A/N warning: Violent/suicidal imagery and curse-filled fights up ahead.
I think the problem with trying to forget your past is that you are forced to remember it in order to forget it. Forget it, they tell you, you tell yourself. What do you want to forget? The very thing you keep repeating in your head. What is that? That thing you want to forget. It's a paradox in some ways, shitty in others. It's futile.
Still, it's hard for me not to want to forget; life would be easier if I could. I don't think you can ever truly forget. Things just start to lose their edge, become simplified. Those bad emotions become statements of emotion, those statements of emotion become paragraphs, those paragraphs become sentences, those sentences become words, those words become letters, those letters become meaningless symbols, and when you look back on that memory – that thing you want to forget – you realize you don't feel anything toward that memory anymore.
But then, in passing, you mind suddenly becomes filled with that memory. You might just be sitting or reading, and bam! You feel shocked that your mind could spring such a bad trick on you; yet it's a dull version of the memory that doesn't hurt, that doesn't make you want to punch things or cry in frustration. You feel this sort of gaping state that isn't exactly sadness or anger but a knocked-off version of it. A memory of an emotion. And in a way, that numbness is a little sad in itself.
I hear sanity is overrated. I hear being a champion is overrated.
Friends are overrated, too. We are all trying to destroy ourselves, sometimes unwittingly. That's scary. When you let people in, you let them see your vulnerabilities, your weak spots, and any minute, any second, they might just snap you in half. But you've got to let it go. You're fighting a useless fight. It's the whole risk vs. reward ratio. I think it's worth it.
I think she's worth it.
...
Move Set:
Screech
Confuse Ray
Attract
Signal Beam
Chapter Sixteen
A storm was on the horizon.
Dawn could barely hold his weight up as he leaned heavily against her, his left arm wrapped around her shoulder. She looked out, eyes narrowed, hair blowing behind her and fanning out. The skies were gray and cloudy, as was the sea who reflected the sky. Glimmers of afternoon sunlight peeked out in thin, gold spotlights. It reminded her of a vanity mirror.
Lucas informed her to stay above land; the mirror sea was shaky now, able to overtake the docks and sweep her away. So she stood on the hill, eyes squinting, weight distributed to her side to hold her steady. She watched as the motor boat roared toward them, shattering mirrors, shattering the loud wind that whispered harshly. It's a ssssecret. It's a ssssecret. Don't tell.
His eyes were closed and his breaths were soft, gentle. His lids flicked open halfway, and she felt it, felt them open like they were her own eyes. Blue caught blue, and she gave him a smile, tentative, worried, but hopefully reassuring. His left cheek scrunched up, brow wrinkling. It took all her power not to kiss that scrunched up cheek and relax it. It'd probably make things worse, but he looked so peaceful, and this setting was straight out of a movie, a novel, her imagination.
She turned her head and stared at the olive trees, branches creaking and shaking; nature was shivering. Rain and leaves swept past. Her skin was oddly sticky. The fingers on her right hand pushed up the sleeve on her left arm and wrapped themselves around it, squeezing, letting her nails dig into the skin and leave crescent-shaped marks. It's a secret, she thought, eyes reflecting the gray. What happened here is a secret. The secret is a secret. The secret word of the day is "secret."
The boat pulled up to the docks, and she nudged Lucas who, startled, stood up straight and took a step away. It amused her. He allowed her to see him in a weakened state, let her in, let someone else take care of him instead of the reverse, but he wouldn't dare allow anyone else see that. He gave her a wary glance, eyes flicking up and down and judging her, but she stood there, confident, hands on her hips, knuckles pressed against her hip bone. She grinned back. The sleeves of her pea coat fell over her balled fists. She heard Lucas clear his throat. She threw her hair over her shoulder with a shake of her head.
The two of them watched as the young sailor threw rope – evil, evil rope – over one of the docks' wooden pillars. He walked toward them and they toward him and met on the hill's slant. Dawn stared at her boots, the material soaked with rain, and idly wondered if her soles were slick enough for her to slip on the wet grass and slide toward the bottom.
Eldritch asked if they found anything. Her eyes cast up, meeting Lucas's still wary gaze before he turned his head and looked up at the sky, letting out an exasperated gasp of air. She turned her attention toward the young father, his jacket zipped up and wrapped tightly around him. His face was unflinching in the biting wind. His brown eyes seemed to stress the question again, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. She shook her head. She felt the father deflate. She wanted to apologize–why did she always feel the need to apologize for things that aren't her fault when a person is sad?–but bit her tongue to stop herself. She ran her tongue over her two front teeth before rolling it back.
