intheheart (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
intheheart) wrote2012-01-06 04:12 pm
intheheart) wrote2012-01-06 04:12 pm
Walk Away
Title: Walk Away
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Michael's reunion with his mother goes wrong.
Date: May 2011
Notes: So a secret popped up on PostSecret that reminded me of Michael, and that sparked this story.
There were days when Micael Sierbenski really wished he could body-slam a door open. Or kick it. He imagined that kicking a door must be incredibly satisfying sometimes. But alas, he'd probably break a couple bones trying, and he was really fucking sick of broken bones.
He was really fucking sick of a lot of things, actually. Like his father, who'd disappeared when he was ten and again when he was thirteen. And his mother, who'd smothered him in a hysterical blanket of love and protection. And this entire tiny town, actually, with only one library and one craptastic school and one playground that he'd never been allowed to go on unless Danny sneaked him in.
Danny. The only good thing about his childhood. Well, that and the candy bars.
God. Why the hell was he here, anyway?
Back to doors. The one in front of him was clear glass, with a silver push-bar screwed to the inside. Through it, he could see the counter and the truckers who populated it, the waitress (Edna, of all clichéd names) popping gum under her frosted pink hair, and the half-full coffeepot she held with all the interest of a comatose eighty-year-old.
If he was writing a guide for this place, he'd definitely recommend skipping the Truck Stop. Actually, he'd recommend skipping Wichita Falls entirely.
He pushed the door open, carefully-- which made him wonder why the push-bar was on the inside, since the door only went one way-- stepped inside, and was hit with a blast of cold air smelling of greasy fries, truckers and overdone coffee. God, he hated this place.
"Michael!"
He turned to the side and saw his mother, waving from a corner booth, a desperate kind of happiness on her face.
She'd grown thin and hollow-eyed since he'd last seen her, or more so, since she'd been thin and hollow-eyed all his life. He'd asked Danny once if they'd ever been happy; he thought it rather said something about their family that she couldn't remember.
"Hi, Mom," he said, as neutrally as he could, and slid into the booth across from her.
"Michael," she bubbled, words spilling out like water from a fountain. "Michael, Michael, I'm so glad to see you, I'm so glad you're okay."
"Yeah, thanks," he said, leaning back. "I'm... glad you're okay." And he was, a little. She was his mother. That had to count for something, right?
She barely paused in her stream of words, anyway. It was almost as if she hadn't heard him. "I was so worried," she said, her hands clenching around her cup. "I ordered you tea, I know you like that. You just vanished, Michael, you and your sister, and I had no idea where you were, what you were doing. You didn't even call!"
"No, I didn't," Michael said. "And Danny didn't either. There was a reason for that."
The lines around Rebecca's eyes deepened, and she looked down at the coffee in front of her. "I know," she said, after a pause. "I know there was a reason. But Michael, please, you have to understand that I was only trying to protect you."
Danny's face flashed in front of his eyes-- ten years old, the red outline of a hand on her cheek-- and he spoke before he could help himself. "Right, sure, you were trying to protect me. What about Danny? Didn't she deserve that too?"
His mother stiffened. "Daniella," she replied, as if choosing every word carefully, "made her own choices."
It was not an answer, and Michael was fairly sure by now that he was never going to get one. God. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to be with his mother, and he didn't want to be talking about this. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, gently. "Why did you call me?"
Rebecca blinked, and looked a little hurt. "I... you wrote me with your information, I thought... I wanted to see you, Michael. You're my son." She paused a moment, then added, "I thought you'd bring your sister."
Michael pictured Danny's probable reaction and snorted. "Yeah right. I didn't even tell her I was coming here."
His mother let out a soundless sigh, then asked, "Is she all right, then? At least tell me that."
"She's doing fine," Michael said, and shrugged. "Got a nice life. Good friends, her old buddies from the Navy, whoever she's dating this week. And Nathan, of course."
"Nathan?" His mother arched an eyebrow and for half a second he was back in high school, running into a girlfriend at the supermarket. "Who's Nathan?"
