Title: Seventeen
Part
4 of 4 (Short Epilogue to follow)
Author:
ChaseII
Story Rating: T (overall content / language)
Disclaimer: The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, et. al. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.
A/N: Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine!
(Written for Brandywine's Hiatus Challenge Post)
Opening line prompt: It consumes me, burning
Word prompt: languid, prayers, watercolor
Summary: What if Ryan's wish to be 'seventeen' had meaning from another place and time?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
2003
The pounding and the doorbell blend together like a bad percussion ensemble, rousing me from sleep.
I turn to Sam, who's trying to pry his eyes open. I look across his body to the clock, and see it's 6:08am. Which doesn't sound so early until you factor in that we went to bed a little after 3:00.
I'm the first to scramble out of bed, as I remember Ryan's sleeping in the guest room. He's a teenager – maybe he's oblivious to this full frontal assault. God knows he needs to get some rest.
Sam's sitting up groggily as I pull on sweats. He pleads with me, his dark brown eyes intense, "Meg, you know who that has to be. Why don't you let me talk to her?"
"I'm not afraid of her, Sam," I snap.
"You should be," Sam warns, as he reaches for his jeans. I ignore whatever else he's saying as I stalk toward the front door.
Ripping it open, I see Dawn's agitated face filling the space in front of me. She doesn't look like she slept at all last night. Her make-up is smeared across her face, the heavy mascara she uses staining her cheeks and making her eyes look like something straight out of some B-horror film.
"Where is he?" she demands without preamble. "Where the hell's my kid?"
I feel Sam's hand on my shoulder, stopping me from responding in kind.
He answers calmly, "Why don't you come inside, Dawn?"
She glares at me a moment before she looks up uncertainly at Sam. "Sure," she says ambiguously, "Why don't I just do that?"
When we move aside she strides in past us, angling toward the kitchen.
"Sit down, please," Sam says patiently, pointing to the table while I flip on the coffee maker, glad we loaded it last night.
I take a second to study her, noting that her hair looks like it's not seen a brush since yesterday. Her standard denim takes the form of a skirt and boxy jacket, which are paired with a rhinestone-studded pullover.
One side of her face bears evidence of being slapped, the red marks already deepening into bruises. It seems Ryan's not the only one with scars of whatever battle transpired last night.
"Where is he?" she demands again, looking straight at me. "I know you got him here."
"What happened last night?" I ask, as she sits down at the table. "Are you okay?" I make myself add in my best Sam-like 'caring' voice, drawing on every acting skill I've ever learned.
She raises her eyebrows irritably, "What makes you think I'm gonna' talk to you? I'm just here for Ryan."
"Ryan's sleeping," I report, still trying to keep my voice low, in the event he's miraculously slept through all the pounding and the ringing.
"What did he tell you?" she demands, raking her fingers futilely through her hair.
Nothing, I want to scream. He told us nothing. He didn't have to – the bruises on his face and across his shoulders told me more than enough.
"He's hurt, Mrs. Atwood," I answer, searching her face for any sign that she cares.
I want her to be a good mother. I want her to give a damn about her son. I want her to protect him.
Her voice is defensive as she protests, "If he is, it ain't my fault. I warned him AJ won't stand for mouthing off. He just doesn't listen."
My hands curl involuntarily, and I truly understand the temptation to hurt someone. I feel Sam's hand slide around my waist, his fingers pressing a warning into my skin. I blow out a breath, and reach for the coffee cups instead of Dawn's neck.
Sam indicates the handprint on her face and asks far too kindly for my liking, "Did AJ do that to you, Dawn?"
Her hand flies up to touch her cheek.
She looks at Sam as though he's somehow on her side, succumbing to his calm voice and concerned expression. When she speaks, she addresses him, "I told AJ he had to leave, until he calms down. Until he promises he'll keep his hands off me and Ryan."
"So, are you saying that you're going to let AJ back in your house?" I challenge, "After what he did to you? After what he did to your son?"
Her face darkens as she turns from Sam to me, "That's not any of your concern."
"I'm concerned about Ryan's welfare!" I counter, incredulous.
She swipes a hand back through her unruly mane again, "You try raising a teenager sometime. Then you'd understand how hard it is. I can't do it on my own."
I pounce on the small opening.