He motioned them to go to the boat with a nudge of his head and the point of a finger, commenting that they had to leave right now before the storm got too bad. As he said this, the wind roared again. Don't you tell. Don't you tell. It's a secret, and don't you tell. She wouldn't. She had no idea what not to tell, but she kept her word to the distressed wind.
She adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder before climbing on the boat.
. . .
Lane felt the groggy state of awakening after a particularly restless night of sleep. It's a dazed state, your vision blurry, sinuses irritated, like after inhaling the summer and the smell of lemongrass touched with salt that blows through the open window. His mind was running but at a standstill at the same time, like a car turned on but thrown in park. Still, he was finally awake, and that's all that mattered.
He wasn't in his room, he realized, as his blurry eyes caught the sight of white sheets, white walls, gray weather, and the reflection of dim light on the window. The sheets felt nothing like his sheets at home. His were soft; these were stiff and itchy. He tried to move his limbs, to bring his hands to his face to rub the tiredness out of his eyes, but felt his arms too heavy to lift. He tried to open his mouth, to let out some sort of vocal noise that he was awake and here and hungry, but found his lips stuck together.
As he closed his eyes, trying to contemplate what was going on, he felt a presence behind him, its cold grip guiding the stiff sheet over his upper body, then shoulder, then below his chin, and, quite suddenly, he had this overwhelming realization that he wasn't awake. He let out a whimper and forced his eyes open again: the same white on white on gray on bright. The being was gone and the sheet was still below his waist. Lane felt the groggy state of awakening after a particularly restless night of sleep. It's a dazed state, your vision blurry, sinuses irritated, like after inhaling the summer and the smell of lemongrass touched with salt that blows through the open window. His mind was running but at a standstill at the same time, like a car turned on but thrown in park. Still, he was finally awake, and that's all that mattered.
Then there was the lull, forcing him to close his eyes, and the return of the being, this time arching over and blowing against him, a frightening gust that pricked up the hairs on his arms. Something ran through his hair; something pressed against his back. The cold grip returned, aggressively taking the folds of the sheet and forcing it over his upper body, then shoulder, then head – and the air became hot and stuffy, and he felt his heart race, his breath going shallow, like when breathing in the hot steam of a long shower with the doors and windows closed, and this time there was a fight, a fight to open his eyes, or his dream-eyes–he knew he wasn't awake but wasn't in a dream either–and Lane felt the groggy state of awakening after a particularly restless night of sleep. It's a dazed state, your vision blurry, sinuses irritated, like after inhaling the summer and the smell of lemongrass touched with salt that blows through the open window. His mind was running but at a standstill at the same time, like a car turned on but thrown in park. Still, he was finally awake, and that's all that mattered.
He started to panic at the repetition. Maybe it was the realization that he wasn't in control anymore. Lane hated taking orders, especially orders from some weird black thing who didn't know who Lance was and how awesome he is. Lance, not him, though he's pretty awesome, too.
It is happening again. I feel it. Do you not feel it?
This time, the clawed creature with an icy touch took the sheet and smothered him with it.
. . .
Dawn stared at the lighthouse outside Canalave's borders. They were still a bit's away, bouncing on the shaky waves, but she could still make out the gigantic stone building with its bright, narrow light that circled around, calling forth lost souls who were looking for shelter. It rested on the cliff, the lighthouse, so tall and robust. The frothing, gray waves collided with the hard, brown rock in powerful blasts.
She narrowed her eyes as the salty water stung her eyes (she wasn't crying, right?), the wind whipping her hair around in frenzy. She pulled down on her knit cap, fingernails poking holes through the yarn, and pressed her thighs together, part to keep her legs warm and part so Lucas's head wouldn't fall through and hit the stiff wooden bench she sat on. Lucas's body took up the rest of the bench, his right leg pulled up but his left leg stretched out. His hands were laced on his stomach, hat cocked over his eyes. She assumed he was asleep. She had never seen him so worn out. The weird thing was that he was worn out from sleeping of all things.
Dawn, feeling unsettled, turned her upper body so she could stare at the lighthouse again. She pressed a covered hand against her stomach, rubbing it through her thick coat. Her eyes rolled upward, staring at the clouds that suddenly swarmed and overtook the beautiful blue morning a few hours ago. They rumbled against each other, pushing each other, trying to make more room for their vast bodies. Lucas grumbled too, stirring, right leg lowering itself only for his left leg to rise. He unlaced his hands briefly to tug down on his jacket and throw the frays of his scarf over his shoulders instead of letting the ends sweep the floor.
When she realized that he was still awake, she asked him how he felt. He cursed in reply. She wondered out loud when Lucas had become such a potty mouth and teased him that she was going to tell his mother. Lucas lifted the brim of his cap with his palm, resting his fingers on top. He stared at her, eyes wide. She rubbed her lips together before smiling in return.
