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Hi, my name is Ripping
Seams
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 | Part 12 |
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 4.91 with 11 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-01-29 03:36:29 |
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The light of day was out. It was cold. The sky had been starlit, but blackness clouded over it, infesting the huge, vast region of indigo and sapphire. And Timmy’s eyes squinted at it. It was a view, but he rejected it. Nothing was beautiful now, nothing. The world was so ugly. And no, no… he couldn’t possibly blame Pam, but he didn’t understand. He guessed… he guessed that she hadn’t been, and she’d never be, just as she’d said… what he thought that she was. And then he looked out, right across the coast line and the sand was deep grey. He was leant, not sat on, but leant on a bench, right forth until his head was hung and swinging like a pummelled old toy.
But the thought, just the thought of it had been boiling his blood like hot wax in a pot. Then he thought…Why? Why? And then a hand hit his shoulder, a smallish hand, but he did not move. He recognised that hand. Of course, it was his special place for Maxfield, though they had not been expecting each other. In a sense he was surprised. He heard footsteps, and the boy wandered round to his side.
Maxfield then gazed into his brother’s face. It was a pale face, and Timmy, he was always pale, but it was a different pale face. His high cheek bones were shadowed by a sharp, ice blue tinge like faded dye, and his eyes now looked loose in their sockets. He noticed the texture of his skin. It was rough very rough, almost as though it had been soaked. He pulled his hand off his shoulder now, for instantaneously he was wary of the man.
He had not expected for Timmy to speak, but then suddenly, he did. It was coarse, and he could here the phlegm that had caught in his throat.
“Yer were right.”
It was a short, simple statement. Maxfield couldn’t comprehend it. He shook his head. “I don’t understand Timmy. What’s wrong? What are you talking about?” He stepped away from him, a pebble crunching under his muddy sole. Timmy didn’t answer straight away, he just rolled his own head back and forth, and it almost looked detached from his neck. Timmy looked weak, and that was saying something. Timmy never looked like that.
Then Timmy shuffled, letting his bulky legs slide from beneath him and wipe off the ground. He bent his knees outwards, awkwardly. It looked odd. It looked like he didn’t care how he moved, or what he did, even if it were to break his own bones. Maxfield wondered, wondered about Timmy and his life. To be honest, no one really knew, because he never really talked. His reflection stopped there, because he knew no more himself. If Timmy had have been in trouble, he was all too young to help him. Somehow it made him scared. He couldn’t control Timmy. Despite it, he still swallowed his fear. This was one moment that was far too dire to be scared.
Timmy’s voice broke out again, and it cracked. “A thought I ‘ad a lass”. He coughed, and then his head was dangling again. The tendons in his neck looked like strings. “A dun a disgrace.” He slipped further forward, flopping onto the slats before him, and as usual it was scraping his skin. The stress had then amplified the pain.
Maxfield’s eyes widened, his eyelids peeling back in a milder shock. Timmy’s back was cramped like a hunchback, and he twitched in agitation. His last words had been… somewhat angry. There was this bizarre sort of mix between a wrath and a defeat. It was like a half demented person, trying to accept that they were going mad.
“Then why… why…” Maxfield began. “If you had someone, then why didn’t anybody know? Why didn’t you tell Dad?” And that was just what he had meant. Timmy never talked, not to anybody. And now Timmy really did bite his lip, and hard.
The sharp tip of his tooth had pierced the delicate skin of his bottom lip, and it had started to bleed. His face had turned red, just as red, if not more. His eyes were exploding, scarlet vessels bursting and erupting across their smooth, weeping whites. He stood and leapt, his heart pounding and filling and filling, overflowing with outrage and he screamed:
“DAD? DAD! YA CALLIN’ ‘IM A FATHER?” Then his voice was so loud that he was breathing and gasping, and it rasped and it swamped the night air. He continued, and it was quiet, but some anger lay still, smothered beneath the stretched limits of his labouring lungs. “An’ a tell ya, a tell ya. Ya ain’t ma brother, Maxfield. An’ if ya think a give a sh.it about ‘im, ever, then a don’t.”
Maxfield inhaled noisily, backing from Timmy.
“Ever. ‘E was never a father ta me.”
And then Maxfield was trembling, only slightly. The time was too tense, too tense. He had noticed his use of the word. “Maxfield.” It made him feel alone, and it made him feel blocked from his half brother. Timmy was about to talk again, and Maxfield couldn’t bare it.