"Actually, I'd like nothing better than to help you," I assure her, trying my best to sound like I care about what's best for her.
She stares at me a long moment, her eyes unsettled.
I take heart that she seems to be listening, and press harder, "Look, Mrs. Atwood, I have a proposal. If it's … difficult… right now for Ryan to stay here with you and AJ, then let him stay with Sam and me for awhile."
I ignore the silent message Sam's sending me, instead appealing to any protective instinct she might possess as I add, "He'd be safe with us, I promise."
For just a moment, I think maybe I'm reaching her. Her lips tremble, and tears well up in her eyes. She squeezes her eyelids shut, and swipes across her face with the back of one hand.
I wait, my heart thudding inside my chest. Could it be this simple? All this time, did I only need to ask?
I'm not prepared for the venom in her voice as she tears into me, "How dare you? You think I'm just gonna' give you my kid? What goes on between me and Ryan? Ain't none of your fucking business! Now, you go get Ryan and bring him out here to me!"
I blink, "Please, you've got to believe me, Mrs. Atwood. I just want to help."
She stands up so quickly she knocks her chair over onto the floor. Grabbing it angrily, she sets it upright, all the while spitting at me, "I don't have to believe nothing you say."
She stops to take a breath, and glowers, "I think you've helped enough."
Cursing my own foolhardiness, I search for something that will smooth things over, finally settling on the truth.
"Ryan's always going to be your son. Don't you think I know that?"
She moves closer, her nose only inches from mine. I can smell her liquored ashtray-tainted breath as she snarls, "This is what I know. He's the only chance I got to make sure something in my life turns out good. And I ain't giving him up for you or nobody else, you hear me?"
I nod, wishing with all my heart that I'd listened to Sam, and let him do the talking.
She growls, "You can tell Ryan to get his ass outta' bed. Tell him that his mother's here, and that he needs to come home and clean up his damned mess before AJ gets back. And after that? You two can stay the hell out of our lives."
It turns out I don't have to tell Ryan anything. He's standing in the doorway, his eyes downcast.
"I'm coming, Mom," he mumbles. "Don't be mad at the Harts, please."
Dawn scowls at us, before grabbing his left arm roughly and pulling him toward the door.
He peers around his mother's back and whispers "Sorry," but his words are cut off when she jerks him to a halt.
She's furious as she lays into him, "Don't let me hear you apologizing to them, when it's me you've hurt with your smart-mouthing. I'm your fucking mother!"
"I know," he says softly. "Believe me, I know."
Dawn must not hear the resignation or despair that I hear in his voice. She stares at him a moment, and then smiles sloppily. "That's good, baby. That's real good."
Ryan flings one last apologetic glance in our direction before he exits through the door. She follows him, stopping to look back at us, her expression self-satisfied.
"See? He knows who he belongs to," she crows, triumphant.
Sam grabs my wrist, negating my angry retort. My eyes close in anguish as she slams out the door, herding Ryan unceremoniously into her car and screeching off.
I stand by the window, watching as her car disappears, fantasizing a reality where Ryan talks to the authorities. Sadly, I know it'll never happen. No matter how horrible she is, he's not about to desert her.
She'd have to be the one to go. God, is it horrible to pray that she abandons her son? That she disappears from his life?
I see Sam shaking his head, and find his eyes with mine.
"I'm sorry, babe," I whisper. "I should have kept quiet, like you said."
He takes me in his arms, kissing my temple lightly. "You tried, Meg. And for just a second, I swear she considered letting him stay with us."
I thought so, too. For one precious second.
"Coffee?" I ask, trying to find something to hold on to.
Sam nods and I go back to the kitchen, fill our cups with French roast, and return.
Taking his cup of java, Sam sinks down into the couch
"Fuck," he says quietly to himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."
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Dawn finally relents a little, allowing Ryan to see us again, but not before she's spent weeks telling him he's betrayed her by spending time with us.
Consequently, Ryan's hanging out lots more with Trey these days, and far less with us. The few times I catch up with him, he's in a hurry. He comes to the library for new books – he still reads steadily – but he times his visits so that our paths are less likely to cross.
On those occasions I do see him, he's usually sporting bruises. If I ask any questions he says he wrecked his bike, or got into a fight with Eddie, or he simply refuses to answer.