When she asked him, quite tentatively, if he was disappointed that they were leaving without finding anything new, he looked at her funny as if the answer – yes – was obvious. He then muttered something, something she could barely hear over the roar of the motor and the crashing of waves, but she heard her name followed by an eyebrow raise and a smirk. She noticed that he doesn't say her name a lot for some reason.
She didn't bother to ask him to repeat as she smiled back, letting her imagination fill in the blanks, her hands playing with the key chains on her bag.
. . .
He was back home. Home, everyone! Sweet, sweet home!
Lane ran for his room, letting his right hand drag against the small bumps and grooves of the hallway's wall. He kicked open the door of his bedroom with a socked foot and was greeted with ... nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He wandered in, confused, letting the dust swirl around him as he stood in a patch of sunlight streaming through his bare window (where were his window stickers?). There were the sneaker skid marks on the wall near his now empty closet when he tried to see if he could climb up walls (he couldn't, though he did make it up two steps if he tried to run up it first). There was the weird stain in the corner that was an off-shade of white compared to the rest of the carpet (he accidentally spilled an entire gallon of bubble soap when blowing bubbles in his room one rainy day. There were a lot of bubbles that day, and lots of yelling, too). But as for anything else, it was all gone. No bed to jump on. No nightstand with a pokéball-shaped alarm clock. No lacy curtains that Mom constantly plucked at. No ...
Where wasMom?
"Helloooo?" he yelled while cupping his hands around his face. He enjoyed how his voice echoed.
Dad appeared behind him, leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed. Lane excitedly ran toward him, arms outstretched to give him a hug, but Dad stepped back and pushed him away. He stood there – him, not Dad, though Dad was standing too – eyes wide, filled with question. He wanted to ask where his stuff went, why it was so dusty, why Dad was wearing a fancy suit instead of his usual ratty t-shirts, and if he ran fast enough, could he run up the wall and do a back flip like in the movies, but strangely enough–perhaps not strange enough to ask but strange enough for it to be the first question to a dad he hadn't seen in what felt like months–he asked: "Where's Mom?"
Dad gave him one of the grimaces that could be confused with grins as he pushed his hefty self away from the door frame. His arms were still crossed, his fists pressed between his chest and the crooks of his elbows. Dad blew out his cheeks, blew out the air, and repeated the process. "Gone," he finally said after a third cycle of sucking in and blowing out huge puffs of breath.
Lane scratched his scalp through his hair. "Gone?" he repeated. "Gone where?"
"I finally got rid of that whore."
Lane knew curse words even though Mom didn't want him to know about them, let alone use them. Dad cursed a lot when he thought Lane couldn't hear (and a lot of kids at school were cussing already), though Lane heard it anyway and just didn't mention it. But Dad never cussed in front of him, let alone about Mom. "Gone?" he said again, flustered. He felt heat rise to his cheeks, nostrils flaring. "What did you do with her?"
"I'm getting married," his father proclaimed proudly, ignoring Lane's question, putting his hands on his hips. He motioned toward his black suit adorned with dark blue tie and white undershirt.
Lane felt his heart thump in his ribcage as his father made a swipe for him. He sidestepped and ducked under his arms, exiting his room and standing in the dim hallway. He pressed his back against the wall (why wasn't he running for Arceus's sake!) and watched his father turn around, grimace-like grin abroad. "Married?" he asked.
"Yes, married again to my true love!" Dad yelled gleefully, taking a step forward in what appeared to be painfully tight black leather shoes. Said painfully tight black leather shoes raised itself and tried to stomp against Lane, but Lane rolled over and dodged it. The collision made the empty picture frames on the wall rattle (good. That stupid school picture of him when he was six and had snot running out of his nose was gone). "I am marrying the sea! Just me and my mistress!"
Lane reached down to the waistline of his jeans and pulled them up by tugging on the back belt loop. He jumped a bit so that the ends of his pants were resting on the tongues of his sneakers rather than dragging on the floor. "Are you coming back?" he asked tentatively, his left hand still pressed against his back. He slowly made his way toward the entrance of the empty house, inhaling the dust and trying his best not to sneeze even though his nose twitched. "Daddy"–daddy? He hadn't called Dad "Daddy" in years–"you promised you'd always come back after a trip. Don't you remember? When you gave me Dragonite and took me and Mom to lunch at the docks before you went out to sea for two months? You said ... you said you might be gone for weeks at a time, sometimes months, but you said you'd come back so long as you lived! That's what you said!" His nose wrinkled, eyes narrowed, breath coming out loudly from his open, dry lips. "That's what you promised!"
