![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
backdrifterThis scene de-italicized for your reading pleasure.
The morning sun was hot on his face that particular morning, a slab of light landing more or less in his eye. It was noon, actually, which meant he’d overslept. Not for school, no; he supposed he was a dropout. His mother needed help getting to the bathroom, and a breakfast of multivitamins and fish oil pills to keep her body in some form of togetherness.
He rolled out of bed, still wearing last night’s outfit, which was had been last night’s outfit for the past week. His bare feet hit a chilly floor, and he hitched his jeans up as he stood and strolled out to his mother’s room.
The bed was empty.
The first thing he did was check the other side of the bed, because what if she had actually managed to roll over and fall off the mattress? For all his efforts, her bones were probably as brittle as dead leaves, and one false move could mean a broken everything.
But she wasn’t there, either. He bounced back to his feet, grinding his teeth in agitation, when his ears pricked to the sounds of shouting below. Downstairs. He flew down the flight of stairs, heels slipping off the edge of each step and threatening to send him head over heels into a broken neck.
The next few seconds happened too fast for him to really register until after the fact, but what he saw first was his mother, leaning heavily on the black countertop, the harsh noontime light highlighting every hollow in her gaunt face, and opposite her was his father, his face red with rage, and a gun held in both meaty fists.
He thought he heard something like, “You’re not my responsibility anymore!” coming from his father’s direction, but this part of his memory would always be fuzzy, no matter how much the cops quizzed him. He sprinted into the kitchen, mind not so much racing as it had gone into a seizure. He saw his father’s fingers tighten and squeeze around the trigger; he saw himself in its path. His mother might have been shouting something, but he didn’t think she had the strength to draw that much breath anymore.
What he felt next was pain. It bloomed in his shoulder and tore its way though the flesh around it, burning and clawing and sharp. It felt like someone had lit a blowtorch inside of him. He was vaguely aware that he was falling, had fallen, but nothing could overcome the ravaging sensations in his shoulder.
When he hit the linoleum, still convulsing with pain, he touched the wound with a pair of fingertips, and the feeling made his ragged breath hitch in a gasp. Blood came away on his fingers, and when he looked up, his father was gone. His mother still stood behind him, eyes wild and wide, but she didn’t seem to be doing much more than that.
“Ma, please,” he pleaded through the pain, clutching his arm with his bloody hand. “Please, Ma, you have to call… 911…”
“I—”
“Ma!”
“I’m sorry, baby,” she sobbed once, and then she fell too, too weak to hold herself up much longer. “Mama can’t help you, baby.”
“Get up! Get up!” he screamed, curling up on the floor and gritting his teeth so hard he thought he might crack a molar. “Ma, please, please, you have to get up! Oh god, please, Ma…!” The back of his t-shirt was warm and wet, and he knew it was his own blood slowly fleeing him. “Ma, you still have time, please…!”
“I can’t do anything,” she moaned, wallowing suddenly in self-pity. “I’ve been a shitty mother to you, Thomas, I’m so sorry, you’ve been taking care of me for years when it shoulda been the other way around…”
“Ma,” he gasped, pulling himself with his good arm toward her, “get up. You can do it. I swear to god, I’ll forgive you for everything, ever—” and he held her tiny wrist tight “—if you just get the hell up and call 911.”
“Oh, why don’t you do it,” she said sourly, her mood taking a turn for the worse. “Trying to make your poor mother do it. Where’s your brother? Where’s that bum Eric, why doesn’t he ever do anything?”
“Eric moved out, Ma, a long time ago,” he lied again, closing his eyes against the pain, for all the good it did. “Please, Ma, please, I could die…”
“Don’t be such a drama queen,” she snapped. “You’re fine, look at you! I’m going back upstairs, with or without your help. Goddammit, Thomas, you’re turning into your brother.” She grabbed ahold of a cabinet handle, and pulled herself up inch by inch.
“This is just fucking like you!” he wheezed, the strain of shouting pulling the wound tighter around the hunk of metal lodged in the muscle. “You make up stories whenever you don’t like what’s happening around you, and then you force yourself to believe them!”