How did you define Nathan? "He's her mentor," Michael said, after a minute. "He's her father, in a few ways. A better one than Dad ever was."
Somewhat to his surprise, his mother's mouth twisted bitterly and she looked out the window. "I can't argue with that," she said, without facing him again. "I... regret... that I let your father do what he did. Particularly letting him come back."
"Yeah, that was a mistake," Michael muttered, then straightened up in his seat. "He's not back, is he?"
"No." Rebecca shook her head. "I haven't heard from him in... oh, it must be five years." The bitter twist crossed her mouth again. "He served me divorce papers. Apparently he has himself a nice new family."
Heh. No sick son, she meant. Michael was quite well aware that his birth had in some ways preciptated the breakup of his parents' marriage. Thank God for Danny, or he might have blamed himself for it. "Well, he can just go straight to hell then."
The ghost of a smile on his mother's face. "Thank you, Michael."
"Are you doing okay?" he asked. "Money-wise, I mean. You need anything?"
She shook her head again. "No, no, I'm fine. I'm still working. Still have my job at the factory. I sold the house and bought an apartment, so, yes, I'm fine. Financially."
"Okay," he said, and leaned back in the seat. "Okay. Good. I'm glad to hear it."
She nodded, cupped her hands around her coffee cup again. "Michael, about your sister..."
He held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it."
"Michael," she persisted. "Michael, I do love her. I do," she insisted, when he made a skeptical noise. "She's my daughter. It's just that she put you in so much danger when you were a child. Always up into the attic or jumping off the porch or things like that. You could have been killed!"
Michael closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his face. "You don't understand."
"I do understand," his mother snapped. "I understand better than you do, Michael. You were just a child, you couldn't possibly understand what she was doing."
"I understood that she's my sister," he said, and when his mother opened her mouth, he repeated himself, louder. "She's my sister! She loves me!"
"She knew you could get hurt!" his mother said, shrilly. "She insisted on bringing you all these places where you could get hurt! She didn't care, she didn't--"
"Yes she fucking well did," Michael snarled. Danny, tying him carefully into a swing with her sweater, piling pillows under a ladder and holding it steady, putting the training wheels back on her bike so he could at least know what it felt like-- "She knew what could happen just as well as you did, and you know what she did?"
His mother's chin came up, her lips white and her cheeks a hectic red. "She dragged you into her stupid games--"
Michael had never wished so badly to be able to thump his fist on the table. "She taught me not to be afraid," he said, instead. "She taught me that with reasonable care I could be like any other kid. You taught me that I was going to die if I so much as sneezed. Guess which one I preferred."
Her face had gone completely white now. "Michael," she said. "Michael, I did what I did because I love you."
"So did Danny," he said, and felt suddenly very tired. "Look. She waited to leave until I could get out too, and if that doesn't mean love I don't know what does, and the fact that you can't or won't see that makes me... very sad."
"I'm worried about you," his mother insisted, desperation creeping into her tone. "You're fragile, Michael, you can't... you could be killed, so easily. I want you safe."
She hadn't listened to a word he said.
Fuck it, this wasn't working.
"You listen to me," Michael said.
"Michael..."
"I hate this place," he said, leaning forward and enunciating every word. "I hate it even more now that I've gotten out and been other places. I hate this place, and I hated living here. I hate what you did to Danny and I hate what you did to me. About the only damn thing I don't hate is you, specifically, and that's because you're my mother and I'd feel terrible if I did." He sat back, and added, a shade cruelly, "Can't speak for Danny, though, and can't say I'd blame her if she did."
She looked as if she'd slapped him, her eyes huge in her chalk-white face. "Michael," she said, desperately.
"I'm not coming back here," he said. "I'm never coming back here. I feel bad for you, I do, but I can't be here anymore. I can't be with you. I'm sorry, but that's how it is." He got up, and tossed some money on the table-- at least he could pay for her coffee-- and tried not to hear her crying.