Silly brat.
"Silly brat," Dad said, one of his hands reaching behind his back as Lane bumped into the front door, his fingers roaming behind him in panic, trying to find and open the lock. "You really believe that?"
"You promised," Lane reiterated firmly. "And you promised Mom!"
Success. Lane's shaky fingers managed to twist the deadbolt into the unlocked position with a satisfying click. His hands wrapped around the door's lever, ready to push it down when necessary –now, Lane, push it down now. Dad pulled out a knife, the steel blade shining even with the sunlight blocked by the heavy curtains. Before Lane could press down on the lever, his father's big hands grabbed for him and got a hold around the thin collar on his t-shirt, dragging him closer. Lane squirmed, trying to pull away from his father's meaty fingers, his head turned toward the side, refusing to look him in the face.
"Look at me," Dad demanded.
Look at him. Look at ME.
Lane scowled. "No," he said, hands outstretched, trying to push his father away.
"Look at me," Dad demanded again. The hand holding the knife lurched forward, grabbed Lane's chin roughly, and turned his head so he was staring directly into the abyss. The butt of the blade pressed into Lane's cheek.
"You were a mistake. You know that, right?" Dad sneered, releasing Lane's shirt from his grasp but keeping his other hand firm on his chin. "Your mother was nothing more than an easy fuck."
"You don't even know what you're talking about," Lane murmured through puckered lips, blue eyes driving their own daggers into his father's face.
Yes I do.
"You two just held me back," his father continued. "I want to be free from my burdens."
Lane's legs were trembling. He tried to throw a punch, but his father's fleshy hands managed to grip and hold tight to Lane's scrawny wrists. "I'm not a burden. You don't know anything!"
I will admit, dear child, that you were no easy specimen to dissect, to evaluate, to dominate.
Dad released him from his grip, and Lane flew back into the wood of the white door (he noticed the bells that hung around the lever were gone as nothing rang from the collision). His head hit the door hard, dizzying his vision, but he managed to clear it up with a shake. Once again, his hands roamed the back until he found the lever of the door, fingers wrapped around the cold brass, but he found that he couldn't move his trembling legs to escape.
Are you afraid of death, child?
Dad raised the knife and ran his pointer finger down the blade lightly. Lane didn't know what to do but stare and control his breathing.
I think you are.
He pressed his finger against the tip and drew blood that ran down his hand and gathered into the leather band of his watch.
Just not of your own.
He pushed down the lever and pushed open the door and pushed himself out right before the knife's tip pushed into Dad's neck. Lane slammed the door shut, eyes squinting as sunlight assailed his eyes. He managed to take a few shaky steps forward before collapsing into a sitting position, bottom meeting the hard wood floor of the porch. His legs curled up, and he squeezed them against his body, chin resting on his knees. The dragonite doll Dad gave to him was on the middle step that lead up to the porch even though he thought he gave the doll to Julie after her mom died. Its beady eyes stared up at him, stitched grin still grinning, clothed, furred wings blowing to the right in the light breeze. It wobbled on its bottom. He stretched over and pushed it off the steps. The doll landed on its belly.
"I hate you," he said to it.
. . .
The boat pulled into Canalave's docks without any problems. Eldritch anchored the boat to the dock with the same evil rope from earlier as Dawn climbed out of the boat, Lucas following her.
Eldritch said they were lucky that the seas were still relatively settled on their trip back. The clouds had finally released their torrents of water that fell in icy sheets. The raindrops absorbed the color of the streetlights; they were like melted gold. Dawn outstretched her hand and let a few drops fall into her palm, fingers slightly curled. She imagined herself cashing in on this natural wealth, but the drops were translucent, reflecting not the gold of the lights but the paleness of her skin. She wiped her wet hand on Lucas's jacket sleeve, her nose wrinkled. He frowned in return.
As Eldritch climbed out of the boat and back onto the solid wood dock, he mused how Lane loved rainy nights. He likes the tapping on the roof, he remarked, a mix of cheer and sad nostalgia in his voice. He likes how the asphalt streets look gold when we're driving, he commented.
Dawn looked at the streets. She remarked that she enjoyed the distorted reflections of buildings, the sound of car rushing by that crush wet rocks underneath their tires. She liked umbrellas, the pleasant "ticking" noise that sounds when rain drops on the nylon and tumbles off the ends of the metal ribs. She liked the mixed sensations of rain, how everything is eerily calm but at the same time rushed as people scurry from one dry destination to another. She liked that Lucas had pulled out an umbrella out of his backpack and held it more over her head than his.
