Title: Black Phoenix
Author: Edana [email protected]
Rating: R (for swearing, mentions of attempted incest, attempted rape and suggestion of sex in later chapters)
Summary: Syrian wakes up with a strange mark on his face and from then on is haunted by the name and image of Black Phoenix
Disclaimer: All owned by me I'm afraid ^_^
Black Phoenix
Chapter Seventeen – Four Days
Confused. Oh, so, so confused.
Pain, sharp bursts of sickening pain, muscles trembling, screaming silently, nausea, and deep, deep gut wrenching pain. "Can you hear me? Hello, hello? Can you hear me?" I can, I can hear you but I can't remember where I am, I don't know how to speak, do you want an answer, do I know you?
"I'm so proud of you, Syrian."
Dad? Oh yes, of course, I remember now. He's standing before me, my father, my daddy, with a huge grin on his face; so handsome in the sunlight, soft grass pressing against his bare feet. And my feet are bare too as I gently swirl them in the cool river, delighting in the clearness of the liquid swishing against my skin.
"Syrian?" I'm laughing, chuckling so hard because I'm so delighted, because I love the feel of water against my feet, the feel of warm sunlight against my skin, the sounds of birds chirping gently, so far from the sounds of honking cars and shouting people, so far from reality of my world. And I'm young, only young, and my father is laughing too as he sits behind me, pulling my back against his chest, his legs either side of mine and his feet are in the water too. With a laugh he nudges my small feet with his, and pools water across my skin, across the bottom of my jeans.
"Hey!" I shout, and begin to try and attack his feet with water, but he eludes me, and splashes more fiercely and he tickles me. I laugh so hard I can't breathe and try to tickle back and now we're both laughing, both soaking, but not caring. I wish I could stay here forever in the sunlight.
"Can you hear me? Tell me your name if you can hear me."
Stumble, stumble, fall. I can't, can't breathe. Can't understand. He knows. He knows. He knows. My father, he knows everything. He's . . . oh God, he's holding a gun to my head. Calling me disgusting, a revolting whore. I'm not, am I? He wants to be my saviour, he wants to heal my soul, my daddy, I love him, but how can he be doing this? I don't want to die, don't want him to look at me like that.
"Can you hear me? If you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Come on, squeeze!"
I hate him. I can't believe how much I hate him. I can't believe how alone I am now he's gone, but I still despise him. At night I dream of him, of his evil grin, of his words, his insults. He haunts my memory. I can't escape. I'll never be able to escape. There's a gun inside my mouth, gagging me, hurting, scraping my skin. I can taste the blood, and he's pushing me against the wall 'cause he wants to hurt me in the worst way possible.
But now his body is shaking, jerking, his eyes wide; bullets are tearing into him, into his body, his mouth open in a snarl. I want to scream but I can't. I want to look away but I can't. I should be happy, but I'm not.
"Unresponsive, doctor. He's not responding to anything."
The words seem so far away. I can't . . . I can't bring myself to say anything. There's a lump in my throat; my father's lying dead beside me, watching me with unseeing eyes. Oh God, oh God. He said he was sorry, I don't understand. I don't want to understand. I just want to slip away easily, to leave everything behind: the pain, the fear, the guilt, and the confusion. I want to leave it all behind. And somehow, I know I can.
I'm crying so hard my whole frame is shaking, my chest is aching, so heavy, such a grief. I feel like I might die if I don't relieve this pain, but I can't heal it, I can't. There is no physical pain, just emotional wounds that hide within me, that I can banish only for a moment with a smile, but when I sleep it all comes undone, and I see him again. And I wake, like this, and sob so hard, my throat constricting painfully, I think that the only way the pain will leave is through death.
"Oh, Syrian. Shh, don't worry." I don't recognise that soft voice. I can't remember the feeling of strong arms around me, holding me so gently as I sob against his chest, in the middle of the night, darkness surrounding us. I don't remember his soothing words, but it's familiar. It warms me, I'm so warm, so protected, so . . . happy.