There were some days that Michael Sierbenski really wished he could kick something. But at least he could walk away.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Michael's reunion with his mother goes wrong.
Date: May 2011
Notes: So a secret popped up on PostSecret that reminded me of Michael, and that sparked this story.
There were days when Micael Sierbenski really wished he could body-slam a door open. Or kick it. He imagined that kicking a door must be incredibly satisfying sometimes. But alas, he'd probably break a couple bones trying, and he was really fucking sick of broken bones.
He was really fucking sick of a lot of things, actually. Like his father, who'd disappeared when he was ten and again when he was thirteen. And his mother, who'd smothered him in a hysterical blanket of love and protection. And this entire tiny town, actually, with only one library and one craptastic school and one playground that he'd never been allowed to go on unless Danny sneaked him in.
Danny. The only good thing about his childhood. Well, that and the candy bars.
God. Why the hell was he here, anyway?
Back to doors. The one in front of him was clear glass, with a silver push-bar screwed to the inside. Through it, he could see the counter and the truckers who populated it, the waitress (Edna, of all clichéd names) popping gum under her frosted pink hair, and the half-full coffeepot she held with all the interest of a comatose eighty-year-old.
If he was writing a guide for this place, he'd definitely recommend skipping the Truck Stop. Actually, he'd recommend skipping Wichita Falls entirely.
He pushed the door open, carefully-- which made him wonder why the push-bar was on the inside, since the door only went one way-- stepped inside, and was hit with a blast of cold air smelling of greasy fries, truckers and overdone coffee. God, he hated this place.
"Michael!"
He turned to the side and saw his mother, waving from a corner booth, a desperate kind of happiness on her face.
She'd grown thin and hollow-eyed since he'd last seen her, or more so, since she'd been thin and hollow-eyed all his life. He'd asked Danny once if they'd ever been happy; he thought it rather said something about their family that she couldn't remember.
"Hi, Mom," he said, as neutrally as he could, and slid into the booth across from her.
"Michael," she bubbled, words spilling out like water from a fountain. "Michael, Michael, I'm so glad to see you, I'm so glad you're okay."
"Yeah, thanks," he said, leaning back. "I'm... glad you're okay." And he was, a little. She was his mother. That had to count for something, right?
She barely paused in her stream of words, anyway. It was almost as if she hadn't heard him. "I was so worried," she said, her hands clenching around her cup. "I ordered you tea, I know you like that. You just vanished, Michael, you and your sister, and I had no idea where you were, what you were doing. You didn't even call!"
"No, I didn't," Michael said. "And Danny didn't either. There was a reason for that."
The lines around Rebecca's eyes deepened, and she looked down at the coffee in front of her. "I know," she said, after a pause. "I know there was a reason. But Michael, please, you have to understand that I was only trying to protect you."
Danny's face flashed in front of his eyes-- ten years old, the red outline of a hand on her cheek-- and he spoke before he could help himself. "Right, sure, you were trying to protect me. What about Danny? Didn't she deserve that too?"
His mother stiffened. "Daniella," she replied, as if choosing every word carefully, "made her own choices."
It was not an answer, and Michael was fairly sure by now that he was never going to get one. God. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to be with his mother, and he didn't want to be talking about this. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, gently. "Why did you call me?"
Rebecca blinked, and looked a little hurt. "I... you wrote me with your information, I thought... I wanted to see you, Michael. You're my son." She paused a moment, then added, "I thought you'd bring your sister."
Michael pictured Danny's probable reaction and snorted. "Yeah right. I didn't even tell her I was coming here."
His mother let out a soundless sigh, then asked, "Is she all right, then? At least tell me that."
"She's doing fine," Michael said, and shrugged. "Got a nice life. Good friends, her old buddies from the Navy, whoever she's dating this week. And Nathan, of course."
"Nathan?" His mother arched an eyebrow and for half a second he was back in high school, running into a girlfriend at the supermarket. "Who's Nathan?"