Eldritch wiped at his eyes. Lucas lifted the umbrella higher over their heads. She looked at him; he looked much healthier with his back straight and stance sturdy. He stared up at the dark clouds, uncaring that the rain was pelting him in the face. The sun had already set. He told her that he liked rainy nights because you couldn't really see the clouds. We're staring into an abyss, he remarked, hand wrapped tightly around the u-shaped handle of the umbrella. It makes me feel tiny, a speck, and I like being a speck in the grand scheme of things.
She stared at the side of his risen head and replied that you could do that any night, that it doesn't have to be raining. He corrected himself: I like night, then.
Eldritch rubbed his lips together. He asked if they wanted to visit Lane. She looked at him and him at the night that he adored staring into, but they both agreed at the same time.
. . .
Lane hated stupid dress shirts, believe it. He hated stupid collars; he hated stupid clip-on ties; and he hated that he always had to tuck them – his shirt, not the ties, though there's a funny story about that – into his pants. Mom made sure he looked well put-together today. She told him, as she combed down his gelled hair much to his chagrin, that it was important he looked respectable. She adjusted his gray tie so it fell flat in the middle of his stupid, itchy dress shirt, right where the buttons were.
"Do you know what to say?" she asked, standing up straight and fixing her own black dress, the bottom ends hanging slightly above her knees. She put on the black cardigan with the lacy back, slipping her arms through the thin sleeves. Lane stared at the top of his fancy shoes that pinched the top of his toes. His pants were just long enough to hide his socks but not enough to engulf his shoes like his jeans did.
"Uh ..." Lane scratched his head, and Mom's hand immediately flew back down to flatten what he had mussed up.
Mom grouped her brown hair together and pulled it around her left shoulder. She grabbed her purse off the wooden chair nearby before opening the front door. The wind darted inside like an excited dog. "You say that you are sorry for her loss." She stepped onto the porch, heels clicking on the well-kept dark wood. Lane scurried after her, and she closed the door, locking it with her house key.
"Why? It's not my fault. You told me to say that when it's my fault," he said as the two of them walked out of the shade their house provided and down the concrete pathway into the sunny spring. The air smelled wet, like right after a rainstorm, though the ground was dry.
"You be respectful, Lane," she replied. They reached the wooden gate; Mom rested her hand on the brass lock and flicked it up, unlocking it. The gate opened with a lazy creak. "You're not saying 'I'm sorry' because you did something. You're saying 'I'm sorry' because you sympathize, Lane. She might be sad. She might be sad for a long time." She looked around, noticing that her son was gone from her side. "Lane?"
Lane was crouched down, knees in the air, staring at something in the front yard. "There you are, Dragonite. I was wondering where you went. Hope you enjoyed your camp out!" he said cheerfully.
"Lane Adam Eldritch!" Mom pulled him up by the back of his sports coat, though Lane managed to grab onto Dragonite's tail and bring him up too. "Now is not the time for that. Leave Dragonite here."
Lane didn't listen, and Mom didn't seem to care too much as she didn't ask him again to drop Dragonite off as they walked down the sidewalk. He brought him to his face; he smelled stale. He swung him back and forth by the tail as Mom and he went to one of Canalave's local house of worship. A bunch of people were standing outside the building, most of them dressed in dark colors too. It was a dumb day to dress in dark colors; it's hot as heck. Lane could feel perspiration building up behind the collar of his dumb, black, itchy, stupid, gross dress shirt. Mom and he stood a bit's away from everyone. Mom's eagle eyes were scanning for something, and she nudged her head in the direction of a grassy fixture in front of the church where even more people were gathered.
"There she is," she said. "She's standing near Mrs. Edmund's picture."
Lane didn't need his mom's help; he could spot Julie and her big, brown curly pigtails a mile away. Still, he stood there, one hand grasping Dragonite's tail and the other pulling at his clip-on tie. Mom tried to edge him forward with a touch to the upper back, but Lane stayed anchored, like one of Dad's ships tied with the evil rope. He felt both her hands lightly grasp his shoulders and run down his arms as she bent down and whispered softly in his ear, "She needs you, sweetheart." He looked back nervously at his mom, and Mom smiled at him. "And I'll be here if you need me."
It was all the encouragement he needed. He walked ahead and into the grass, the wet blade sliding against his leather shoes, his eyes fixated on the girl who he shared teachers with ever since he and Julie were five. He swallowed a rock-sized lump in his throat that went down uneasily.
Death is such a fickle thing, an entity that holds no biases, no preferences. It does not stereotype; it does not act justly or malevolently. Those who say death acts in a certain way is only forcing their own attitudes onto it. It just is. It is a tautology, death. It happens to all mortals, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. If you are lucky, it will take you peacefully, without a fight.