“An’ ya mother, she’s a bit.ch, a bit.ch she is; A BIT.CH!” Timmy was regaining his stamina, but he turned his head in frustration, and he couldn’t look at Maxfield.
Constance Barnfather, she had been no bit.ch. Then his eyes had welled up at the thought, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop himself, because his pride was in power. His loss of Pam, it was like it was driving him insane. When he looked at his brother, he saw in him himself, and in himself he could still see his father. He hated it, all of it. He hated his reflection. And more so he resembled his father, when Timmy’s mother’s other son had resembled her closely.
Timmy’s words then reduced to a whisper, he then said: “Ya ain’t even ma full brother, Maxfield. So you ain’t ma brother.” He turned his back, and Maxfield stared at it. It was a strong, broad, full back. Timmy was a beautiful creature. It was a shame. He didn’t want resentment between them. Maxfield would have it his own way. Perhaps there would be hatred his way, though Timmy’s way, it would be clear. Timmy was stood, but he wasn’t moving.
“Well…” Maxfield said, and he left Timmy a gap but he didn’t interrupt him. That meant he didn’t mind him speaking. “He thinks about you, every day. The father, he does”.
Astoundingly, there was no retort from Timmy. So he just kept watching him. There was a very long pause, much longer than there’d ever been. Finally, Timmy responded, now fairly calmly.
“‘E dun want us. As a said, a dun a disgrace. Ya shouldn’t want us.” His reply had been woeful, as though a spark had died inside of him. Everything was blown, flickering out. Everything was dark. Maxfield tugged at his loosened tie. He breathed in, once again, then back out. For a while he was lost for words, and even still Timmy did not move. A cooling breeze had caught his face.
“Timmy, listen. I am your brother; I’ll always be your brother…” He didn’t feel all that much, but his eyes were growing moist. It was natural; he couldn’t help it. He loved Timmy; he loved him a lot, and now he felt as though he didn’t love him back. Gulping and swallowing the hard lump now developing in his own throat, he had gathered the strength to continue, though if he did, he felt that he would just crumble and fall. “But… but only if… if you want me to be.” Then he started to step away. Somehow it felt wrong to leave him, but Maxfield had no choice.
But what if… what if Timmy did something terrible… to himself? Oh no… no… he had that way about him. It was that look in his eyes, so lost and so down, as though… as though. No… no… So again he stepped towards him. It was like he was waiting for him to go, to be left alone so he could do something. In a sense it had much flattered him, just to think that he wouldn’t want to subject him and expose him to… to it. The man was there, just paralysed. He was breathing, and his heart was beating. He was blinking and moving. He wanted it always to be that way. He had to say something… he had to. He either got it wrong, or he got it right. This was it, the ultimate part, and there was no turning back.
“And Timmy…” he closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. “Sometimes people lose things. Sometimes I lose things, and sometimes so do you. But that doesn’t mean that we have to give up. But I’m telling you, and I mean it… if I ever lost you, I would give up straight away.”
Then Maxfield spun, and he was running, he was sprinting down the promenade. He was gone.
All the while, Timmy’s eyes had been streaming. He collapsed onto the bench again, and he shielded his face. Then he shivered, because the evening had grown cold, and he also had nobody. His life had been lonely, but now he was completely alone. And like he’d always known that he would be, he was devastated. Maybe Maxfield wouldn’t tell, and perhaps it would be, as of ever the last.
Just like Pam.
And the following weeks were empty. He didn’t work at college. He didn’t even talk at college. He thought of nobody. He would just live, and it was a long, long time to just live. It was a very short time to react to his tragedy. Before he had everything, and now he had nothing.
Before he had everything, because there was Pam. And there was Maxfield.
He was dead. Dead. And when he searched in his pockets, he couldn’t find Pam’s needle. He must have lost it. Yes, it was true. Everything was gone. If it had been there, and he’d found it, he would have had something to exist for. He could cling onto memories. But he’d lost himself. He’d given himself to Pam, and he thought, in the same way that she would give herself to her work. Where was he? Where was the man who was anybody’s man?
He got his paper back, in maths. He looked at his grade.
“79% B”
It wasn’t an escapable slide. As time went by, he would be in his ruins. If he saw himself, and he caught a glimpse, he was aged. That’s how he saw himself. He would waste away, and he would rot without Pam. Upon seeing her, he had known, he was certain it was her. And no, it wasn’t usual. She hadn’t been a usual girl. Oh Pam… Pam…
Pam…
How he missed her and would always miss her. He may miss her for eternity; he may miss her till tomorrow, and it could be any day. Either way that it was, he would miss her till his life did end. |
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