Dried yellow grass, a scorching afternoon sun, and the sound of a school bus driving past. Timmy stands outside the door of his father's house. His mom had moved out some time ago. There's a car in the driveway that isn't familiar. The roofing is the wrong color. If his dad still lived here, he couldn't tell. Everything has changed in the last few years.
He could still turn back. Still go on the run with Vicky, riding off into the sunset. Maybe they could go to Mexico? Or Brazil? Enjoy the nice soft beaches of Brazil as homeless tourists with no passport, no means of getting back. Or they could travel up to Canada. Find some abandoned log cabin and settle in for the cold winter. And then the door opens, tearing him from his fantasies.
"Oof!" Timmy is knocked on his ass. His father, with an unkempt beard and dark circles around his eyes, doesn't even realize he's bumped into his son. "Oh, sorry, kid. Just getting the morning paper."
"Uh, hey."
Timmy's dad turns around. He looks straight into the eyes of his son. The two stare at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time. Timmy gives a limp wave.
"I… I don't have anywhere to stay." Timmy says. "Someone found out… some psycho cop… and we ran out of money… there's nowhere else to go… We… there's nothing else. It's either here or a homeless shelter."
Timmy's dad takes a deep breath. He's trying to remain calm. Should he run up and hug Timmy, or would that just drive him away? Take him inside and call the cops, call his ex-wife, call everyone he knows and tell them Timmy's back home, safe and sound? Scream at the top of his lungs or break down in tears? He can't even think at the moment. His son was gone for almost three years. Three long desperate years, where trying to simply force himself out of bed took almost all his effort. Three years Timmy spent away with a monster, and now he's back, completely casual like nothing's out of the ordinary.
"Timmy. What the hell are you doing here?" he mumbles. Timmy takes a deep breath. This day was going to be hell.
"No idea. Trying to find some ground… something to stick too."
"You… you run away from home… with… with that bitch! That psycho… and now you're just… back?!"
Timmy takes another deep breath. "Yeah, basically." he replies.
"I can't!... this is fuck…. just fucking shit."
"I got nothing else. You going to kick me out onto the street?" Timmy asks. His dad takes a while to respond. He clenches his fist and shakes his head.
"Just get inside." he grumbles. Timmy walks into his old home. A wave of memories comes flooding back. Playing with his friends in his old room, playing video games until his parents, or more likely Vicky, had to shout at them to go to bed. A sleepover in the living room while watching horror movies late into the night. And Vicky. Vicky was almost always there beside him. And now he can't help but fear he'll never have her again. And an insane idea comes to him. Fight. Fight. You have to fight for it.
Timmy drops down onto the sofa. The rickety couch has seen its fair share of use. It feels like one or two nails away from dropping Timmy onto the floor. His father shuts, or rather slams the door. His hands are shaking as he tries to lock it. Then he comes into the living room, sitting on the chair next to the couch and staring straight at his son.
"You… you left me." his father whimpers. Timmy sucks in air. The absence has broken his father. Maybe he had time to repair himself, but now all the old wounds have been ripped back open.
"I… I didn't have a choice." Timmy says, crossing his legs and folding his arms.
"You… you did! You… you had a life!"
"I did have a life. A life with Vicky. And I wanted to keep that life. I gave up everything just so we could… could have more time."
"More time?! You… you were only fourteen! You were a kid!"
"Yeah, I was. And I still chose!"
Timmy raises his voice despite his best intentions. It seems this was going to be a shouting match.
"You were- you're too young." his father says weakly.
"Yeah. I'd agree with you there. But I'm not changing. I'm not leaving Vicky."
Timmy's father swallows hard. He doesn't want this reunion to be nothing but arguing and broken memories. But at the mention of the woman who stole his son's life, he risks boiling over.
"Where is she?"
"She's… she's in the car."
Timmy's dad clenches his fists. She was right outside the door. The person he's wanted to get his hands on and throttle for the past three years. The person who broke apart their family. He has to force the words out before he chokes on his own hate.
"That... that woman... I'm not letting in."
Timmy doesn't give any hint of what he's thinking. He's trying desperately to fight for both worlds and keep his life together. If he fails, it could be years or even decades before he sees Vicky again. But it's hopeless. So he stands up and prepares to leave.
"We're together… if she's not allowed, then I'm not either."
Timmy takes a deep breath. His father leaps from the couch and grabs his arm. The old man is desperately trying to hold back the tears and bitter regret. "You can't leave! I'm… I'm your father!"
"For how long?" Timmy spews. "A couple months? A year? And how long has Vicky been with me? She was always there. Even when she was pretending not to be, pretending to hate me! She was there."
Timmy rips his arm from his dad's grip. "I'm not leaving her!… I'm not gonna… I'm not doing it."
