Entry tags:

genre: gen, original fiction, rating: pg-13, series: fields of gold

[Original Fiction] In a Lonely Place [PG-13] Gen.
.
.in a lonely place.
Original Fiction. 'Fields of Gold' series. rated pg-13. h/c. gen. Justin Miller, Dean Miller. ~4200 words.

Story and its characters belong to me. Please don't archive/use/copy/etc. without my permission.

---

In a Lonely Place
by Chocolate H.-D.

---

Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.
– Leo Buscaglia


When the knock comes, you know who it is going to be. You always know.

How could you not.

The door opens before you have a chance to reply, but whatever you would say, it would still happen. He looks better than last night, but worse than he does when he isn't hangover. You can see it out of the corner of your own eyes, blond bangs covering blues-green eyes, but you don’t really need to see them, you know them. Know the look, the guilt, the shame.

Yes it is all there. Always was.

You still don’t turn to look at your visitor when he stands next to your bed. Instead, your eyes are glued to the television, not really seeing it anyway. And he waits. For you to talk. To say something – anything. What, you have no idea. It takes a few minutes, almost the whole commercial break, but the silence ends. Finally. Ends with a whispered, “I am sorry” and a hand that searches for yours.

The broken voice almost makes you give in, but you don’t. So he waits longer. The grip on your hand tightens, painfully so. “I didn’t mean it.”, is the next thing you hear. “I was so fucked up last night…I know it’s no excuse…”

When you finally look up into those familiar eyes, you sees pain there. He knows it, too, and he flinches away from it. It is just a second and gone in the next. And no matter how angry you are, how disappointed or how worried, he is still your brother. Still the one person that…loved you the most. Through all of it.

“I know you didn’t.”, you say quietly and turning your hand in his, twining your fingers. “You never do. But I hate it when you get like this.”

“Like what?”

You give him a look and he looks away. He knows exactly what you are talking about, he just doesn’t want to hear it. Or hear you. Never wanted to. “Why do you still let her do this? Why do you still want her aproval after all these years, all the crap she put you through? Why do you--”

“Stop!”

“No. I won’t. Why do you still even try? She’s always going to hurt you anyway.”

“You don’t understand…”

“You’re right, I don’t. Yes, I get she is your mother, but Jesus Christ. After everything she did, all the things she didn’t do, you might have gotten the hint that she isn't going to change.” He is trying to rip his hand out of yours, but you won’t let him. “Why can’t you just let go? She is just going to hurt you again and ag--”

“I said shut up!”, he roars, and for a moment you can't breath. He doesn’t lose control like this. But then he is talking again and you remember how to breath once more. “Don’t you…do you think I don’t know that? I know she’s like she is and—But I have to try, I have to, or I don’t know what I…” He trails of and you have no idea if you should be more afraid of what he is not telling you, or of what you think he is actually trying to tell you.

He doesn’t need the approval of his so called mother, he never did, at least not if someone asked you. Your older brother is one of the strongest person you know and you admire him for his strengh, but when it comes to his mother, he is weak. No, not weak, but helpless. That discribes the relationship he has with his mother in a nutshell. If one can call it that. And you hate her for it.

You hate his shitty excuse of a mother for doing this to him, for making him so damn miserable. Hating your brother for letting her do this to him. And it had always been this way. Every time she was in town, your brother would get his hopes up, meeting her, trying to please her as best as he could and she’d still drop him like a piece of trash when there was something else to do.

Somewhere else to be.

Not caring what it did to him.

Becauce every single time she did it, every time she walked away, she broke his heart a little bit more. It was like that when he was a kid, and it hadn’t changed now that he’s an adult. Only that he can try to drown his sorrow in alcohol now. He doesn’t do that often, only ones in a blue moon, you know that, but sometimes the other ways he uses to cope scare you even more.

Like last night.

He had been drunk, but it was worse than that.

She’d been gone for a few days now, and you thought that your brother actually was okay with it this time, if only a little bit. You were wrong. He simply covered it better then usual. “I didn’t meant to hurt you.”, your brother’s voice pulls you back into the present.

“Seeing you like this,” you emphasize, “is what hurts me. Words are just words, I don’t care what you yell at me, or the world, but I care for you. Hell, I love you. Please don’t let her do this to you.” You pull his hand between yours, holding tight. “You’re not a little kid anymore, you don’t need her!”

He shrugs slightly. He’s more solemn now. “I know, but…she’s still my mother. I can't change that.”

“A real mother shouldn’t treat her kids like she treats you, for god’s sake! They should love their kids unconditional, always, and not use them like a fucking yo-yo. You’re better than that, better than her, damnit. Why can't you see that?”