I am like death. My prey comes into my space, and I take them in no matter who they are because that is what I need to do in order to survive. I have had others besides you: other children, adults, pokemon. I had a champion once. He got away quickly. He was in the right place at the right time. He was lucky.
You, child, are not.
Lane approached Julie, who hadn't turned away from the picture of Mrs. Edmund, and before he could utter the words burning on his lips, he felt something shock him on the hand and force him onto his knees. He drew his hand up and tried to shake off the feeling. He soon realized he wasn't at Mrs. Edmund's memorial anymore but in his dark bedroom, crouched on the floor near the door and peeking through the crack, his eyes fixated down the hallway where his parents were fighting. He quickly turned his head toward the window where the full moon was hanging outside, basking his bed in a pale, white glow. His eyes went down to the pokéball-shaped alarm clock. Nine o'clock on the dot. He adjusted his legs so that he was no longer balancing on the flat of his feet but sitting on his rump instead. He had been in this position before where he was should be sleeping but was kept awake by the yelling his parents tried so hard to hide from him.
Apparently they didn't feel like trying tonight.
"My fucking fault?" Lane cringed at Dad's bitter tone, his lip curling up and his brow wrinkling. "How is this my fucking fault?"
"If you weren't gone all the time–"
"It's my JOB, Alyson." Lane jumped up a bit when he heard something shatter on the kitchen tile. "This house, that food, these bills, all bought and paid because of that stupid fucking job you keep complaining about. You know where we'd be if I didn't have that job?" There was a pause before Dad answered, "Out there on the goddamn street!" He heard Dad's voice crack on the last word.
There was another awkward pause as the kitchen pantry slammed shut and the sound of broom sweeping and ceramic clattering traveled down the hallway. "If you didn't have that stupid job, my son wouldn't be–" Mom had to stop herself as she choked out a loud sob and sucked it back up with a few snotty sniffles.
"He's not just your son. He's my son, too, and I did whatever I fucking could for the kid. So don't even pretend that you were the only one that sacrificed so much, that you're the only one who fucking tried."
Have you noticed it yet?
Mom collected herself. "He loved to follow after you," she argued. "You love adventure, he loved adventure. You get into trouble, he got into trouble. But unlike you, he was a kid. He didn't know when not to cross the line. And now look where we are."
Have you noticed how they talk about you, child?
Something heavy slammed on the glass table in the kitchen, which made Lane flinch again.
"This, Daniel," she said. "I shouldn't have had to plan for this ever.He copied your stupid ass; he imagined that he WAS you. Don't you know how much he missed you when you're out? I might as well have been a single mother."
"It's my JOB," his father repeated furiously.
Lane was tempted to close the door and block out the angry voices that journeyed toward him, entered through his elf-like ears, and rattled his brain in his skull, but he forced himself to sit there, big ears open. He curled his legs under his bottom and peered forward.
I know you fear death; I know you fear the death of your loved ones. You saw this with your friend, the girl you told me about when we talked. She lost her mother so quickly, according to your memories, and it made you realize that the same could happen to you. You realized you had no say in death. You could not bargain with it. You could not fight it. You just had to accept it, take it in. You realized how swiftly your life, and the lives of others, could change with death.
When I read into you – into your past, your hopes for the future, your old dreams – everything I discerned was so simple, so sweet, so caring, so loving. You are a happy child. A hopeful child. You are braver than that champion. A selfish one he was, dressed in facade of unselfishness. He was afraid, afraid of letting himself go to others, so he pushes. He tries to push everyone away. He says he does not want to hurt anyone else when he does this. But what he really wants is to not hurt himself, to not feel that pain of losing someone ever again. He fears being alone, to not be left by himself to foster his anger, so he tries to block out emotion, too. Emotion, you taught me, comes in a wide variety, some painful and some exhilarating. I do not know what it is like to feel sad, but I do know it hurts my prey. Unlike him, you accept them all. You take people by the hand – the hand of that little girl, for example –and try to help them. Why? Because you are a good boy. Because you truly wish happiness on everyone you meet.
You, too, know this, perhaps subconsciously. You know there are risks involved when you let someone into your life. You know you can get hurt, but you do not allow that to stop you. You let them in – willingly, too – and that is what makes you braver than that pathetic champion. What you both fear is abandonment, death and the aftermath of death. He fears this for himself.
But you ...
You fear this for others.
There was another loud pound, the sound of a hand colliding with something hollow but hard.
"I should be settling on the details for his birthday party," she said callously. "Not the final details for his funeral."
He was ... dead? Lane blinked rapidly. He crawled away from the door but remained on the floor, still well within earshot of the conversation. He hugged his knees to his chest. He stared at a couple of marble pokéballs that his dad gave him positioned near the door; they reflected a glint from the light that traveled from the living room toward his room.