I fall asleep in his arms, wake with his body still pressed against mine, such a burning in my chest. His arms encircle me, his chin against my shoulder and we can stand like that in utter silence, but I love the feeling. But when he presses his lips against mine, my heart pounds almost desperately in my chest and I know the reason why I'm still alive, why my father's treachery didn't kill me.
Him.
All the tears, the pain, the nightmares, the screams, mean nothing when I'm with him. With kisses and caresses he banishes it all. "I don't want to lose you." It all comes flooding back, and it warms me.
*
"Ugh."
There's a pounding in my head, and I feel only a slight satisfaction that this time it's not my fault. And now . . . yes, the nausea, almost overbearing; God, it's like a hangover. If I'm gonna feel like this I almost wish I had drunk myself stupid. But, I can't remember how this happened. Don't know where I am. White, sterile white everywhere. A hospital? No, why would I be in a hospital unless . . .
Oh God. Memories flood into my mind, overloading my senses: Rian hanging from the ceiling, Guy caressing me, Larry lying in a pool of his own blood. And then my father, gunshots, pain and fear, and him dying beside me, looking at me and dying. Rian holding me, our hands entwined, my blood on his skin.
Jesus, I was shot. I took the bullet for Rian. I was shot, I was shot, I was shot.
I can't breathe. There's something over my mouth. I'm panting, oh God, I'm distressed and I know it. But I can't let this get to me. I'm stronger than this. Breathe. Breathe.
Okay, calm down. You're in a hospital and you're thinking crazy thoughts so it's not like you're in any immediate danger. I managed to turn, saw the machines surrounding me, beeping and flashing, and my heart caught in my throat. There were tubes in my arms, feeding me solutions and medicines to keep me stable.
I tried to move but, ugh, such blinding pain, muscles spasming. Suddenly I could feel the tight bandages around my waist, protecting the wound. Oh, such pain, almost unbearable.
I tried to sit up as realisation poured through my body, but ignoring the bolts of searing agony that spread through my muscles didn't work. "Rian?" I cried, tried to shout but found my throat unbearably dry. My heart was pounding so hard and the machines around me seemed to be going crazy with all my action, but that was just background noise, unimportant. It was dark, I vaguely wondered what time it was, but I blinked away the hazy fog and saw him.
Rian. He was sitting on a rather ugly plastic orange chair beside me, but his arms were folded and resting on the side of my bed, his head against his hands. He was asleep beside me, dark hair messy; such a look of innocence on his face as he slept that I unconsciously smiled. I wondered how long he'd been asleep, how long he'd sat beside me, as I lay unconscious. With shaking hands, knowing that it wasn't a good idea but not caring, I removed the oxygen mask from my face and took shaky breaths.
And then suddenly his deep, steady breathing died away, he groaned, blinked, sensed something was different, and with confused eyes looked towards me as he lifted his head. "Syrian." He breathed my name in something like disbelief and I was smiling softly, all I could manage, so, so happy. And Rian was grinning and slowly stood, stepped closer like I might disappear and wrapped his arms around me. "Yes, yes, yes."
A rush of emotions so intense I gasped, joy so indescribable set my body on fire, the tears still falling as I held him. His hands were running down my back so tenderly, I wondered how I almost lost this, lost him. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest, his own wordless sobs. "Rian," I whispered, running fingers through his hair.
"Oh God," he said finally, pulling away, looking at me. Suddenly I noticed the redness of his eyes, the slight purple of bruised skin, the bandage across his forehead. But the emotions shining in his eyes told me he was fine, and I smiled. "Syrian, I can't believe you're awake. Oh thank God. Thank God. I thought I was gonna lose you." His cheeks were wet, and he smiled in embarrassment as he ran his fingers down my face and I realised that he was shaking. For a moment I closed my eyes and felt him.
"Thanks, Rian," I murmured, barely aware I had said it, my throat still painfully dry.
He frowned slightly. "What for?"
"For . . . for bringing me back," I whispered, turning and pressing a kiss onto his palm.