I'm really worried this time, because I hear things about AJ that make my skin crawl. Ryan insists I need to stay out of it – he's adamant that AJ is none of my business. When I plead with him to say something to the police, or Social Services, he looks at me with dead eyes, and walks away.
Despite the fight with Dawn, I remind Ryan he's still welcome to crash with us anytime he wants to. That regardless of what Dawn's said, if he wants a safe place to stay, we'll work it out somehow.
However, I can tell my words are wasted. I know Ryan well enough by now to know he's not about to leave his mother alone with the vile man she's drug into their home. He doesn't look at what it's costing him to stay – he's just not made that way.
This is when I wish Sam and I were wealthy. That Sam worked for firms where he made money, rather than searching out projects where he makes a difference. But money's never been a driving factor for my husband, any more than it has been for me.
It's just – if we had money, we might be able to do more.
We might be able to give Ryan access to the dreams that Trey and Dawn and AJ are working so damned hard to strip away. Dreams they say were never meant for kids like him.
I'm encouraged when Ryan actually listens as Sam and I talk about scholarships and work-study programs and community colleges, but my hopes fade as his responses are at best politely distant. I know we're losing, and it breaks my heart.
The only real concession Ryan makes is that he agrees to sit early for the SAT1, angry that I paid for him to take it and yet guiltily unwilling to let my money go to waste.
I want him to see first-hand how bright he really is, since I'm convinced his mediocre grades in school bear no relationship to his true potential. He needs to see himself compared objectively to other kids, even if they're older. I just keep thinking it might convince him – convince someone – that his intelligence can't be wasted.
I have a strong feeling that he'll test well. Over the years, I've watched him breeze through Mensa quizzes, work the NY Times Sunday crosswords in ink, ace all sorts of standardized practice tests, blow through logic puzzles that twist the mind… and here's the teller –he does those things for fun.
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It's a languid Sunday afternoon when Sam comes flying through the door. His eyes are shining, and he's so excited he's almost dancing.
"Smith called," he says, as he grabs me and swirls me in a tight circle.
"How cool is that?" I reply cautiously, wondering what our favorite do-gooder's said that makes Sam so energetic.
"He got the funding. For Guyana. The grants came through this week, but the architect who was supposed to be his co-chair? Can't commit to three years after all. The guy's daughter's having a baby, and there are complications, and he's just backed out." Sam's speaking so fast I'm having trouble keeping up with all the words.
"Sam?" is all I can utter, as I sense what's coming.
He grabs my hands, holding them in his, as he confirms, "Smith suggested me, Meg! They want me to be the co-chair!"
"You?" I echo dumbly, staring at his bronzed fingers like I've never noticed them before.
His voice sounds like a giddy teenager's as he enthuses, "Like you know, it's in Guyana. But not Georgetown, where it's so dangerous. This is in the western part of the country, along the Essequibo River. We'd live in Bonasika. It's just a village, and it's only accessible by boat."
He stops talking when he notices I've stopped breathing.
"Meg? Naomi's going to be there, too," he assures me.
I adore Naomi, Smith's wife – she's sweet and funny and completely irreverent. Her vocabulary makes Sam blush, but she's an amazing artist who touches people and places, coloring the spaces she inhabits, leaving lasting impressions on everyone she meets.
I try to smile, but I shiver instead.
"It's Ryan, isn't it?" he asks softly when I step back from him and drop numbly onto the couch. He knows me well enough to know it's not the country or the hardships that leave me cold.
The thought of leaving Ryan here alone is what's unbearable. Even though he doesn't have a lot to do with us these days, if we're not here, who will he have to turn to when he needs someone? Who will fight to save his dreams?
Sam swallows, "Believe me, Meg, you're not alone. I love the kid, too – I promise, I'd do anything in my power to make his life better."
"Anything?" I ask, even though I know Sam wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it.
"Anything. If you think Dawn's going to step aside, and let anyone really help Ryan, I'm first in line." He looks at me and smiles, "Or at least second, right behind you. I swear."
I struggle to keep the tears at bay, unable to form words.
Sam's eyes glisten as he sits down beside me, taking my hand in his once more. He says softly, "Say the word. I'll call Smith and turn it down."
I hesitate, at a loss as how to answer. Dawn's hold on Ryan is too strong – as long as she refuses to change her lifestyle, or move aside, we can only help Ryan if he lets us.
