Thank you to all the wonderful, wonderful reviewers who kept me going on this. I tried to live up to your expectations, although this one is not what you were expecting. Anyway, let me know what you think!
Also, not for profit, only fun, blah blah legal blah blah stuff. No likey the slash, no readey my story, got it? Good.
Enjoy!
"God have mercy on me, God have mercy on me," Timothy whimpered even as he snuck through the deserted streets of Dakota. The night air was cool and the darkness had a deep smell to it, things Tim had always noticed. Smell, sound, touch, these were the defining characteristics of Tim's life. Nothing else seemed to work right.
He moved slowly, hobbling on the crutches and braces he was forced to wear. Ever since he'd been a child, he had been contained within the prison of metal and glass that made life possible: glasses and crutches. His legs had been born misshapen, forcing him into a weak, shuffling walk which was only possible because of the leg braces and walker he used. People often called him "Forest Gump," and it irritated him to no end because unlike the movie character, Tim would never be able to throw off his braces and walk or run like a normal kid. Between the braces and walker, over the years he had learned a kind of heaving and shuffling step, but without both he was completely immobile. Stumbling about, he often had to rest to push his thick glasses up his nose as well, as they tended to slip from the bumpy ride of his gait. The lenses were thick, thicker than most people had ever seen. Tim was legally blind in both eyes due to extremely poor vision that had developed around age three, but with very thick glasses, he could see pretty well. And so, feeling about ninety years old, helpless and frustrated, he made his way through life.
But tonight he demanded freedom. Still praying partly out of habit, partly out of guilt, and partly out of fear, he made his way to the parking-lot where his deal would go down. It was near the docks, an area he knew he was supposed to avoid, but that was where his contact wanted to meet him. As he entered the deserted lot, blacktop making a scraping noise beneath his metal limbs, a shadow detached itself from the wall, smiling.
"You came, huh? Never would've bet on it, but then, I suppose you really do need this stuff, huh?" a voice no older than himself asked.
Tim was glad the darkness hid his flush as his shame roared in the blood in his ears. "Anybody else who saw this," he had the sudden thought, "would think we're talking drugs." Deep down, Tim almost wished he were doing drugs.
"Let's get it over with," he said abruptly, leaning on his walker long enough to swing his mostly empty backpack around, open it, and dump it open onto the pavement. A dozen comic books fluttered to the ground, landing in a messy pile between the boys. The second boy darted forward and pulled out a flashlight.
"Hmm. You don't treat 'em right, do ya? Well, well, let's see what we have…Monster's Return, third edition! Where'd you find that? There aren't that many of them left! And…" he rattled off the other titles, whispering to himself comments about quality, age, and wear and tear of each book. Then, with a wide, self-satisfied smile, he stood.
"Yeah, I think the trade will be fine." Smiling still, he pulled his own backpack out and lifted out a few well-loved magazines. Tim could feel his hands shaking as he reached for them, not daring to look but only to secure them in his bag for later...
BBBOOOOOMMMMM!
The sudden explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet. Tim felt his balance swaying and crashed to the ground with a loud and painful clatter. The other boy grabbed the comic books and ran without a single backwards glance. Tim tried to lift himself, but the braces were caught in his walker and one of the supports had bent in the force of his fall. Suddenly looking up, he saw a cloud of strange looking smoke heading for him, emanating from the docks beyond the parking lot. He could hear distant sirens and lots of shouting. He started to cough, then coughing became wheezing and pain in his throat and chest.
"No, God, please not now!" he prayed fervently as he tried to control his breathing. Somewhere, in a pocket maybe, was his inhaler. Anxiety and exercise always sent him into asthma attacks, sometimes severe ones that required hospitalization. But no one knew where he was, no one would be able to get him help. He had to get his breathing under control, and quickly. He fumbled with the pocket and gasped in despair when he saw the inhaler crushed, the cartridge punctured by his bent brace. His breathing was getting shallower, more rapid, and he suddenly found himself awash in the strange smoke. It smelled sweet at first, but then burned his throat and made his eyes water and stream. It was like breathing pepper.