"I don't think I want to know," he said seriously, but I chuckled. And then, "I can't . . . oh God." His voice broke suddenly and he was sobbing, sobbing so loudly it hurt just to hear, holding me again as if to reassure himself that I was real. "I was so scared, so frightened. The stuff you said . . . I really thought you were . . . that I was . . ."
"Me too," I murmured, holding him against me. "I thought I was too. But you know, it didn't matter. In that one moment, I didn't care."
Rian seemed to tense. "Why's that?" he asked, fear in his voice, perhaps because he knew that in my past I had viewed death as a release.
"B-because it was me, and not you, Rian. And if I had to make the choice again, if I had to take the bullet again, I would. Every single time; I would die for you."
"Oh God," he choked again, caressing my cheeks gently. "But please, try and stay away from guns for a while okay? I know it's hard for you . . ." We both laughed shakily, but I could still see the tears on his cheeks. And then he leant forward slowly and pressed his lips against mine in a soft kiss, very gently, as if afraid he might break me.
"Ugh," I moaned. Rian pulled back quickly, looking at me in concern. "Pain," I explained simply, putting a hand to my stomach. I felt the bandages there and shivered slightly.
"Oops," Rian cried, leaning over me. "I told the nurse that I'd call when you woke up. It took me ages to convince her to let me stay, and now she's gonna throttle me." He pressed the button, looked at me for a long moment with something like pain and relief on his face, and then squeezed my hand. "And Syrian – I would too."
*
The nurse, unaffected by Rian's protests, sent him away immediately for a shower, a meal and a good night's sleep, at the very least something to eat. I grinned in amusement as Rian dragged himself away, and then realised there was so much I didn't know. "H-how long have I been out?" I asked the nurse, who put me in mind of a sheep for some reason. Perhaps it was her overly curly hair. She continued to fuss around me, checking every single machine, sighing and determinedly replacing the oxygen mask over my mouth before she continued to check the machines again.
Just when I thought she wasn't going to answer, she turned, looked at me and said, "You were brought into the hospital four days ago."
"Four days!" I tried to cry, but the oxygen mask began to fog over, which freaked me out. It shouldn't have, but it did. I guess I was just edgy. I wonder how Rian coped for four days, and realised from the nurse's strict instructions that he probably hadn't. I tried to ask her more questions; I wanted to know what happened to Larry, to Guy, if Rian was okay, what his injuries were, but she gave me a look that meant: silence.
Aah, morphine. Thank God for that.
I woke up hours later, I think. After several minutes of trying to open my eyes and keep them open, I eventually began to focus on someone or something close to me. I tried to say, "Hi, who are you and what do you want?" but this, of course, came out, "Ugh?" I recognised the laughter, grinned slightly as my vision returned.
"Cindy!" I cried in delight at the girl standing beside me.
"The one and only!" she declared, posing freakily. "Damn Syrian, you know, take your time and everything! Don't just wake up and ease our fears, no, take four days to freak us all into insomnia and malnutrition."
I tried to laugh, but my throat was still so dry I winced. "Water?" I wasn't too ashamed to beg for it, but thankfully Cindy didn't tease. With an almost knowing smile she handed me a plastic cup full of clear liquid. Hhm, water, must drink. No, calm down, you're spilling it everywhere; if only I could sit up and not have to drink lying down . . .
"But," Cindy continued, "at least you're alive."
"You sound happy about that," I said dryly, trying to look dignified when I was practically lying in a puddle of water.
"No, I am, honestly," she murmured, and bent to embrace me. Shifting into somewhat of a sitting position, I held my friend, feeling the tears stinging my eyes. "You scared me so much, though. Especially at first when you weren't responding. And you should have seen Rian, boy was he doing his nut. He almost pulverised the doctors I swear. Only Guy could stop him."
"Guy?" I murmured, confused. Cindy stiffened slightly.
"Yeah, Guy, but don't ask, okay? I shouldn't be the one to tell you."
I realised something then: that during everything that had happened, Cindy had threatened to remain outside the warehouse. And I wondered what exactly had happened, and what Rian had told her. "Cindy," I murmured, "was it you . . . was it you who called the police?"