“Leave a poor old woman alone,” was her reply, her eyes firmly upward.
“Ma! Please!”
“I’m not going to be subject to this—”
“ERIC DOESN’T EXIST, MA!”
She paused, bent over the counter, an indescribable look upon her face. Respa stared up at her expectantly, his breathing coming in arrhythmic bursts as he lay bleeding in the kitchen.
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she hissed, and she launched herself off the counters into the hallway, where she caught herself on the end of the banister and started pulling herself upstairs, step by step.
Respa tried getting up himself, but his attempts to pull or push himself upright made him scream, and he inevitably fell back again and again. He was panting when he finally gave up. He thought to himself that he was only seventeen, that seventeen-year-old boys should only have to worry about stupid things like porn and girls at school and sometimes the future. He thought about Ryan, and how stupid he felt for running him off, for rejecting him over such a stupid lie.
Of course Ryan would want to keep his disease a secret, of course he would hide his medications. That stupid bitch Cheryl has only been out to hurt Ryan, and he’d ended up doing it better than she had. After that night, Ryan had ended up shooting both of his parents, and then escaped the city, never to be seen again. Two years ago.
He felt sort of numb all over, like the feeling of waking up after a night of only an hour’s sleep. His grip on his bad arm slackened, and then fell away completely, leaving his forearm draped over his waist. Stupid mother. Stupider father. He had nothing to do with whatever stupid spat they’d been having; he should have let his mother take that bullet. Maybe she would have woken up from her stupid anorexic waking dream, maybe she would have realized that she had a husband and a son who needed her more than they could admit. Maybe.
And yet, as the shivers set in, he felt good about saving his mother. For all that she was possessed of a self-imposed insanity, for all that she was a textbook case of advanced anorexia, he loved her far more than he did his other parent. Whether he died or not, he was sure his father would go to jail for this, and if ghosts did turn out to be real, then his would be at peace before it even got a chance to do any haunting.
When he woke up again, he was in the back of an ambulance, a flurry of hands and tubes passing over his face. Someone had called 911 after all.
The morning sun was hot on his face that particular morning, a slab of light landing more or less in his eye. It was noon, actually, which meant he’d overslept. Not for school, no; he supposed he was a dropout. His mother needed help getting to the bathroom, and a breakfast of multivitamins and fish oil pills to keep her body in some form of togetherness.
He rolled out of bed, still wearing last night’s outfit, which was had been last night’s outfit for the past week. His bare feet hit a chilly floor, and he hitched his jeans up as he stood and strolled out to his mother’s room.
The bed was empty.
The first thing he did was check the other side of the bed, because what if she had actually managed to roll over and fall off the mattress? For all his efforts, her bones were probably as brittle as dead leaves, and one false move could mean a broken everything.
But she wasn’t there, either. He bounced back to his feet, grinding his teeth in agitation, when his ears pricked to the sounds of shouting below. Downstairs. He flew down the flight of stairs, heels slipping off the edge of each step and threatening to send him head over heels into a broken neck.
The next few seconds happened too fast for him to really register until after the fact, but what he saw first was his mother, leaning heavily on the black countertop, the harsh noontime light highlighting every hollow in her gaunt face, and opposite her was his father, his face red with rage, and a gun held in both meaty fists.
He thought he heard something like, “You’re not my responsibility anymore!” coming from his father’s direction, but this part of his memory would always be fuzzy, no matter how much the cops quizzed him. He sprinted into the kitchen, mind not so much racing as it had gone into a seizure. He saw his father’s fingers tighten and squeeze around the trigger; he saw himself in its path. His mother might have been shouting something, but he didn’t think she had the strength to draw that much breath anymore.
What he felt next was pain. It bloomed in his shoulder and tore its way though the flesh around it, burning and clawing and sharp. It felt like someone had lit a blowtorch inside of him. He was vaguely aware that he was falling, had fallen, but nothing could overcome the ravaging sensations in his shoulder.