This was it. The fury at even considering being separated has boiled over. He couldn't bring himself to get angry at Vicky. But his dad? He could release everything. It was wrong and it was cruel, but he doesn't think. He simply unloads his brain of tension and all the harsh words built up over the years come blasting out.
"Don't you get it, dad?! We're happy! We actually get each other. Not like you and mom. We've worked and worked and worked until we could build our lives back up! We fought every fucking day! I got my first job at fifteen! I was studying at a fucking college level since a year ago! Just to make sure we weren't fucked in the long run!"
Timmy growls. He turns around and punches the wall. And then he punches again. And again. Was this hopeless? He punches the wall until his doubts are gone. And then he punches some more. Timmy rests his head on his arm, letting out his fury and sadness in low, shuttered breaths. He was going to do it. It doesn't matter if him and Vicky have nothing, he would run away a second time. No questions, no thoughts of before. He would live in the gutter. And Vicky would too. They would both be starving, broken retches. With no medicine, no safety net, nothing. "There's no way we can live like that." Vicky's words echo in his mind. Despite her ferocity, sometimes she was the voice of reason. And the cold hard facts were that such a life wouldn't work for long. They might last a year or two, but eventually the cold winters, or the risk of being crime statistics would rise. Something would break them, if they weren't already broken now.
"I'm… just not sure… I can live without her…" he whimpers. He was tired. Tired from running, tired from hiding, tired from trying not to die. Everything's turning to shit and he can't do anything to stop it.
"… Don't go…"
Timmy's father has lost all anger in his voice. Timmy doesn't turn to face him. He isn't sure if he could right now, knowing his dad is breaking down. The sight would stab Timmy in the heart. Even after all the years of neglect, all the absent-minded parenting, he still loves his parents.
"I don't know what to do, Dad. Everything…"
Timmy turns around, but he can't bear to look his father in the eye. "Everything's fucked."
He walks back over to the couch and falls into the seat. "Just help me, please."
His father shuffles his feet back to the living room. He stares at the floor, stewing in the pit of his pain and anger. Timmy is begging his dad for help, but the tired man can barely summon the willpower to speak.
"What kind of father am I?" he whispers to himself. Timmy makes out just enough of his dad's words to feel a sting of guilt. Regret is plain on the man's face. Regret for every single step he's taken towards this moment. He collapses in the chair across from his son. He sits there for many minutes, stewing in self-loathing. Timmy needs something to focus on besides his dad. He settles for the clock ticking away. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The clockworks tick hypnotically in the background while Timmy waits for an answer.
"Bring… bring her in."
The words barely escape from Mr. Turner's throat. He struggles to bring himself to help the one person he hates the most. The one person he's dreamt of getting his hands on and beating within an inch of her life. Timmy nods and stands up. For now, his dad had agreed to at least let Vicky into the house. "Guess this is all I'm going to get for now." he thinks.
Timmy returns to the car. Vicky sits in the passenger seat with the windows down and the radio on a low beat. Vicky's arm rests lazily on the car door, her fingers tapping away. She puts on her best face, but it still doesn't hide the fear and suspense eating away at her. She was restless. The next few minutes would mean she either found a new place to stay or, far more likely, get dragged away in handcuffs as onlookers gawked and gossiped. Timmy walks up to the passenger's side. "Uh… he says you can come in."
Vicky lets out a relieved sigh, not even realizing she was holding her breath.
"Well, guess there's some good news today." Vicky says. Timmy opens the car and helps Vicky to the front door. "I can walk perfectly fine myself, twerp."
"I don't want you getting woozy from pain. Can't have you fall and break your bones. We'd have to go back to the vet."
Vicky laughs again. They've jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. The fire being Vicky in the same room as the man who's most likely to want to murder her, next to the detective. Timmy opens the door and helps Vicky inside. His father sucks in a deep breath, tensing up at seeing the monstrous ex-babysitter after so long.
"Vicky…" he says, more to confirm to himself that what he's seeing is real, not some nightmare or fever dream. Vicky Valentine is before him. Bruised, bloodied, and with fading black hair dye, but still pretty much exactly how she looked the last time they met. He looks at the arm sling and bandages around her waist.
"Wondering how I got this?" Vicky asks.
"Figured you…" He wants to say she deserves this. To deserve the pain and worry and regret. Timmy can see it in his father's eyes. Instead, Mr. Turner takes a long, deep breath, and exhales slowly. "No, not going there." he says to himself. Timmy sits down next to Vicky, looking over her left side to make sure she hasn't torn open her wounds. "Crazy asshole." Timmy mutters.
"It'll be fine." she says, more worried for what Mr. Turner is going to do than what's already been done. It takes more time for Mr. Turner to speak. But when he does, he speaks calmly and rationally.
"Vicky… I want you to explain exactly why I shouldn't call the cops.I want you to tell me… why you love my son…"
This was what he wanted. An explanation. A reason for the madness that consumed his family. Exactly what she saw in Timmy that drew her to him.