She bit her lip, smiled almost shyly. "Yeah," she said, "when I heard the first gunshot. I'm . . . I'm sorry." She knew. She knew what my father had tried to do to me, and she wasn't sure how to behave. So with a small smile I held her hand and delighted in the grin she gave back. After all, Cindy, I'm the same person.
Breaking the moment there was a knock at the door and Rian took a tentative step into the room. "Is everything all right?" he asked, looking at the both of us, probably scared that Cindy had beaten me by now.
A sly grin came over Cindy's face. "Fine, fine," she murmured, releasing my hand. "But it's time for me to go. As long as you're okay, Syrian; don't do anything stupid."
If only she knew . . .
"No, Miss, I won't," I chuckled. But Cindy looked towards Rian, at me again and then winked suggestively before disappearing, leaving me with a deep flush that was too embarrassing for words. Rian grinned at me, walked over and sat on the orange chair, taking my hand instinctively.
"Just seeing you smile, I can't believe that four days ago you were lying in my arms and telling me to even contemplate a life without you."
My blush deepened so much I had to turn away. "Rian, do you think it's a bad thing I was almost killed by my father and I've been unconscious for four days and in immeasurable pain but the only thing I can think about is kissing you?"
Now he blushed and I giggled slightly as Rian leaned forward and whispered, "Not at all," before pressing his lips to mine. And I was lost, completely and utterly lost as he gently moved his mouth against mine, ran his tongue across my lips, leaving me struggling for breath.
I heard the sound of someone clearing their throat and made a noise between a squeak and a giggle, my heart pounding against my ribs. Rian broke away, turned and then I saw the person standing by the door and everything froze. "G – Guy?" I murmured, looking towards Rian for reassurance that I wasn't mad, and that I wasn't dreaming.
"He chose you, Syrian," Rian murmured into my ear, the voice of my conscience.
"You – you broke away from my father?" I questioned, and then I remembered and it was a certainty. "You saved me all those years ago when I fell from the bridge."
"Yes," he murmured, taking a step into the room, but he had crutches, his weight on the metal, because he had been shot in the thigh. By my father. Did that mean anything to me? Could it excuse anything? My breaths came rapidly, the machines beeping ominously in the silence. Guy looked shocked as he saw my shaking frame.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please just . . . I'll go now. I don't want to cause you any pain."
Confused, so confused; Rian was holding my hand, squeezing gently to reassure me. I knew they'd spoken, Rian and Guy. I don't know what he said, but Rian was willing to let Guy into this room where I was exposed and vulnerable, so I had to give him a chance, because talking was the only way to deal with the pain.
"No, please stay," I called, my voice breaking. Guy said nothing for a long moment, his body trembling slightly, and then he turned and faced me with hope. Something like hope.
"Syrian, I . . . I'm not going to ask you to forgive and forget what I did. Especially not right now, not so soon, if ever. I did a lot of bad things in my life. I just want you to understand."
"I . . . I'll try," I murmured. "Please tell me. You did save me, didn't you? From the bridge, from my father." I felt tears stinging my eyes, held back the sobs for fear of weakness. Rian made a small noise, still sitting beside me, still holding my hand, my support.
Guy swallowed, looked upwards for a moment, blinking furiously as if he, too, was holding back the emotions. "Yes," he breathed. "I couldn't let him hurt anyone else, not you. Not anyone." Now his voice broke and his body was shaking, the crutches threatening to give way beneath him and send him crashing to the floor. "I didn't mean to cause you any pain. I . . . I was just so confused, so blind. My whole life was that organisation, that man, and I couldn't see past the fa?e, couldn't see the destruction."
I swallowed the lump in my throat, felt such an unbearable pain in my chest. He wasn't a bad person, I knew that, and I looked at Rian, remembered that Guy had hurt him, but saw the compassion as Rian looked at Guy. He had forgiven him because they both realised, in that moment before everything ended, that they wanted the same thing.
"My whole life was that organisation, that man."
"Oh God," I breathed, the tears finally falling for everything that was lost. "Guy, what did he do to you?"
