Disclaimer: The story’s mine; you know the drill. So don’t steal it – otherwise you’ll live to regret it. And this is not a threat, by the way – it’s a promise. This is very depressing and a bit angsty *shrug* so if you don’t like it, don’t say I didn’t warn you ahead of time.

Rory looked out over the ledge and onto the distant horizon. The sun was at the edge of the land, a warm, rosy golden glow at the end, where the land met the sky.

Closer to Rory, the glow darkened to a slate grey, a murky color that suggested the coming of a storm. But right now Rory didn’t care. His brown/black hair flew every which way with the wind. He stood for about a minute or two on the ledge, his chest heaving slightly with every breath that he took.

Rory had just run away from home – not literally – for about the third time that week. He needed time – and also space – to think, so naturally he came to his favorite place, which was also a thinking place for him. He liked to come out here. He always came to this place whenever his head felt like exploding or whenever he felt that he had to get out, to think. This place was his escape from reality, his life, and everything that was happening and everybody that was around him. “This place” was a ledge, a long ledge that jutted out of a cliff that was a couple of blocks away from his home. Rory wasn’t glad about the fact that he was only two blocks away from his house, but he knew that he’d just have to deal with it.

He took in a long, deep, cleansing breath, and slowly exhaled. It was sunset, he knew, from judging the way that the sky’s colors were now and the sun’s position, but he was reluctant to go back home. He knew that his father wouldn’t be out looking for him, as most dads would, considering the fact that Mr. Gardner had work – he was the manager of the Sears store in Rory’s town – and often didn’t get home until late. By “late” I mean really late – almost when it’s morning.

Rory was secretly grateful for this. He and his dad weren’t close. No, if anything, they were distant; very distant. If his dad wasn’t like most dads, Rory reasoned, then life would be a whole lot easier, like now, for the both of them.

It was now nearing night. Crickets chirped noisily and the very slight thin sound of bushes and trees rustling could be heard, even though they were far off. Rory decided to head towards home.

As he walked down the silent, completely deserted street, Rory reflected. He reflected a whole lot on a bunch of things, such as his problems at school, his problem at home, and the upcoming Father-Son picnic, which was to be held tomorrow. Rory’s whole grade had been required to go, so needless to say, Rory wasn’t exactly jumping up and down with excitement right now.

He had already asked his father, who had said no, explaining that he had work to do. Rory had been expecting this to be his father’s answer, so he wasn’t surprised; it still stung him deeply, though.

Ever since Rory’s mother had walked out on him when he had turned four, his father had abruptly broke all ties with him; he was too shocked and numb with grief. Even after six years – Rory was ten now – it still rose a bitter resentment within him towards his mother whenever he was reminded of her. He shut all the thoughts that he had of his mother away in his mind; this especially happened when he was self-consciously thinking of her. At his fourth birthday party, Rory remembered, she had wished him a happy birthday, helped him cut the cake – and then when he’d been busy opening presents later, he found out that she was gone. Gone. The word rose a final bell in Rory’s mind. Why Mrs. Gardner had walked out on him, Rory had no idea; maybe she was sick and tired of him, or motherhood, or both; or maybe she just couldn’t handle motherhood. Of course, after that, his father had shunned him and blamed him for making Mrs. Gardner walk out.

Rory was so busy thinking all this that he didn’t notice a car run into him just then.

Nor did he notice that the driver was his own dad.

Mr. Gardner opened the door and ran over to where the boy lay – was that a stand of brown/black hair? Underneath all the blood and the grime it was hard to tell . . . No, no . . . it couldn’t be . . .

He turned the boy over.

NO!

“Rory . . .” he whispered in a hoarse voice, “no, Rory, no –”

Then, for the first time ever since his wife had left him, Mr. Gardner slowly began to cry.

“No, Rory, no . . .”

He cradled his dead son in his arms, like a baby; those deep blue eyes of Rory’s never moved, nor did they open. He lay completely still, tiny and yet so fragile, like a doll.

“Wake up, Rory, please – please, Rory, wake up . . .” Mr. Gardner pleaded, tears still streaming down his face.

“God – please, Rory, please . . .” His effort was in vain.

“Rory – please wake up, please . . . Please, Rory, please . . .”

But Rory never woke up.

And in the cloudless black night, underneath the dark sky, there reflected, from the light of the moon, two silhouettes: one of that of a father, the other of that of his young son.

And as the moon continued to wane, the father forever mourned for his son.