And he's not going to let us while she's in the picture. While he thinks he owes her his allegiance. While he struggles to protect her.
I remember her words to me. I remember her fierce self-absorbed determination to keep him – as some type of evidence that she hasn't completely failed as a person or a mother. And I hate her anew for holding on…
Sam says gently, "It's just, this? It's the type of project I've wanted for as long as I can remember. You, me, Smith, Naomi – working with local teams, bringing books, English, schools, roads, water, health centers, art …"
I look up at Sam, and see his eyes. The light that was so vibrant just moments earlier is shuttered, but it's still there, wavering like a candle flame.
So easily extinguished. Yet, given fuel, ready to explode in brilliant flame.
Can I deny Sam his dreams, on the off-chance we can still find a way to salvage Ryan's?
I squeeze his hand, pulling him closer beside me.
"Tell me more, babe. Tell me everything Smith said."
-------------------------
Ryan takes the news like we're telling him we're moving around the block. Like he doesn't care.
When we try to tell him we don't want to lose him from our lives, he laughs darkly, saying he heard that from Rick, too. We promise him we're coming back – that three years is not a lifetime. We don't make an issue of the fact he'll be eighteen by then, but it gives Sam and I a glimmer of hope just knowing Dawn's legal hold will have expired.
Ryan does make more of an effort to see us. He stops by the library a little more often, and comes by the house a few times to watch sports with Sam, but he refuses to talk about the move.
His SAT1 scores come in, and he brings me the envelop. I open it carefully, hoping what's inside proves I'm right – not to me, but to him.
The scores are not just good, they're phenomenal – Sam's overwhelmed and I'm practically delirious. Ryan's the only one who doesn't get too excited – although even he smiles a little when he reads he's in the 98th percentile.
I just hope that someone, somewhere really looks at these results, and realizes what an incredible intellect this kid possesses. I make copies of the results, and send them to his school, and to Child Services.
I keep a copy for myself – it goes into the box where I keep the sketch of a sheep muzzle he drew for me, the few photos he's let me take, countless newspaper write-ups of games and box-scores, a couple of school theatre programs, an unworn white shirt, and the assorted cards and notes he's given me over the years. I've already checked – the box fits perfectly into my carry-on luggage. Good thing – otherwise I'd have to have buy a bigger suitcase.
To my dismay, once we start packing boxes, Ryan avoids us entirely. Denial seems to be working for him, but it's not working very well for me.
----------------------------
As our departure date looms closer, I leave messages at his house and with Theresa that I want to see him, but I get no response.
Finally, the night before we're scheduled to leave town, we give up waiting for him to come to us and track him down, finding him hanging out with Trey and four or five other boys at the batting cages.
As we approach where they're gathered, we can smell the French fries and grilling hot dogs from the concession stand next door. We can hear the distinctive crack of metal bats colliding with horsehide and the rattle of the metal fence as those leaning against it shift their weight.
Eddie's batting, and Arturo and Trey are ragging on him because he keeps popping up. Ryan's got his back turned to them, facing in our direction as we walk up. He's got a cigarette in one hand, and a bottle in the other.
I see him turn toward the other guys, saying something before he throws the cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. Taking a swig out of the bottle, he walks in our direction. The other boys turn to watch, like we're the new entertainment.
"You shouldn't be here," he warns, "It's not safe here after dark."
"You're here," I point out.
He raises his chin defiantly, "Yeah, well, I can take care of myself."
"So I see," Sam says softly, his hand reaching out to touch a fresh cut on Ryan's face.
Ryan jerks his head away, batting at Sam's hand irritably. "Just leave it alone, okay?" He downs another swig of what we can now clearly see is beer.
He sees me staring at the bottle, and smiles wryly, "Don't worry – I've got it under control."
It's all I can do not to grab the bottle from his hands, but I don't want my last memory of our time together to be a fight. I search his eyes, but in the darkness, all I see is my own reflection. I see no trace of Ryan.
Trying to keep my voice steady, I explain, "We wanted to see you before we left. You know, just to say goodbye."
He stares at us for a second, and then shrugs, "Fine. Consider it said. Have a good life, guys. It's been real." He holds up the beer like he's toasting, his face a mirror of indifference. With a careless flick of his eyebrows, he turns abruptly on his heel.
"Wait!" I cry out, flinching. This wasn't how I pictured things… we can't leave things this way.