"And if you were here ..." his mother said shakily (he could imagine the tears streaming down her face), "if you were here more often–"
"It still could have happened," Dad interrupted.
"No. You could have done something if you were here."
"What could I have done, Aly?" he yelled. "Follow him everywhere and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid? He was a kid, Aly! Kids get into messes all the time, and even if I had the time, and the money, and the energy to follow him around, I couldn't follow him everywhere. But I was doing my job, trying to support him and you so we don't wind up on the streets!"
"And look where that got us," she said bitingly.
"Lovely, Aly," his dad replied back sarcastically. "Of course. Everything is my fault. That's fine. Nothing is ever your fault. NOTHING. While I'm out there working my ass off, you get to stay here and bitch."
"I'm done," she said simply, coldly. "I am done." Lane heard chair legs scrape back, another slamming down of something on the kitchen table. "This life, this home, you ... you were a mistake."
Who was she referring to with this "you?" Lane clenched his burning eyes shut and crawled toward his bed, pulling himself up on top of it. He pulled the sheets adorned with water-pokémon over his legs and let the tears drip down onto his covered knees.
"Aly, come on," he said. "We–"
"Don't touch me," she warned. "Don't touch me!"
A loud slap reverberated through the house, followed by more chair legs squeaking on tile. Something crashed onto the floor again with a loud bang, which made Lane yelp and shake his already blurry vision. He wished Dragonite was here, but he realized Julie probably needed it more. Real men don't cry after all.
"Take all that stupid money you worked so hard for while ignoring your family and spend it on a divorce lawyer. I'm done."
His dad didn't respond verbally. Lane heard the coat rack fall over and clatter onto the kitchen tile before the bells that hung around the front door's lever chimed. Dad stepped out and slammed the door behind him. The bells rattled again before silence overwhelmed the house except for Lane's shuttered breathing and the sobs that racked his throat and forced their way out in loud gulps.
Real men don't cry.
Real men are sailors.
Mom raced down the hallway, stopped at Lane's room, and threw the door open, startling him. Her eyes darted back and forth the same way they moved when she was helping him look for Julie at Mrs. Edmund's memorial, but she found no solace, no calm, in this search and instead, with her shoulders pushed back and her curly hair bouncing with each small movement of her head, let out a sob so loud that it rattled Lane to the core. She walked toward Lane's bed and collapsed to the side of it, her head resting on top of her crossed arms that lay on his bed. Her cries were muffled. Lane tentatively reached out, wanting to run his hand through his mom's hair like she used to do when he was upset, but he realized it was done in vain; his touches weren't felt, and Mom continued to weep.
"Don't cry, Momma," he said pathetically, fighting back his own weeping. "Don't cry because I don't like seeing you sad." His words went unheard, and Mom continued crying, as did he.
I know you fear death but not for the same reasons that others fear death. People fear death because they are afraid of the unknown. You fear death because of the exact opposite; you know how people change and react when someone dear to them dies. You worry about your own death, not because you hate suffering in your own body but because upsetting people is the last thing you want. I find this peculiar.
I realized something. He, the champion, hated displeasing others because it makes him feel guilty. You, my child, like pleasing others because it makes them happy.
There is a fine difference between both. I cannot take that away from you.
Lane pushed back the black sleeve that had unraveled itself, reached out, and grabbed Julie's hand, her hand soft and her fingers slender compared to his and especially compared to Fran's sausage fingers. Julie's eyes raced down from the picture, to the locked hands, to his face. "Mom said you might need me." He smiled, then frowned, then smiled again, unsure of what emotion to express on his face. "She says you'll be sad, and I don't like seeing my friends sad." He paused, his mind trying to piece together what Mom told him to say. "I'm sorry for your loss" repeated in his head but out of his mouth came, "She says you'll be sad for a long, long time." It sounded more truthful, more genuine, than some fake apology where he wasn't sure what he was sorry for in the first place.
"I miss her," she trembled out, gripping his hand tighter. "I'm scared."
"I think that's okay," he replied quickly without much thought. The answer came natural to him, not because it sounded like the "right thing to say" but because he truly believed it. That's what Dad taught him. That's what Dad told him on the docks before he left for that two month long trip to the Sevii Islands. It's okay to feel upset, and sad, and angry at people, but don't let it overwhelm you, he said. Don't fight it back; accept it. When you can accept it, you can move on.
He looked down at his shoes and the long blades of grass and noticed he still had Dragonite clutched in his right hand. Without thinking again because it felt like the natural thing to do, he lifted Dragonite up and said, "You can have Dragonite. Dad gave him to me when I was little. When I miss Dad, I talk to him and I feel better. Maybe he'll help you when you start missing your mom."