Guy sobbed suddenly, but closed his mouth firmly, blocking all sounds. He didn't want to break down in front of me. He looked away and I saw the pain, the fear, wondered if Rian knew the truth, but there was silence as neither man said anything. "I . . . he . . ." He took a long breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "I . . . care for you, Syrian, I watched you grow. I suppose you're like a brother to me. I'm sorry if that upsets you."
He was a victim too. Whatever my father did hurt him deeply, like he had hurt me. But Guy wasn't able to break away. "I'm sorry that he hurt you," I breathed.
"Don't . . . don't apologise for him," Guy murmured. "I've got a lot to think about, a lot of emotions to sort out in my head."
"I forgive you," I burst out suddenly, shocking him, shocking Rian, even shocking myself. "I mean it, Guy. I understand. It's not your fault, none of it, so please don't think you to have to go through this alone 'cause it's not gonna be easy I know." I lowered my eyes, quietened my voice, realising that I was doing the right thing, not just because he was suffering, but because he deserved a second chance and I wanted to help him. "Maybe we can all deal with this together. Besides, I can't abandon my brother when he needs me, right?"
Guy looked at me for a long, long time, biting his bottom lip, his cheeks still wet. And then he broke into a smile, perhaps his first, but definitely not his last. "Right," he breathed.
They both stayed for a while, told me that Larry was still unconscious. He'd been shot in the back and still hadn't woken, and I felt slightly sorry for him. Apparently he screamed in his sleep. Guy shivered when he said that, and I wondered what was going through his mind, and later I'd learn that the nightmares never really left Larry, even though he tried to atone for his mistakes. Then Guy returned to his room, moaning about his rehabilitation, but still smiling. Rian stayed with me, stroking my hair gently until I fell asleep, telling me he was proud.
*
I woke up minutes, hours later, I couldn't tell. It was light outside, night giving way to morning, and I smiled unconsciously without realising why. There was a faint sting in my muscles but nothing more, but grogginess in my brain. It was hard just to keep my eyes open.
"Mr Black, he seemed to suffer from low levels of serotonin . . ."
I gasped, my eyes shooting open as the voice reached my ears. I wasn't dreaming; someone was talking about me, no, my father, right outside my door. It was the doctor, I think. I could see the silhouette of a man holding a clipboard. Oh God, he must have thought I was asleep.
". . . a chemical in the brain. This can lead to behavioural abnormalities, such as aggressive and impulsive behaviour and a lack of control over powerful emotions, often resulting in lack of judgement. He was depressed, but . . . because of what the police told me, I think these problems stem from child abuse."
I froze, my heart in my throat. What . . . what was he talking about? Child abuse?
"What do you mean?" Oh God, Rian's voice. I couldn't believe this was happening.
"I mean . . . incestuous, violent fathers tend to have a history of psychological problems and emotional deprivation. Child victims, when grown into adults, are often prone to depression, and abusive behaviour."
I was breathing harshly now, disbelief running through my veins as I fought desperately to calm myself. Child victims? Could he mean . . .?
"So, so what are you trying to say?" Rian again, his voice slightly too loud; sounding torn between anger and fear.
"This is mainly speculation, but I would say Mr Black developed this disorder because of child abuse."
"So are you saying that really none of this was his fault? That we shouldn't blame him? He tried to fucking kill his son, and then . . . then tried to rape him!" Rian was shouting now, furious, and I couldn't do anything, couldn't think anything. All I could do was lie and listen and pretend that my heart wasn't breaking.
"I'm not telling you to forgive him. I'm just saying that maybe, maybe he went through something that destroyed him. He was just a slave to psychological damage. Depression, anxiety, aggressive and impulsive behaviour! He was disturbed, not evil."
Breathe. Breathe.
"But it was him. Behind all that shit he was still there, still making the decisions, still saying those words. It's not like he was fucking possessed. I know about depression. I know it's devastating. I know you snap at people, or hide yourself away. But you don't actually hurt the people that care about you. And he did. That boy, that man, in there, loved that bastard until the day he pulled a gun on him. And he may even love his father now, but I hope to God he doesn't. He was ill, okay, not in his right mind, I understand, but does that excuse anything?" I'd never heard Rian so distressed. It hurt me.