And that’s the quintessence of this mess, isn't it? You know the answer, it had always been the same and you are afraid that it will always be: “She’s my mother.”, he repeats, whispering the words like secret, and you can't stand the pain in his eyes, a pain you feel almost as clear as your own.

Only that you know that yours is for a different reason.

You look away, eyes coming to rest on you twined hands. “Does she know that, I mean really know what that means?”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t change the fact that she is--”

“She is a immature bitch, that’s what she is,” you interrupt harshly, being tired of the excuses he makes for her every time, “playing with you like you are her toy, not her son. She always comes back just to leave again, breaking your heart over and over again and I am sick of watching you wreck yourself over it!”

“I…”

“Did you look in a fucking mirror?” You nod toward him, eyeing the lines on his face and the bags und his eyes. Red rimmed eyes that look anything but numb. “Don’t tell me you are fine. You are so far from fine, it’s not even funny. So don’t try to tell me you are, because a blind man could see you are lying.”

“I am sorry.”

You can't helpt the sigh that passes your lips. Sometimes your brother can be such an idiot, even when his diploma tells otherwise. You tug on his hand so that he has no choice but sit down on your bed. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You are punishing yourself for something you have no control over. Hell, I wish I could make her feel like this just once. To make her hurt like she hurts you, make her pay.”

“Don’t.” He stops your next words quickly. “Don’t talk like that, little brother. This isn't you.”, he says, and you can see that he means it, too, in the way he looks at you.

Only you can't help yourself. White hot rage surges though you whenever his mother is even mentioned, let alone when you see her. As rare as it is. “It isn't me? What the hell?!” You look at him like he’d lost his mind. “Are we even talking about the same thing anymore?” You shake your head, trying to calm yourself. It wouldn’t do any good to get in another screaming match with him.

“Hell, even Sandra treats us better than she ever has, so don’t make up excuses for her. You are 24 fucking years old, you don’t need her.” And damn it to hell if you don’t start repeating yourself over and over again. Jeez. But really, what is there to say anymore that hasn’t been said dozen times before?

“She is your mother too…”

It’s said so quietly, you almost miss it, but it hits you like a punch. Not for reasons anyone would think, no, merely the opposite. The next words are out of your mouth before you can stop them: “No. Not for a long time.”

And just like that, your brother looks like he has been punched. But it’s the truth, and if you’ve ever been completely honest with anyone at all, it’s your brother. You can't take those words back now. You won’t.

Because if you’re honst, with you or anyone else, you stopped seeing her as your mother a long time ago. Now, she is only a stranger, someone you recognize on the street but don’t really care about. Someone you knew a long time ago, nothing more, nothing less. For you, you mother is dead, burried six feet under memories you either don’t want or don’t have. She doesn’t have a place in your heart anymore. There is no room for her there.

And you wish he could look at it the same way.

“Don’t ask me for things I can't give you.”, he pleads, slipping his hand from your hold.

You don’t try to stop him. He would bold out of the room, maybe the house if you did, and you don’t want that, not for a second time in three days. “I don’t ask you for anything. I ask you to being honest with me, but more important with yourself. She is never going to change, never. You have to accept that sooner or later.” And rather sooner, because you are afraid of later.

He is silent for so long that you think he is never going to answer you. Head bowed, so you can't see his eyes, but when he looks up, he looks as lost as the puppy you found when you were seventeen. The exact same puppy that you just know is sunbathing by the pool right now, all grown up and cooky as hell. “I wish it was different, I wish she would give you what you want, but it’s not. As a matter of fact, Sandra and your father treat me better than that woman ever treated us both.”

“How did you do it? How could you do it?”

“I had you. You gave me the strength I needed to let go. Yes, I wish it could be different, mostly because of you, but life isn't always fair, Dean. It makes no sense to keep wishing for something that will never going to happen.”

You watch in silence as he burries his face in his hands, obviously at a loss for words. “I envy you, you know?”

“You do?” The two, little words sound as surprised as you feel.

“Yeah. Sometimes, especially after nights like the last one, I don’t like myself very much. Who I am, what I do. I don’t like the image in my mirror then either.”

“Hey.” You put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently. “No matter what, you still have me, you know.”

In the hallway, most likely downstairs, something crashes loudly, a shrill yelp follows and you chuckle slightly. “Damn. Look where you’re going, kiddo.”, a female voice hollers. Sandra. “Just the little one chasing the cat, so don’t come down to help me clean up or anything.”, you hear a moment later.

