Adrien moved with a detached purpose, tidying the room. He didn't stop to look at the particles shining like pixie dust through the open windows, even when he shut the curtains for the last time. He didn't stop to think about the love that had been poured into the now tipid tea that he poured down the blood-stained sink. He did, however, remember the lithe, cool hands that fit– had fit– into these rubber gloves so much better than his did as he set about scrubbing the sink until it shone. He tried not to remember the painstaking process of picking out every wilting flower from his mother's overrun garden. He failed to forget baking the untouched cookies he slid off the tray into the trash can, unable to bring himself to try one. He didn't think he could eat, anyway. His fingers drifted unbidden across the keys, a ghost of a memory filling the room. He could hear the sweet music that would never be played again. It filled his stomach like a stone, sinking, threatening to pull him into the darkness from which he would never rise again. He unplugged the speaker from the wall and tucked it back in its box, slotting it into his backpack. He couldn't bring himself to change the sheets, even though they were stained and smelled of death. Instead, he scrubbed them with hydrogen peroxide 'til they were white as new, folding the comforter with utmost reverence so that not a wrinkle showed on its plush surface. For a moment, he was tempted to dive into it, to soak in the scent and memory of his mother and never move again.
The scene was too perfect. He couldn't ruin this, too.
A tear slipped down his face at the coldness of it all. This room, the one that used to be so full of love and light, now replaced with nothing but a darkened, hollow shell.
Why was it so jarring? She'd taken all the sunlight with her.
His throat closed tight around the words he wanted to say. Mom…
What?
I'm sorry I failed you?
I'm sorry my existence killed you?
I'm sorry dad wouldn't let me see you until–
A sob wrenched its way out of his chest, leaving him breathless. Don't cry, his father had ordered. He couldn't admit it yet. But he knew it, deep down, in a tiny place even his father's harshest commands couldn't reach. His mother was gone. And she was never coming back.
"I just…"
How could he ask for what he so desperately wanted? He felt so stupid, standing here trying to talk to nothing, unable to get the simplest of words out. We will go through this like Agrestes, his father had said, cold and distant as always.
He didn't want to be an Agreste. He just wanted to be her son.
But that had never been true, had it? He was reduced, now, to his father's puppet. And that's what he'd always been, hadn't it? He'd just been too naive to see it.
Well, that naivety was gone now. The freshness of it all hit him like a knife to the gut.
Dimly, he realized he hadn't moved. His legs felt numb and stiff, like the rest of him.
There was something missing. Some tie that had come unraveled and would never be smoothed again.
The closest thing to any semblance of closure he could grasp for was three choked words. "I'm sorry, mom."
He turned, with a horrible, crushing sense of finality, and made his way to the door.
"I love you, mom." He managed, the words sticking in his throat and stinging like needles dragging across his throat. Numbness encompassed him, then, and with a staggered breath, he closed the door for the last time.
—-
A/N: I am so, so, so sorry. Blame Ed Sheeran with his stupid Supermarket Flowers for this.