"Oh, God, please help me! Make it go away! Please, please I'll do anything, only please don't punish me for this! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to sin! Please, please, I'll do anything, only please don't leave me like this! Help me!" his cries dissolved into coughing and he fainted.
--==OOO==--
Hours later, Timothy awoke, hearing sirens still. He managed a groan and opened his eyes to see a police officer leaning over him. With concern in his eyes, the dark officer bent down to take the boy's searching hand.
"What happened, son? Are you all right?" the officer asked. Gently, he lifted the boy in his surprisingly strong arms and shouted over his shoulder, "Hey, we got a kid here! Could be hurt!"
Tim felt his mind clearing and realized how much trouble he was in now. How on earth was he going to explain why he had been out in the night, found by a police officer at what was probably the scene of a major crime? Silently, he began to pray for forgiveness once more, keeping his tightly eyes closed and ignoring the officer's concerned questions. "God forgive me, please, I didn't mean to sin, I'm sorry. Please forgive me, please don't punish me. I'll be good again, I won't sin again, I promise. Only please make it go away!"
A startled gasp from behind him caused him to open his eyes. A female officer who had come up beside the one holding him was rubbing her hands on her thighs as though in pain.
"Are you all right?" asked the officer holding Tim.
"I'm fine," she said with a puzzled look on her face. "I just had a sudden pain in my legs and my knees felt like they were going to go."
"You need some rest. You've been up all night," the officer said gently. Turning back to Tim, he said, "Do you need an ambulance, or do you just want me to drive you home?" Tim almost laughed in relief. His prayer was answered! Now he could just sneak back in and his mother would never know. He gave a quick thankful prayer before answering the kind officer.
"If you'll drive me home, I'll be fine," he said, trying to sound brave. "Thank you..." And with a prayer half-whispered on his lips, Tim slipped back into oblivion.
--==OOO==--
It was a week later that everything was revealed to Tim. He and his mother were fighting, again, and he was getting angry. He knew it was a sin to dishonor his mother and father, but Tim had trouble seeing why he should be held to that Commandment. To his way of thinking, he had no more reason to honor his father than he had to honor a drug dealer, a murderer, or a prostitute. His father was worse than all three. And as for his mother, if she wasn't smart enough to figure out how evil and unholy his father had been, he probably didn't owe her too much respect anyway. But he threw in an extra prayer just in case.
"God, give me the strength, wisdom, and patience to help her. I know I'm right and I know one day she'll see that sinners don't really deserve the kind of things she gives him. Sinners should be punished. She'll see that one day. Only help me now to honor her and teach her your judgment at the same time."
Tim's mother, wispy blond hair pulled back into a messy knot, leaned wearily on the kitchen counter, watching her son with his eyes closed, fists clenched, sitting at their table. She thought he was holding back tears and moved softly to put her hand on his shoulder. His eyes opened and looked at her with an unreadable expression.
"Tim, I know you miss him. I'm so sorry things worked out this way. But, you've got to see that hating him isn't going to change anything. Just try to forgive him and move on, okay?" her voice was soft, pleading. Tim did not look up to see the tears in her eyes. "I know it's hard, baby. I loved him too. But there are some things we can't control and we just have to ask God to help us learn from them. We can ask together you know…" she suggested, reaching out for his clenched hands. Tim snatched them away.
"I don't need your help talking to God! You don't understand anything, least of all God!" he said in a furious burst, then stomped out of the room, shaking and praying, walker creaking beneath his trembling hands. He could feel his asthma kicking in and struggled to control it. His rage was fueling his asthma and blocking his real aim, to get her to understand sin, and he felt himself losing control. He prayed to regain control over himself so he could go back there and try to convince her to see the truth. "Just make it go away. Please teach her about what sin is and what we have to do with sinners. Make it go away and make her see that she can't love him for it. Make it go away!" he prayed.
She screamed.