"But do you think he asked for this to happen to him?"
"Of course not! But Syrian didn't ask for it either. Why are you trying to justify his actions? That man left nothing but misery in his path. He destroyed so many lives." I heard Rian voice cracking, the emotions breaking through the anger, and I wanted nothing more than to comfort him, but the words of the doctor kept ringing in my mind.
"A slave to psychological damage."
And my father looking at me, dying, saying, "I'm sorry, Syrian."
He hurt the people he should have loved the most, his wife, his son, all because he was psychologically damaged? Did that make it okay? Did that make it justifiable? I couldn't do it, I just couldn't. I didn't try to make sense of the jumble of emotions within me; I just knew the plain truth. Such a pain in my chest, threatening to suffocate me, my heart screaming that I reconsider but I had made up my mind. I couldn't put him through that. It was easier this way.
"Syrian?" Rian's voice, and without thinking I closed my eyes, fought desperately to breathe evenly, my chest rising and falling. I could feel him watching me, heard him step closer to my bed, and all the time I tried desperately to appear asleep, and each moment that passed hurt me even more until I knew I had crossed the line. He ran his fingers lightly through my hair, and then I heard him slowly depart. Oh God, no, no, no, no. Rian had just come to check on me and I totally blew him off, pretended to be asleep! I was hurting him already. I couldn't let that happen, no. God, I couldn't believe this.
I managed to climb out of bed, dress myself, ignoring the screaming of my muscles, ignoring the screaming of my heart. I just couldn't bear that, I couldn't. My mind almost numb, I grabbed the bag Rian had brought from who knows where, briefly glanced inside and saw the clothes and toiletries. There was enough, I suppose.
My heart was pounding, such a grief inside as I carefully approached the lift. I felt like a cold hand was gripping my stomach, wrenching it painfully. Almost like I was about to take an exam I hadn't studied for, like I was about to be punished, only more powerful. Trust me to go off the deep end so suddenly, but I knew that no matter how much he tried to convince me . . .
I didn't stop as I walked through the corridors, as I walked past doctors and patients alike, even as I walked out of the door. They closed behind me, and there was finality in the moment; the closed doors separated us, and I couldn't breathe at all, an invisible hand strangling me, blocking my breath. It was killing me. I wondered if it would kill me. And then I looked up at the haunting building of the hospital where Larry and Guy were . . . where Rian was, and I turned and walked away, like I had run away so long ago.
Never to return.
~TBC~
A/N: I wrote this letter when I decided that Syrian would live, but the idea wouldn't leave me until I got his death out of my system ^_^;; Therefore this is a 'what-if' Syrian died extra to this chapter, just to depress you all. Remember, he's not going to die!
Dear Syrian,
It's been two months since you died in my arms, and the suffocating pain I felt then is just as strong now. I find it so hard to wake up every morning expecting you to be there, to see your face, and when I don't I break down in tears. Still hard. I think it always will be. Perhaps this unbearable pain in my chest will kill me. Would I mind if it did? There's no release for this choking pain, not even tears, and when I cry I remember the times you used to tease me for showing my emotions.
I can't think about you yet without crying, without my throat closing. I wonder if I'll ever be able to remember you and smile, but I don't think I deserve to. I swore to protect you, Syrian. Oh God, just writing your name chokes me. I said I'd protect you and I meant it, I really meant it, I swear. You were this angel who seemed to shine, surrounded by darkness but still shining, and even though I was unworthy of anything you gave to me, a killer, I loved you so much and I wanted to save you from everything. You were my saviour, you tore me away from the killing and saved the part of me I thought I'd lost. You taught me to love again. But I couldn't even save you. The bullet was mine, but you took it to save me, and now the guilt is overpowering.