Your brother chuckles quietly, as do you. “And you have them.”, you say as you pull his hands away from his face. “That’s never going to change. Just…don’t let her threat you like scum, you don’t deserve that. Noone does.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“I’ll help. Always. Try to see her in a different light, or as someone else then your mother.”, you try. “Distance yourself from her. Just a little at a time. It might not work over night, but in the long run, it’ll help. It did for me.”

Your brother watches you with suspicious bright eyes, but there is something else in there you can’t quite get. And maybe you don’t want to, because the next thing he says, makes you want to scream. “How do you see her?”

So what to say to this? The truth? Well the truth is that she’s dead to you. The position of your mother, not the woman herself. Even though you hate her, you never wish death upon anyone. Not even her. But revealing that to your brother? It will hurt him, yes, but don’t they say that truth always hurts? “I don’t think…”

“Tell me. I am not a kid, I can deal with what you are going to say, okay?” Can you? “Come on, Jus, tell me.”

“I see her as a stranger, someone I knew a long time ago. My mother is dead.”

You can see it in his eyes, the moment the words register in your brother’s mind and what they mean. There is so much pain there, anger. But you don’t care. He needs to know. “How…how can you say that?! How could you possibly--”

But you cut him off. “No. How can’t you not say that. We never had a real mother, it might as well had been that she is dead. Most of the time she wasn’t even there, and we would have been perfectly screwed if it wasn’t for the fact that at least her parents were responsible enough to take care of us. Plus your father.”

“You don’t know…”

“Don’t try to tell me she hasn’t always like that, becase I know better. I talked to your father often enough to know it’s what was going on. And the excuse that she was so very young when you were born doesn’t count either, because she could have used a fucking condom. She was just a spoiled, little brat and after the baby, you was nothing new anymore, she went back to her merry old ways.”

You take a deep breath, trying to ignore that your brother is shaking. “Open your eyes, she never really cared about any of us, we were just an annoyance to her that stood between her and the world of glamour and money. If you tell yourself that she was just misunderstood, the poor little girl with too much weight on her shoulder, then you are lying to yourself.”

The slap of his hand against your cheek echoes like an explosion in the otherwise silent room.

And even though the slap was kinda hard, once you get over the momentary shock, it doesn’t hurt too bad. The skin isn't broken. And for what you said, yeah, you might actually deserve it, too. Still, it surprises the hell out of you. He’s never hit you before, so you never saw that one coming.

Apparently, neither did he, ‘cause your brother stares at the hand like he’d never seen it before. Like it’s something foreign, something awful. When you cover it with your own, he flinches away from your touch, but you don’t let him. “No, it’s alright.”

“Alright?! Are you crazy? I hit you, goddamnit! I hit you!”

“Yeah you did. The world is not going to end over it, so forget it.”

He doesn’t seem to hear you, but his free hand reaches up to your face, freezing for a moment in mid air before he finally lets his finger tips ghost over your cheek. "Does…does it hurt?”

“What? No, not really, it’s stings a bit but…”

“I am going to get you an ice pack.”

“I don’t need one.”

“But…”

You shake your head. “It’s alright.” You’re both silent for the longest time after that, the only sound in the room is your breathing and the tick-tock-tick-tock of the clock on the wall across the room. Nothing else.

The TV flickers in the backround, still on mute.

When you finally move again, he doesn’t look at you. Because there is no way you will say what you are going to say without him looking at you, you tip his chin up a bit until he has no choice but meet your eyes. “It’s okay, it really is. I said some shitty things and…”

“You’re right.”

Now you are blinking in surprise. “Wha?”

“About what you said. She was… a spoiled brat. I was just a bother to her, she…she kept looking at me like I was owing her something, mostly her time and…silence.” He speaks so softly that you are glad you sit so close together, otherwise you’d probably miss it. “Grandma said she…she just didn’t knew what to do with me. Or you. That she was too young to understand.”

The words sound like they are ripped out of his throat. And you want to silence him, pat him and comfort him so he won’t hurt anymore, but you know he has to say it. To open his eyes to the truth you already know. “Do you…do you want to know the truth?”, he asks, and you nod. It can't be worse than the look in his eyes right now. “I don’t even…don’t even know if I was ever more than the accident I was. If…if she ever loved me. Just a little bit.”

There is no anger in his voice, just sorrow and defeat and you hate that she makes him sound like this. Hate. That word again.

“And I envy you that you can live without that knowledge. That you don’t…don’t hurt every time you think about it. Hell I wish I could--” He trails off right then, lowering his head until you can't see his face anymore.

And that? You don’t like that. “It’s okay. It’s okay to be hurt,” you assure him, “it’s okay to be sad, too, or angry, or whatever you are feeling, as long as you still feel. And you don’t have to hide that from me. You are one of the strongest people I know, but I know too that you always were… helpless when it came to her.”