She took the stuffed toy with her free hand and pressed it against her body. "You're letting me have him?"
He nodded. He was going to miss Dragonite, but Dragonite had completed his mission with him. It was time for him to challenge more difficult tasks. That's what Lance would have done. Lane turned his head toward the picture frame, admiring it. "Is this your mom?" he asked.
She was the one that nodded this time.
"You look like her," he said simply. He swung their hands back and forth. "She's pretty."
Julie let out a loud sob at this, and Lane was quick to turn his head to find his mom. Meek blue met motherly blue. Sure enough like she promised, she was there for him. "Hug her," she mouthed.
Now that's where he drew the line. He didn't do a full-on hug because that's just icky, but he did wrap his arm around Julie's shoulder and pull her in a bit, not so that they were touching too much but enough for her to calm herself down, her own arms wrapped around Dragonite.
I believe our time together is coming to an end, child.
Lane was back in the black void, floating in the empty space. He turned his head left and right, trying to find the source of the voice. "Really?" he asked in disbelief as his body floated down toward a concrete platform (or was it the concrete platform floated up to him?). He landed feet first. His shoe laces were untied. "How come?"
"You have met the Protector, the Old Woman. Someone near your mortal body has brought back proof."
"The Old Woman?" he repeated.
Yes. She is the opposite of the abyss. She is the opposite of fear. She is the opposite of the lull.
"What is the opposite of fear?" Lane asked.
Not fear.
Lane scratched the side of his nose. "I don't think you're allowed to define things like that," he said. "Ms. Hall won't let me do that on vocabulary tests anyway."
The train had pulled into the station, its stack blowing out billowing gray smoke that dissipated as quickly as it formed. It screeched to a stop, blowing its whistle, though Lane stood there, unflinching at the noise and the onslaught of fume. The door opened, revealing empty passenger seats with red cushion seats. Lane stared at the grimy windows. "When I was six, I was almost killed by a train."
I know, child.
"I didn't know it then. Now I do. But I'm okay."
I know, child.
Lane stepped forward and wrapped his hand around one of the metal poles bolted outside the train that helped people climb up. The pole felt greasy and cold. He turned back as if the entity he was talking to was there. "How come that was my last dream, Julie's mom's memorial?"
There are no last dreams.
"I mean in this place. In your world. In your home."
There are no last dreams.
Lane wasn't satisfied with the answer but accepted it. He pulled himself up so he was standing in the doorway of the train but didn't move inside, blocking the door from closing. He stared up, blue eyes reflecting the black. "Will you remember me ... whoever you are?"
No, child. There are so many before you and after you, and I know no names. And you will not remember the dreams you have had here except fleetingly and perhaps a creature or two. You have energized me for the time being. This is my gift to you.
"The gift of forgetting a bad dream?"
Yes.
"A video game would have been nicer." Lane snapped his head to the right when the train blew its whistle again, but he didn't move from the door. He stared back out into the empty, black space ahead. "I wouldn't mind remembering. I don't think forgetting is good."
Then that is up to you.
"I don't mind you not remembering me. We're all different, right? We all cope in different ways, right?"
Yes, child.
Lane smiled. "Yeah. So I don't mind."
I know, child.
The whistle blew again, urging Lane to step inside so the train could close its doors. "I hope ..." he began, face screwing up as he tried to figure out a way to word his sentence, "I hope I helped you. I hope you know that I don't think you're bad. It's how you're created, after all, like the way I have big ears." He rubbed his cheek with his uplifted shoulder. "And even if you don't remember me and I don't remember you, I'd still like to be your friend."
You bemuse me, child.
"That was a word on a vocabulary test, bemuse. I think I confused it with 'amuse.'" Lane shook his head as the train blew its whistle again. "Anyway, I think it's time for me to go." He stepped back and the train closed its door. "Goodbye!"
Goodbye ...
Lane.
. . .
There was a stillness in the air when Lane awoke. His eyelids flicked up slowly, blue eyes weary with tiredness. His hands were flat on his sides; underneath his fingertips was something feathery. He grabbed it and lifted it up, letting the keyring hang around his pointer finger. A multi-colored feather dangled from the end of the ring.
Then he heard the sounds of chair legs scraping on the ground, of sharp intakes of breath, of hurried footsteps. He turned his head slowly to the right, and his eyes met the bewildered one's of a girl, her dark blue hair grazing her cheek. Standing next to her was a boy who looked equally perplexed with a funny hat.
The girl was the first person in the room to regain composure.
"Hello," she said, smiling, "Lane."