You said . . . you said all you wanted was for me to be happy, but how can I be happy without you? Maybe I'm being selfish. Maybe it's better this way. You were put through so much in your life and I knew you suffered. I know you cried in bed for countless nights; I could hear you. Every tear you cried, I matched. And when I had the courage, when I knew you better, I would climb into your bed and hold you, comfort you while you sobbed against me. But you never said anything, even though every morning you would smile shyly at me.
Maybe it was a release for you, from the pain. I always wondered how you could be such a strong person, how you could trust anyone after what happened to you. But I know you were depressed. I know that sometimes you would contemplate suicide, especially after your father was locked away and you felt abandoned and alone. And I understood you because my parents were killed and I knew the pain, but at the same time they loved me. They never hurt me like your father hurt you.
Sometimes I think if your father actually loved you, we never would have met. I never would have loved you, although it's difficult to imagine my life without this feeling. I would have mercilessly killed until someone got the better of me and I became a nameless body in a ditch. So maybe . . . maybe . . . we were destined to meet, to ease each other's pain. You saved me, and you said I saved you too, but for some reason you weren't meant to live. Why you and not me? I just can't understand. It's easy to say I would die if you could live again, but would you feel the same gut wrenching pain that I do?
Your father's dead. He said sorry to you before he died, and I think he meant it, but I still hate him. His apologies were too late, he killed you and nothing he says will bring you back. But sometimes I wonder whether you forgave him, or whether you even cared. Could you accept that he killed you? Or would you be glad that at last your real father shone through the monster he became? Or maybe, maybe you were just relieved that I was alive.
Larry. Well, Larry's alive. He was shot in the back, but no lasting damage was done to his body. His mind: that's a different story. He screams in his sleep now, so I've been told, and he's more of a pitiful, frightened, creature than anything else. I'm sorry, but I took a lot of my anger out on Larry . . . physically, before I knew. I hope you can forgive me. I tried to hate him; I mean he wanted to rape you, and he's alive while you're gone. But really, he suffered too.
Guy? Well, Guy had a change of heart. He chose you in the end, you know. You over your father, because he loved you . . . in a way. If your father was right about anything, it was about everyone loving you. Guy had a parental love, but a love all the same. He was the one who had to pry you from my arms, who had to calm me when I waited anxiously for news. Who . . . who cried beside me when we learnt the truth. His leg was damaged, he walks with a limp now, but eventually his support for me travelled within himself, towards his damaged soul, and he left.
I don't know about Cindy. She was there at the hospital too, saw you hooked up to all those machines, and she said nothing. Perhaps she was in shock. She went home, I phoned and told her that . . . that you'd left us, and she just said she was sorry and hung up. I think it's her way of dealing with the pain. Perhaps she blamed herself, or maybe she blames me. Either way I know she's hurting.
So that leaves me. The torture and the injuries were all so tame compared to this pain in my chest. Sometimes it overtakes me, like I'm going to suffocate or my heart's going to burst, and I wish it would. I just close my eyes and wish that I would die. But I don't, I never do. The pain fades, but remains, and I carry it now. Perhaps this is punishment for me. Just when I think I might be all right, I see something that reminds me of you and it all comes undone. I don't think I'll ever eat a sandwich again. I'll never watch Star Trek. Digital clocks, hotel rooms, even pillows, they all remind me of you and I break down.
The worst day of my entire life was your funeral. The fact that you were a seventeen year old boy with your whole life ahead of you, whether it was with me or not, and your body was lying in that dark box. There were some shady characters in the church that didn't really deserve to be there, the assassins from Black Phoenix who loved their little boy, but people who mourned like I did. And the people you loved who I never really knew: Mr Harada and his boyfriend Peter, Cindy, Donna, others from your old school, from the club. And I kept thinking that with just one brilliant smile you could cheer up the whole place.
What else is there left to say? The happiest and saddest times of my life were spent with you, but through it all we supported each other. Guy says I'll get over it, but I don't know if I will, or if I want to. I wish that for just one moment I could see you again, but it's not going to happen. So instead I write my goodbyes in this letter and leave it to the wind, where hopefully you can read these words.
I miss you so much,
Yours for eternity,
Rian