How did you define Nathan? "He's her mentor," Michael said, after a minute. "He's her father, in a few ways. A better one than Dad ever was."
Somewhat to his surprise, his mother's mouth twisted bitterly and she looked out the window. "I can't argue with that," she said, without facing him again. "I... regret... that I let your father do what he did. Particularly letting him come back."
"Yeah, that was a mistake," Michael muttered, then straightened up in his seat. "He's not back, is he?"
"No." Rebecca shook her head. "I haven't heard from him in... oh, it must be five years." The bitter twist crossed her mouth again. "He served me divorce papers. Apparently he has himself a nice new family."
Heh. No sick son, she meant. Michael was quite well aware that his birth had in some ways preciptated the breakup of his parents' marriage. Thank God for Danny, or he might have blamed himself for it. "Well, he can just go straight to hell then."
The ghost of a smile on his mother's face. "Thank you, Michael."
"Are you doing okay?" he asked. "Money-wise, I mean. You need anything?"
She shook her head again. "No, no, I'm fine. I'm still working. Still have my job at the factory. I sold the house and bought an apartment, so, yes, I'm fine. Financially."
"Okay," he said, and leaned back in the seat. "Okay. Good. I'm glad to hear it."
She nodded, cupped her hands around her coffee cup again. "Michael, about your sister..."
He held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it."
"Michael," she persisted. "Michael, I do love her. I do," she insisted, when he made a skeptical noise. "She's my daughter. It's just that she put you in so much danger when you were a child. Always up into the attic or jumping off the porch or things like that. You could have been killed!"
Michael closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his face. "You don't understand."
"I do understand," his mother snapped. "I understand better than you do, Michael. You were just a child, you couldn't possibly understand what she was doing."
"I understood that she's my sister," he said, and when his mother opened her mouth, he repeated himself, louder. "She's my sister! She loves me!"
"She knew you could get hurt!" his mother said, shrilly. "She insisted on bringing you all these places where you could get hurt! She didn't care, she didn't--"
"Yes she fucking well did," Michael snarled. Danny, tying him carefully into a swing with her sweater, piling pillows under a ladder and holding it steady, putting the training wheels back on her bike so he could at least know what it felt like-- "She knew what could happen just as well as you did, and you know what she did?"
His mother's chin came up, her lips white and her cheeks a hectic red. "She dragged you into her stupid games--"
Michael had never wished so badly to be able to thump his fist on the table. "She taught me not to be afraid," he said, instead. "She taught me that with reasonable care I could be like any other kid. You taught me that I was going to die if I so much as sneezed. Guess which one I preferred."
Her face had gone completely white now. "Michael," she said. "Michael, I did what I did because I love you."
"So did Danny," he said, and felt suddenly very tired. "Look. She waited to leave until I could get out too, and if that doesn't mean love I don't know what does, and the fact that you can't or won't see that makes me... very sad."
"I'm worried about you," his mother insisted, desperation creeping into her tone. "You're fragile, Michael, you can't... you could be killed, so easily. I want you safe."
She hadn't listened to a word he said.
Fuck it, this wasn't working.
"You listen to me," Michael said.
"Michael..."
"I hate this place," he said, leaning forward and enunciating every word. "I hate it even more now that I've gotten out and been other places. I hate this place, and I hated living here. I hate what you did to Danny and I hate what you did to me. About the only damn thing I don't hate is you, specifically, and that's because you're my mother and I'd feel terrible if I did." He sat back, and added, a shade cruelly, "Can't speak for Danny, though, and can't say I'd blame her if she did."
She looked as if she'd slapped him, her eyes huge in her chalk-white face. "Michael," she said, desperately.
"I'm not coming back here," he said. "I'm never coming back here. I feel bad for you, I do, but I can't be here anymore. I can't be with you. I'm sorry, but that's how it is." He got up, and tossed some money on the table-- at least he could pay for her coffee-- and tried not to hear her crying.
There were some days that Michael Sierbenski really wished he could kick something. But at least he could walk away.