You are never going to say vulnerable or fragile, because your brother would bold out of the room, if you did. Or worse. He scoffs anyway. “Don’t you mean weak?”, he mutters sarcastic.

“No. Like I said, you’re not weak. You’re just, we’re different, is all.”

He snorts, but you can see the faint smile tugging on his lips.

“See?”, you joke, patting his shoulder and smilng back. “You’re already learning.”

“What? Being a wimp or being helpless?”, he says, and you could swear you heared the air quotes around the word helpless, even though he didn’t make them.

You shrug. Whatever you could say to that, it wouldn’t be helping, and you both know it. Instead you lean forward and wrap your arms around his shoulder, squeezing. “Jesus, little brother. You are going to strangle me.” You don’t let go anyway, because you know he has no promblems breathing whatssoever. “Idiot.”, he mumbles after it’s obvious you won’t let go and pats your back awkwardly.

When you let go of him, you lean back against that big, fluffy pillow you got as a present a few months ago, so your back wouldn’t hurt anymore leaning against the hard wood of your headboard. You use it almost always now, only putting it away when you settle down to sleep. “I am still sorry about what I said last night.”

“Oh come on, I said already it’s alright, didn’t I. Enough now. Just, promise me you’re going to try.”

“I…I will.”

“Okay. Good.” You pat the spot next to you on the bed, and together you watch whatever the TV is throwing at you. The commercial is over, and there is a news report on, something about the air polution these day, and you sigh.

So it’s still a normal day after all.

Much later, when the news are long over and another show is on, you glance over to your brother, wondering why he hasn’t said a word since forever… and freeze.

He isn't looking at the screen, he’s staring at the wall across from you, sitting stock stil. There is a suspicious brightness to his eyes, glittering faintly in the soft glow of the changing screen of the TV and you want to crawl inside a hole. Or under your bed for the lack of any holes nearby. Gently, as not to scare him away, you move closer, touching his arm in silent sympathy.

It’s been years since you’ve seen your brother cry, and it scares you just as much as it offers you a glimmer of hope. There are still feelings left inside him, even though he needs to be in control every single moment of his life, and he still trusts you enough to let you be near him the one time he isn't. Maybe can't be. Even if it’s just once in a blue moon.

He used to do it when you where both kids. He accepted the comfort you offered then, when he let you crawl in bed with him every time he had a particularly cruel nightmare or you knew he needed someone to be just there. But when you both grew older, it was only natural that it changed. He couldn’t show weakness in front of you anymore, or anyone else for that matter, and even though you knew it was only natural, it hurt.

And this? It’s the closest you’ve seen him to tears for a very long time. Those times you knew about, anyway, because he had always been good in putting on a mask. And you are not going to let this chance go. Not ever. If he’s willing to let his mask down just this once, you’re willing to offer comfort just like you did years ago. No questions asked.

So when you turn on your side to slip one arm under his neck and the other across his waist and pull him close, you feel him tense just the slightest bit. He doesn’t pull away from you, though, and that’s all the confirmation you need. You kiss his temple, his hair, whispering little things in his ear, things like “It’s gonna be okay” or “I am here now,” just like you did when you were kids, and tug his head under your chin.

He still doesn’t push you away, not even when you start stroking the hair at the nape of his neck, whispering nonsese to him and cradling him to you like he had done for you the night your father died. When you woke up the next morning, he’d already been gone and you never spoke about that night again.

Nevertheless, all of this reminds you of that particular night. He doesn’t make a sound, it’s not his style to weep, but after a while, you can feel warm wetness leak through the thin cotton shirt you’re wearing. Tears, you think.

You don’t mind, not really.

Because you were grieving for the father you had lost just similar to this, the father that had not always been there, but that you knew had loved you. Not like the mother you never had, a mother you didn’t know how to mourn. But your brother is different. Always has been. No, he hadn’t known that mother, just like you didn’t, but he wished for so long he had.

People said you couldn’t miss what you didn’t know. Oh, how wrong they were.

You can see it – the grief, the loss – right here in front of you, in the form of your brother clinging to you. You can feel it in your brother’s tears that soak through your clothes. Because in a way, he is grieving for the mother he never knew and would never get to have at the same time.

Just like you did that night years ago.

And that’s okay.

You can deal with this. The only thing you can't deal with, is a brother that shuts you out, cold and stoic and more like a statue than anything else. This, though? This is okay, because he lets you in again. Now, you can help your brother help himself.

And this is all that matters.


FIN

Table.