of a dumbass than I already thought, Marcus. You know what happens when Dad goes to the doctors!" She lowered her voice to a hiss. "Remember what happened last time? Remember? Remember how they sent him away and how they split us up? Remember? Remember how we didn't see each other for six months? Remember how Charlie wouldn't stop crying, and they sent social workers round to check on us every weekend? Remember how Dad couldn't look us straight in the face for months? How he'd refuse to talk to us? Don't tell me you fucking forgot, Marcus. Don't tell me that, 'cause I won't believe you. Doctors, counsellors, social workers, they're all the same. They've all got it in for us. They don't want us to be with Dad, and if you give in and go running to one of them, then our whole family's gone and it's your damn fault."
"Okay, okay!" He raised his hands into the air. "I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean... I didn't think..."
"You never do."
"Lay off of me, alright? What are we going to do about Dad?"
"There's nothing we can do. He'll get out of this. He has to. He'll get out of this, and we can be a family again."
"Be a family, be a family," Marcus mocked. "That's all you care about. Being a family. What about having a life? Just because Dad chooses not to live doesn't mean we can't. You need to stop reading fucking fairytales, Sam... join the real world."
Sam turned away. "It's coming up to the anniversary of the funeral. You know it's always hard for him then."
"And it's not hard for us?"
"Come off it, Marc. You were eight. You don't remember her."
"People remember from when they were eight!"
"You don't. You can't even remember what happened yesterday! If you didn't drink so much..."
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Chandler stood in the doorway. Listening. Listening was what he did best. He could not participate, could not talk, could not live – but he could listen. That was all he was good for now.
And, sometimes, all the words he had overheard and collated would play back – a million tape recorders all clamoring to be heard in the chaos of his mind. He had yet to discover a stop button. He suspected that this was because there was none.
"I wonder if she was beautiful," Sam mused, running a hand through her hair. "I mean, where else would I get my good looks?"
She was trying to lighten the situation. It was an unusual role for her – one that Marcus usually undertook wordlessly and without complaint. It was only now that she was beginning to realise that this was not a certainty – not a necessity. Marcus wasn't God. He didn't have to save them from the truth; and, from now on, maybe he wasn't going to.
"She was." Chandler spoke for the first time in three days from the spot where he had worn two deep grooves into the carpet. "I mean, she is."
He had spoken! He felt liberated; one of the crows which encircled him constantly had relented, and, through this small victory, he felt somehow as if he had overcome one of his demons. As if he were on his way to recovery. "Don't talk about her in the past tense."
Two heads whipped round to stare at him. Disbelieving, but desperate. Desperate for a father.
"She's still alive. I know she is." He closed his eyes, trying to block out their wary faces. "She talked to me. Last night, she talked to me. She told me that she's coming. She's coming, I promise." He let out a sob. "She's coming home."
"He's fucking insane," muttered Marcus to his sister. "He's crazy."
"I want her to come back," whispered Chandler. "I want her to so bad."
"Just because you want it doesn't mean it's going to happen, Dad." Ignoring the look his sister gave him, Marcus continued. "No, Sam. He's got to hear this. I don't care about whether it's going to hurt him – he's already hurt us enough and he has got to hear this. Dad, you've got to move on. You're screwing everything up – for yourself, for us... for everyone. You've got to move on; for us, if for no one else. Can you do that, Dad?"
"I want to help you," Chandler whispered, croakily. "I want to help my kids."
"So, you'll give this a shot? No doctors or anything, just... living?"
Living. He wanted to live so much.
"Yes."
It was only half a lie.