I hear Trey and the other boys laughing. They offer rude imitations of my pitiful plea, as Ryan keeps on walking.
The tears well up from deep inside, and I stumble into Sam's arms. Through a watery veil, I see Ryan hesitate, and stop.
He turns around to face us once more, only this time he's caught directly under a light. His eyes glisten, and his shoulders drop.
"Don't," he says, his voice unsteady.
Don't what? Don't beg? Don't cry? Don't leave?
"Please don't," he pleads, taking a tentative step in our direction.
My mind is racing, thinking through a dozen scenarios that range from turning down the project at the eleventh hour, to my staying behind while Sam goes on ahead, to working out some arrangement for Ryan to join us. I manage a wavering smile while I plan a different future, ignoring all the reasons why it could never be.
He's beside me now, head bent, looking up through his disheveled fringe, "I'm sorry," he says softly. "For how I acted just now, and… before. When I didn't come by."
He lifts his face, and I see the tears that he blinks back as he confesses, "It's just too hard, you know?"
Some of the boys start rattling the chain link, and call out to Ryan.
I hear Trey's voice chiding, "For God's sake Ryan, tell 'em to fuck off, and quit being a baby already."
Ryan's face contorts, and he spins, hurling the beer bottle toward the gang where it shatters against a pole just a few feet away from where Trey is standing. Glass and beer spatter in a wide arc.
"Fuck, Ryan!" Trey screams, shaking one arm and brushing at his jeans. "Fuck you!" Trey turns angrily back to Eddie and Arturo, kicking at the shards of glass now lying on the ground.
I've finally found my voice as Ryan turns back to us. "Ryan! Honey, you could have hit someone!"
He shakes his head, one corner of his mouth turning up, "If I'd have wanted to hit someone, I would have," he says confidently.
I expect he's right.
I reach out to touch him, "I promise, sweetie, this move isn't forever, okay? And we're still going to be there for you, even if it takes a while for us to communicate. We'll write each other all the time, and we'll call you as often as we can. You know that, right?"
He's biting his lip now, not answering.
"Ryan?"
He blinks, "I know what you're doing is more important, okay? I get that."
Sam jumps in, "More important than you? Is that what you think?"
"It's what I know, Mr. H. I've been reading about where you're going – they need guys like you two there. It is more important."
He's not asking – he's making statements he believes.
Sam shakes his head, "There's a lot to do there, that's for sure. But Ace? You're always going to be Numero Uno on our VIP list. Got that?"
Ryan rolls his eyes, and scuffs one foot across the sidewalk. "VIP? That's a first," he scoffs.
I look at him, standing there so uncertainly. Stretching out my arms, I'm thankful when he steps inside, allowing me to hold him for several seconds. Just before he backs out of my grasp he says softly, "That night I got sick at your house? When you thought I was sleeping? I heard what you said."
My eyes search for his, to see if he's saying what I think he's saying. He smiles self-consciously, his color rising as I memorize his face.
"I meant it," I whisper. "I love you, Ryan Atwood."
Sam's voice sounds husky as he adds, "I love you, too. That's not about to change, son."
Ryan looks down at his feet as he stumbles over his words, "Me, too. Love. You guys, I mean."
It fascinates me that someone who thinks so eloquently can be so lost for words. It doesn't matter. He's said enough.
I pull him back toward me, hugging him closer than before. Sam wraps his arms around both of us, and I feel Ryan's arms tightening, holding fast.
When Ryan backs away this time, we're all swiping at our eyes.
I laugh shakily, "So, you know when you're an architect, Sam's going to be recruiting you for these attempts of his to save the world."
The sadness rising in Ryan's eyes is palpable, as he shakes his head. I hear embarrassment in his voice when he says, "We all know I'm never going to be an architect. That was just a stupid kid's dream – I understand that now."
"That's not true, Ryan! You can be anything you want to be – just look at your test scores," Sam argues. "Meg has faith in you, and so do I."
Ryan backs up, putting distance between us before he speaks. "Funny thing… you're the only ones that do. And you're…"
He stops, closing his eyes, unwilling to complete his thought.
It's what he doesn't say that hurts.
Instead, he looks up, forces a smile, and plays the game one last time for me.
