Early spring was cold, but not frigid. It had a crisp, biting coolness to it, and the sky seemed to have brighter, clearer colors. The air seemed fresh. It was no wonder spring was thought of where new beginnings were born. It was still too cool, however, for the plants not to freeze to death, and the boy did hate seeing them die. So, every morning, he would go to the shed to find an old watering can. Then he'd take it to the flowers and thaw them out.
He had been doing it for a while now. Tending to the plants. It kept him going. Lately he'd been having trouble with a serious case of depression, and finally, he had been told he needed to find something to cheer him up. A hobby. He smiled grimly at the memory. Even as he watered the small rosebuds, he still felt that lingering emptiness. A longing for something- someone- long gone. It still hurt as if it had been yesterday, when he was told Andy was missing. For a long while, he had hoped he would come back. He had believed he would come back. After all, Andy had promised he would return.
The boy knew that promises like that could not be kept. Not when it came to life. His father had promised to come back, too. But in a way, he hadn't.
He also enjoyed the peaceful quiet he could have without anyone worrying. When he tried to seclude himself in the house, Mrs. Norris or Maggie would fuss over him. Sometimes Johnny would look guiltily at him, and the boy knew he wondered if it was his fault. But out here, they knew he was watering the garden, and they felt safer with that in mind. And he could let his heart ache without bothering a soul. He touched one of the budding plants tenderly, muttering to it. There was morning dew on his shoes and trousers, and some of it had seeped through and began to chill him.
He heard laughter in the house. He recognized each one. Mr. Mike Norris had a short, broken laugh, like comedians. Mrs. Norris had a sad laugh. Andy was her son, and the boy knew that though she laughed, somewhere inside, she still felt the hole in her heart. The place where her son used to be. He sighed heavily as he took the bucket to the next row, carefully watering the azaleas. At least, he thought to himself, here is one thing I haven't harmed.
Yet.
It was the guilt that clung the most. He had depended on Andy's return for so many reasons. He was holding in guilt for what he'd done, and he felt that if only Andy could come home, everything would be alright. Karen would not need to remember her son was dead because of him. If Andy could just come home, he could tell him how sorry he was. How he loved him. How he would do anything to make it up to him.
But, Andy did not come. It had been a year since the war had ended, and he had not come. A year since he had been reported missing. Surely, if he had not died in the explosion, he had died of hunger or dehydration or God knows what else. And it was his fault. For ruining his life. Sweet Andy, who had done nothing but love him, had been betrayed by him. The boy sniffed and convinced himself that it was the cold air making his eyes water and his nose run. He was still struggling with sleeping at night. He still woke with terrible fits and coughs. He always woke them, and he felt terrible. For being such a burden.
And he should have known not to hope for Andy. He didn't deserve it at all, to have him back. Of course Andy would die in the war, it was fate, it was justice. So, although it hurt so much, he held up his head, pasted a smile, and told everyone he would be alright. Because he was serving his punishment. He had also hoped the boy with those gorgeous eyes would return because he loved him. And he needed someone to love him back. But of course, he didn't deserve that either.
His fingers were numb as they held onto the can, but he barely noticed it. His mind was far away, remembering him. Andy. The first time he saw him, so long ago, when he was lost. When Karen had first given him to Andy, when he was a doll. How Andy had smiled and held him close, and thanked his mother. He had told her that the doll was the best thing ever. Unconsciously he clenched his hands around the handle of the can. That was all Andy had wanted. And he, Charles Lee Ray, had spoiled it. Like he did all the time.
He had broken a dish the other day. And of course, Maggie had told him it was no big deal, people broke things all the time, but still, he knew. He was an expert at breaking things, at tearing things apart. Maybe that was because he had been torn apart. But he shouldn't have been so stupid. That was why he had gotten hurt. Because he was so terribly dumb. Especially when it came to people. He always made the wrong decision.
He was crying now. It came out in quiet, ragged, gasps- but it was crying nonetheless, and try as he might, he could not deny it. He was lost. Here in a home with people who said they loved him, and he was lost. He felt so selfish; what more could he ask for? He shouldn't ask for more. It was already more than he deserved to have them, and he could ask for nothing else. But he couldn't help those nights where he would have vivid dreams of warm arms wrapping themselves around him. He couldn't help that he'd awaken in bliss, only to realize he was only dreaming. He couldn't help when he had to bury his face in his hands and sob for him, sob for Andy.
He had never felt Andy hug him again since the day he betrayed him.
He didn't notice the tired footsteps. They were walking like one who hadn't slept in days, and truly, the one who the steps belonged to hadn't slept or rested in a while. They were coming up the path that they had walked long ago, when they had left. The eyes of the steps saw him, the boy, and they knew, they knew that they had made it home at last. The face was burning with sickness, and one of the legs was limping in pain. The throat wanted to call out to the boy, to call his name, but the energy had been spent on walking to get there, and instead, the eyes closed for a moment to regain balance before the knees gave way and crumbled against the ground.
The boy felt a presence behind him. He didn't know why, but his mind was telling him to turn around. Perhaps there was a deer there. Slowly, so he wouldn't frighten it away, he pivoted his body to face the road, the one place he never looked anymore because it made him hope too much. He turned, and he wanted to openly sob to the heavens at what he saw, but instead dropped the watering can. And he told himself, it wasn't real, this was a dream, he would only wake to find it not true.
And the eyes of the steps looked up. The ears had heard the sound something falling. The eyes looked up and saw his face, saw the blue eyes that the mind had dreamed and thought of since the day they had left. The lips moved, mouthing the name. The voice finally found its way out. "Chucky…"
The boy stepped toward him cautiously."I am dreaming, aren't I?" he said slowly. His eyes were wide with fear. "I've had so many dreams of you, Andy. Tell me, tell me you're really here," here his eyes began to water, "Tell me I'm not dreaming. Tell me the never-ending nightmare is over…" The steps, the eyes, the voice, they collided. They looked at the boy. "It's me, Chucky," the voice said softly. "I've been through hell and beyond, but I'm home. I'm here. See for yourself."
He had reached him now, the dream that said he was not a dream. He reached out to touch his hands, and they felt so real, too real to be a dream, but it was still so hard to believe! He held the hand close to him, felt the warmth of life pulsating from it, and he knew that it was true, believed it was true. He cried, softly, and then lifted his face to him, the man come home, and he cried.
"I'm sorry, Andy…I stopped waiting for you… I thought… I didn't know! And it's been so long! And I've missed you! I've missed you so much, I can't even begin…" and his words were lost, and Andy fell to his knees, because he had run out of strength to stand, but also because he needed to embrace the small one, to envelope him and let him know he had come home, and things would be alright now. "It's alright now, Chucky," he said softly, tenderly. Holding something so familiar, because he had held the boy once, long ago, and loved him like this. He kissed the tear-stricken face and tasted the salty tears, and murmured to him softly, "I'm home. I'm here now, and I'll take care of you. There's no need to cry anymore. I'm here."
And the boy held onto him, the tears making up for what could not be said in words. The sun began to rise into the clear blue sky, looking like glass. The dew was shining in the grass around them, and not another sound was heard, save for the dripping from the forgotten watering can in the garden.