There were some things that you couldn't shake. Barry knew somewhere deep down that this was one of them. The white lines. The faded pink. The jagged edges.
No matter how he hard he tried there was no running: not from this. He could convince himself that he could...maybe for a little while. Some days would go by in a blink in an eye and there would be some where time would slow down like quick sand, and Barry couldn't bring himself to get out of bed. No matter how hard he tried to forget, his past would always come back to haunt him. The pain. The guilt. The memories...and without warning it would all come crashing back down on him, in a single flash.
Barry was memorized.
Time was irrelevant; sounds melted away as he was drawn to the barged scar tissue. There was too much of it to process. The lines criss-crossed in an endless wove of laps and sorrow. There was history there, one of the worst kind. One Barry knew all too well.
A light bulb flash startled him.
Time caught up with the crime scene investigator.
"Barry?"
His eyes blinked to keep the moisture at bay.
"Barry."
The man looked up at his foster father in response, the spell broken. With a sharp breath, he regained his thought process, looking down at the dead body at his feet.
Central City 2010
Barry ignored the flash this time.
He just saw the dead body.
Joe's cop demeanor slipped for a second, "Son?"
Barry hand hovered slightly over his sleeved forearm. He was fine. He wasn't sixteen anymore. He was a twenty year old fresh college graduate with a major in Organic Chemistry and a fantastic job with the Central City Police Department. Barry Allen was on the top of the world.
...
He was most defiantly on top of the world.
It took years of therapy, support, love, and friendship to get through that monumental phase in his life. It wasn't easy. Some days the young man was amazed that he was even there. He was there to wake up in the morning and breath in the fresh cold air of the city or drink a hot brew of coffee. Those were the moments that it always hit Barry: he made it.
Bartholomew Henry Allen would live to fucking see this day, the next one, and the one after that: and it was all worth it. Make no mistake, even after twenty years, a dark lingering feeling would creep in every once in a while. However, it was never the same. That sixteen year old orphan who would sneak off after first period to smoke cigarettes no longer existed. In fact, Barry hadn't smoked a single cigarette since he was eighteen years old. He hadn't cut in nine months either. Yes, Barry was behind it. He would go a year without even picking up a razor or a knife...but...he didn't think it was the last time either. He didn't need it anymore. Barry wasn't drowning, he was finally free from his own chains. There would be bad days. There would be thoughts and temptations; he didn't have to act on them. If he did Barry knew he was stronger for it. This wouldn't last. He was conquering his feelings everyday. He was given the opportunity to do so, unlike the small teenage frame lying on the cold floor.
Barry could still see the boys arms.
There were so many scars. Some were deeper than others. Especially the last fatal ones. His heart clenched. This boy didn't have what he had. He had Joe, Iris and Cisco to lean on. Barry just wish he could have spoke to him beforehand. Maybe he could have said something...anything. There were other crime scene technicians moving around him. A warm hand touched his shoulder, "Are we good Bar?"
Barry took a deep, shuddering breath, wiping a hand across his face, "...Yeah. Yeah, I'm good Joe."
The sheet was placed over the boy indefinitely
Some days will be better than others. Some scars will always be deeper than others. Memories will fade but never vanish. They can either hold you up or drag you back down. There will be times where you feel like your living more for others than yourself, but give it time, and you might start to notice a change. Before you know it: it will all happen in a flash.
Author Notes: I want to thank everyone for your continuous support throughout the years, even when I stopped writing. I know there were days myself where I would go back and read this, wondering if I would ever finish. I just don't think I had any inspiration at the time. I've come along way since I wrote this story and if you're reading this: I hope you have to. People change. We share experiences but we are never alone. I wrote this last chapter to give everyone some closure, including myself. Will I ever come back and continue the series of their younger days? Who knows. We'll see where the journey takes us.