When he hit the linoleum, still convulsing with pain, he touched the wound with a pair of fingertips, and the feeling made his ragged breath hitch in a gasp. Blood came away on his fingers, and when he looked up, his father was gone. His mother still stood behind him, eyes wild and wide, but she didn’t seem to be doing much more than that.
“Ma, please,” he pleaded through the pain, clutching his arm with his bloody hand. “Please, Ma, you have to call… 911…”
“I—”
“Ma!”
“I’m sorry, baby,” she sobbed once, and then she fell too, too weak to hold herself up much longer. “Mama can’t help you, baby.”
“Get up! Get up!” he screamed, curling up on the floor and gritting his teeth so hard he thought he might crack a molar. “Ma, please, please, you have to get up! Oh god, please, Ma…!” The back of his t-shirt was warm and wet, and he knew it was his own blood slowly fleeing him. “Ma, you still have time, please…!”
“I can’t do anything,” she moaned, wallowing suddenly in self-pity. “I’ve been a shitty mother to you, Thomas, I’m so sorry, you’ve been taking care of me for years when it shoulda been the other way around…”
“Ma,” he gasped, pulling himself with his good arm toward her, “get up. You can do it. I swear to god, I’ll forgive you for everything, ever—” and he held her tiny wrist tight “—if you just get the hell up and call 911.”
“Oh, why don’t you do it,” she said sourly, her mood taking a turn for the worse. “Trying to make your poor mother do it. Where’s your brother? Where’s that bum Eric, why doesn’t he ever do anything?”
“Eric moved out, Ma, a long time ago,” he lied again, closing his eyes against the pain, for all the good it did. “Please, Ma, please, I could die…”
“Don’t be such a drama queen,” she snapped. “You’re fine, look at you! I’m going back upstairs, with or without your help. Goddammit, Thomas, you’re turning into your brother.” She grabbed ahold of a cabinet handle, and pulled herself up inch by inch.
“This is just fucking like you!” he wheezed, the strain of shouting pulling the wound tighter around the hunk of metal lodged in the muscle. “You make up stories whenever you don’t like what’s happening around you, and then you force yourself to believe them!”
“Leave a poor old woman alone,” was her reply, her eyes firmly upward.
“Ma! Please!”
“I’m not going to be subject to this—”
“ERIC DOESN’T EXIST, MA!”
She paused, bent over the counter, an indescribable look upon her face. Respa stared up at her expectantly, his breathing coming in arrhythmic bursts as he lay bleeding in the kitchen.
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she hissed, and she launched herself off the counters into the hallway, where she caught herself on the end of the banister and started pulling herself upstairs, step by step.
Respa tried getting up himself, but his attempts to pull or push himself upright made him scream, and he inevitably fell back again and again. He was panting when he finally gave up. He thought to himself that he was only seventeen, that seventeen-year-old boys should only have to worry about stupid things like porn and girls at school and sometimes the future. He thought about Ryan, and how stupid he felt for running him off, for rejecting him over such a stupid lie.
Of course Ryan would want to keep his disease a secret, of course he would hide his medications. That stupid bitch Cheryl has only been out to hurt Ryan, and he’d ended up doing it better than she had. After that night, Ryan had ended up shooting both of his parents, and then escaped the city, never to be seen again. Two years ago.
He felt sort of numb all over, like the feeling of waking up after a night of only an hour’s sleep. His grip on his bad arm slackened, and then fell away completely, leaving his forearm draped over his waist. Stupid mother. Stupider father. He had nothing to do with whatever stupid spat they’d been having; he should have let his mother take that bullet. Maybe she would have woken up from her stupid anorexic waking dream, maybe she would have realized that she had a husband and a son who needed her more than they could admit. Maybe.
And yet, as the shivers set in, he felt good about saving his mother. For all that she was possessed of a self-imposed insanity, for all that she was a textbook case of advanced anorexia, he loved her far more than he did his other parent. Whether he died or not, he was sure his father would go to jail for this, and if ghosts did turn out to be real, then his would be at peace before it even got a chance to do any haunting.
When he woke up again, he was in the back of an ambulance, a flurry of hands and tubes passing over his face. Someone had called 911 after all.