"Because… he's Timmy." she chokes out. Such an awkward request has put her off balance. How do you explain that you love someone? For her, it seems there weren't enough pages in the world, not enough words in any language to describe it. But she has to, for her and Timmy's sake.
"He's… he's the best guy anyone could hope for. Courage. That doesn't… that doesn't even…" Vicky takes a deep breath as Timmy's dad waits patiently for an answer to convince him that what he's seeing is real, not the result of twisted lust and a brainwashed teen.
"He… he drove us here." Vicky starts. "All through the night, Timmy drove because I was losing blood. To make sure I was safe. He stood in front of the guy who did this to me… stood in front of a gun when most people would just shit their pants. He's braver than anyone I've met. More than me even. He stood there, staring down this psychotic jerk, ready to… ready to die even… and I couldn't let that happen. So I pushed Timmy out of the way and jumped at that jerk detective."
Mr. Turner shifts in his seat, crossing his legs and looking down at the floor.
"The detective?" Timmy thinks. "Why'd dad get so defensive?... does he know who that psycho is?"
Vicky continues as Timmy ponders the enigma of their attacker. "And this… this silly twerp. He's smart. Smarter than most people give him credit for… he deserves a better life. So I told him to come here."
Mr. Turner swallows a breath. He turns to his son. "Is… that true?" he asks even though he already knows the answer by his son's steadfast behavior.
"Yeah. I was gonna stick it out with nothing left… didn't matter if we ended up homeless."
"You deserve more than that, twerp." Vicky replies. Timmy keeps quiet. There was no convincing her once she was determined she was right.
"Who… who was this detective?" Mr. Turner asks.
"He… called himself Frank. Frank Johnson." Timmy replies. His father stands up. He walks over to the kitchen. There's a bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table, along with a plate of lukewarm pancakes and eggs, leftovers he didn't care enough to put in the fridge for the morning.
"And… he pointed a gun at you?" Mr. Turner asks, taking the whiskey bottle and guzzling a few shots at once.
"Yeah. Crazy asshole broke into our house. He was hurting Vicky when I jumped him. Like he was… punishing her."
Now it seems it's Mr. Turner's time to confess.
"I… when you first left, there were cops. Plenty of cops. And reporters. So called private investigators all leaving me their number. All of them promising to get you back. Vultures… But as the months went by… I didn't think they'd ever find you. I didn't think anyone could ever get you back. I was desperate…"
"… Dad?"
"I hired Frank Johnson."
The words linger in the air. Timmy suppresses a yell. The person who ruined everything, who nearly killed the two of them, was hired by his father.
"He promised that he'd find you. He was one of the highest rated investigators in the state. He said he'd never stop searching… when you called a few days ago, I panicked. And I called him right after."
"You… god damn it." Timmy says, dropping onto the chair as Vicky walks over to the kitchen table.
"You sent that psycho after us?" she asks, her voice raising ever so slightly. She's angry again. The detective broke into their home, threatened to kill her, beat her senseless, and worst of all, he threatened Timmy.
"I didn't know what he would do." Mr. Turner says sternly. He wasn't going to argue with Vicky about who was in the wrong. As far as he is concerned, Vicky is just as responsible for the situation as he is.
"He said he would find my son… he never said he would point a gun at him."
"It was more than that." Timmy says. "He… he had a look in his eyes. When I stopped him from hurting Vicky, he kept the gun on me. And he just… had this look."
"He would have shot my twerp." Vicky responds.
Mr. Turner looks over at Vicky. "How… how do you know?"
"I've seen my fair share of psychos… I even learned to pretend to be them. Made it easier to push people away… but I can tell when someone's faking and when they're genuine. Their pupils… they dilate. They stare like wild gorillas. Waiting…"
Timmy's dad turns his head away. This insane day was proving to be far too much for all three of them. And as he hears her words he knows she speaks the truth. "You really do love him."
Timmy's dad takes another swig of whiskey, then plops it on the table. He was responsible for nearly getting his own son killed, and the one who stopped it from happening, even risking her own life, was Vicky. They love each other. And who was he? A man who left them together for most of his son's life just to try and put a few more months onto an already failed marriage.
"I'm sorry." he mutters, tears pouring down his face.
"I've… left your room the way it was." Timmy's dad says. "You and Vicky can stay for as long as you need."
"Thanks." Timmy says. He can see his dad's loneliness. And he can't deal with just standing there any longer.
"Whoa, ow, ow! Too tight, too tight!"
Timmy drags his dad into a hug. He hugs tighter than he's ever hugged anyone. Vicky stands up and stretches her legs. She takes a few deep breaths, calming down after the intense standoff. She leaves for Timmy's room, but not before yanking the bottle of whiskey and chugging a few shots. Timmy stays with his dad, embracing him until the tears have stopped.