Never Seen The Sky

AN - Well, this is it guys - the end of the line. I've had a fantastic eight months writing this story and I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed thinking it all up for you. The ending it sort of open so I'll leave it up to your own imagination as to what happens - remember to review and thanks very much for reading Never Seen The Sky!

Chapter Eleven

The boy coughed, his throat raw, blood trickling slowly down his chin, lingering tauntingly before dropping to the floorboards where he lay. He lifted an aching hand and stemmed the flow of red it came spilling from between his parted lips. He choked on a hacking cough and clutched at his chest, desperately inhaling the stale air of his bedroom. His hands found the cold metal body of the crowbar and he pulled it to him, holding it to himself as if it were his twisted variation of a teddy bear.

The fall down the stairs had taken its toll on the boy's already battered body - struggling to move, he had spotted the crowbar standing propped up by the door, a splash of blood drying down its length, a thin layer of torn skin hanging from its teeth. He had managed, over the space on an hour, to crawl frustratingly back to the summit of the stairs - dragging the crowbar, clawing at each step - at times stalling and slipping down, unable to get a grip on the dirty carpet, every ounce of strength put into the effort of making it back to the top of the stairs.

He had made it - it had almost killed him, but he had made it.

He lay, reflecting on his strenuous journey, his head beating a furious rhythm, his heart thudding involuntarily, longing to be finished with the pain. He shifted his leg, an ominous shudder jolting down his spine. He was nearly finished, and he knew it.

He mustered his remaining strength and managed to roll onto his back, relieved to find his spine able to take the strain. He pulled the crowbar to his side, running his damaged fingers along its cold exterior, feeling its solid form and the reassuring protection it offered.

The feeling of dread swelling in the pit of his stomach grew ever stronger - his father would return soon (with the bat?) and it would be lights out for Braiden Esperance.

The boy guessed that he had perhaps an hour or two left before his imminent end. He closed his eyes and allowed himself one final rest before he attempted to move again.

.He had tried the front door, of course, whilst he has downstairs - but his grip on the handle had either been too weak or it had indeed been locked. The boy had considered trying the back door, but hadn't wanted to find it locked and then have to face the climb of the stairs.

As he lay considering his next move, he though. What did he think about? Anything. Everything. Whatever he could find that could be thought about. He thought about his mother - her beautiful white satin dress, her ebony hair, her radiant smile, the way her lips moved in an endless flowing motion whenever she spoke. Her voice.pure velvet - like crystal waters cascading over weather-worn rocks, such perfection was her form. He thought of his father, when their lives had been good, when the Esperance's had been a family.seemingly an age ago. A pitifully long time had passed since then, but Braiden had forgotten nothing - he still remembered the firm but gentle smile his father had worn back then, when he would return from work and greet his wife. He still remembered his father's roaring laugh - a glorious laugh, if there ever was one.he had used to laugh all the time.

Somewhere inside Braiden, inside the broken boy, still dwelled even the most pathetic pieces of compassion he had since learnt to despise. Some small part of him still loved the man he had been before.

"Mother." the boy sobbed, choking on the solitary word as it tumbled from his mouth. Tears fell alongside the steady stream of blood. In that one moment, he ached - an ache surpassing that of his physical injuries, this ache came from the heart, and once that ache had subsided, Braiden realised what it was he had become. Gone was the boyish charm, the cherub-like innocence, the irresistible air of purity that had hung around him in swarms as a child - in its place now hung an air of death. Braiden was now nothing, and yet so much more than that at the same time.

He was empty.

He bit hard on his lip, drawing fresh blood, and pulled the crowbar close to his face.

He had to get out. Now.

The seemingly permanent sensation of fear embedded beneath the boy's skin all but vanished as he filled himself with determination and struggled to drag himself to his knees. He blew a kiss to the dirty mattress in the corner and smiled a grim smile. He pressed himself against the wall and, using both arms, pushed the crowbar onto the window sill; it balanced perilously for a moment on the edge of the sill, but didn't fall. Braiden furrowed his brow and gripped the sill with his bruised fingers. He pulled, the wasted muscles in his arms straining - the boy's renewed determination was all that carried him as he forced himself to his feet. He leant hard against the wall, breathing quickly, fingers curled around his Defender. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, pushing his nose against the window pane and steaming up the glass with his breath.

He looked into the garden - the plastic chair was empty, a cider can still lay in the grass beside it. There was no monster staring back at him now. The boy felt the rage that had been storing deep inside him come bubbling to the surface, as he stared at the chair he saw red with fury, and it was in that moment that he found himself doing exactly what he should have done a long time ago.

He grabbed the crowbar in both hands and SWUNG it (pleasesmashpleasesmashpleasesmash) at the glass - the metal shaft bounced off the pane, a small crack appearing where the Defender had penetrated, the rain-battered glass weakened by the blow.

Braiden screamed with frustration and, holding the crowbar as a battering ram, pushed as hard as he could against the window - SHATTER - shards of glass flew in all directions - the crow bar disappearing through the window. Braiden grabbed the sill, splinters of glass pushing into his skin, tearing his flesh, teasing his veins. He knocked out the remaining triangles of glass with his elbows and, gripping the sides of the window frame, pulled himself onto the sill.

He felt the cold air beat against his skin as he readied himself for what he was to do next. He observed the garden below him, he looked to the sky above him (beautiful sky, let me swim in you) - he admired the gentle curves of the clouds, the delicate sharpness of each blade of grass. He laughed out loud at how absurd he must look, perched on the sill, looking at the grass - he blessed his laughter and allowed himself to turn for one final look at his bedroom.

He father was standing in the doorway.

Braiden felt his determination slipping away, but refused to allow himself to back down. He couldn't really be there, could he? Braiden hadn't heard the car pulling up, he hadn't heard any footsteps on the stairs, and if his father really was in the doorway, would he not have fit him by now? He looked at the figure (he looks real, is he real or is he a shadow?) A smile was on his aged face - a.warm smile.

Braiden looked away, tears burning his eyes, his body ready to collapse. He didn't care if he was real or not.

Braiden Esperance drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

In that final moment of Living, he touched the sky.