"Hey, I don't want you to worry about me, okay? Things are going to be better, Mrs. H, I promise. Remember? Everything's gonna' be good when I'm 'old'."
"When you're old?" asks Sam, clueless.
Ryan's smile is carefully controlled as he nods, his eyes locked onto mine, "Yeah. You know – when I'm seventeen."
This time when he turns around and walks away, I know he's not coming back. I stand there anyway, watching him join the other boys. Watching Trey swat at him, and seeing the other boys laughing as Ryan easily avoids his brother's reach.
Sam finally gathers me under his arm, guiding me gently to the car.
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It takes nearly three weeks before we're settled into our bungalow, and six weeks before my first letter to Ryan comes back marked 'undeliverable'.
By the time we journey again to Georgetown where I can make international calls, I learn the Atwood phone has been disconnected. I speak to the few people I can reach who might know something, but they have only sketchy information and lots of "I told you so's".
Ryan was arrested with Trey, they say – something about trying to steal a car. They read somewhere that Trey pled out, and was sent to prison. They think maybe Ryan was sent to Juvie, but they aren't really sure. When one 'friend' tells me to get over it – that Ryan ending up in jail was basically inevitable – I slam down the phone.
Desperately, I call Theresa, who says the Atwoods moved out of their house without any notice, and that she doesn't know where they've gone. She breaks down into tears over the telephone, as she confides that Ryan's completely disappeared.
Child Services and Juvenile Hall are dead ends – they claim they can't talk to me, because I'm not a relative or a guardian. I give them our contact details, and beg them to relay the information to Ryan, wherever he is. There's something in the mechanical way they respond that tells me they're not going to follow through.
I think they just don't want to be bothered, but in the end it's all the same.
We've lost track of Ryan.
I hope he's still got the intermediary address we gave him – if his letters just get that far, they'll be forwarded on to us. I pray that he'll let us know where he is, and how we can contact him. That he will understand we love him, no matter his mistake.
Every week when the mail boat comes, I wait to see if we have a letter, but the weeks and then the months pass, and it becomes clear that he's not going to write. I worry that he might avoid all contact, convinced he's let us down.
I try calling Theresa every time I make the difficult journey to Georgetown, hoping for any news. I give her my contact details again, and ask her to give them to Ryan if he surfaces. She promises that she will, but something in her voice sounds off. When I try talking to Eddie and Arturo, they are even less responsive.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
2004
At some point in time my conversations with Theresa seem to change, and she becomes edgy. She finally says she doesn't have a clue what happened to Ryan, and tells me to stop calling. I can't help it – I call anyway, but she stops answering. I have to give up when she changes her telephone number to a new unlisted one.
Meanwhile, it's an odd life we're living – so rewarding with what we're doing here. Working with Smith and Naomi is a joy, and the project is developing beyond our wildest expectations. We're working what seems like 24/7, which doesn't give us much time to think about anything other than what we're trying to accomplish.
The health center is on target, we've got a working library, albeit with a minimum of books, the school is held in tents while the buildings are going up, Smith's waterworks plans are in motion, and the design for a bridge has been approved, with the materials coming in slowly by barge.
Naomi and I have been drafted to teach, assist with establishing updated curriculum, and train those who will one day succeed us. I spend my spare time, such as it is, with all things library-related. Naomi spends her evenings splashing color across our dominion, incorporating local dyes, materials, fabrics and traditions with her own enigmatic flair.
We wake up with packed schedules facing us every day, and go to bed exhausted, while time rushes on in blurs of rain and heat and sun.
It's the still moments that are the hardest.
It's watching the kids knock around a baseball. Catching a glimpse of a child's delighted smile when he learns a new word.
Writing another letter I leave sealed inside his box.
It's in those moments I realize just how heavy an empty space can be.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
March 2005
The smell of blackened sauce permeates our bungalow, as the room slowly comes back into focus. My face is wet, and I realize warm tears continue to track down my cheeks and drip off my nose and chin. I use both hands to dry my face, while I push myself unsteadily to my feet.
I pick up the calendar with shaking hands, rubbing my index finger slowly across his name, as it consumes me, burning…
Always the loss, the fear, the grief.
And now, this huge and horrible 'not knowing'.
Where he is.
What he's doing.
What his life is really like at seventeen.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
fin
(short 2006 epilogue to follow)
A/N: Reviews always appreciated.