Suddenly, Tim's legs felt light, tingly, definitely odd. His knees shook for an instant, and then he felt a sort of "click" run through him. His mother cried out again, more weakly this time, in what sounded like anguish. Without thinking, Tim dropped his walker and ran to her side. Lying on the kitchen floor, a gash on her forehead and blood dripping from the edge of the table, his mother was whimpering. "My legs, oh, God, my legs," she wept. Tim looked and saw nothing wrong with her pale legs, somewhat revealed by her long skirt. And then he looked down.
He was standing under his own power.
He turned back towards the hall and saw the walker where he had thrown it aside. Tim's mother, tears trickling down her face, looked up at her son in shock. "A miracle, Tim, you can walk! God must have sent you to help me…" and she fainted. Tim realized she was losing blood rapidly from the cut on her head. He was worried he wouldn't be able to stop the bleeding in time on his own, so with his heart in his throat, he ran to the phone for help. Even in the face of his fear, he could not help reveling in the freedom of being able to run, to stand up straight, to be normal for an instant. He spoke into the phone with tight, fear-cramped words. When he was sure the ambulance was on its way, he dropped the phone and ran back to his mother.
Dropping to his knees as fluidly as a dancer, he pulled off his t-shirt and tried to staunch the steady flow of blood from her forehead. Watching the red, wet blood pool on his hands, he tried to wake her.
"Mom, mom please wake up. Please, please wake up," he said frantically. Her eyes fluttered open.
"I'm alright, sweetie," she said weakly. "The cut isn't that bad." Her eyes clouded over and she looked blankly at her feet. "I just can't seem to stand up." She tried to keep the quiver out of her voice, but Timothy could hear it. He pulled her head onto his knees and tenderly tried to staunch the bleeding. As his mother tried to move her legs, Tim prayed again.
"God, please, whatever you did to her legs, please undo it. I'll give back my ability to walk if it means she can walk again. I don't want my mom to be scared anymore. She's already hurt so much. Please make her better. Please make her better."
--==OOO==--
By the time the ambulance workers had finished stitching up her head (it required a few stitches but not a trip to the hospital), Tim's mom had regained the full use of her legs. The medics said that shock could sometimes cause anomalies like that, and also pointed out the sudden miracle of Tim's ability to walk as evidence for what the stress of a perceived emergency could do to a person's body. By now, of course, the "miracle" had worn off. Tim hobbled around with his walker and braces as usual, feeling no more strength in his legs than in an imaginary tail. His mother accepted their solution and, after resting a while, set to clean up the mess in the kitchen from her accident, humming happily. Every time Tim turned to look at her, her eyes were shining and she kept murmuring to herself, "Thank you, God, for showing my son what love and forgiveness are capable of."
Tim turned away and went to his room to think. He didn't buy the medics' explanation at all. In fact, he knew better. He watched the news, so he was fully aware of the rash of "bang babies" that had emerged from that accident at the docks. He had no doubt that he was one of them. Furious, he threw his walker aside and slumped on his bed.
"Why me!" he moaned to no one in particular. "Isn't there enough wrong with me already?" He pushed himself in to a sitting position and clenched his fists, staring at his Bible on his nightstand. "Is this your idea of a joke? To make me an even bigger freak?" Tim reached over to fling the Bible across the room, and as it thumped into place atop a pile of laundry, something fluttered beside him on the bed. He picked it up.
It was an old picture of himself a few years younger, standing between two people. One was his mother, and he missed seeing her happy, uplifted face as it was shown in the image. The other individual was his father. Anger and betrayal in his heart turned back to rage. The man with the fine, even features and carefully combed brown hair was gone and would never come back. Tim raised his hands to tear it, feeling rage boiling inside him. And that was when God's plan was revealed to him, all in a flash. Stunned, Tim dropped the picture and sat quite still. As if in a dream, he felt himself sitting up straighter and holding his head up. For the first time in a long, long time, Timothy felt full of strength and hope. He was to be the instrument of God's justice, and he could not wait to start.