Second Chances [1/1]
Jul. 20th, 2009 01:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snarkhuntTitle: Second Chances
Rating: PG
Warnings: ...Profanity? XD
Summary: An ordinary day in the life of a not-so-ordinary guy.
Comments: Whee! I finished this in about 3 hours, I think. Not sure.
-----
When I tell people things, I don’t really expect them to do anything about it. I’m not some hero or some saint. I don’t really care what happens to them or what will happen to their families, or even if it’ll affect the whole world. I’m just not that kinda guy. I’m an asshole that way, though Cade tells me that at least I get props for trying.
The thing is, you learn from an early age that sometimes there’s just nothing you can do. You try, but people either ignore you, call you crazy, or pretend that they’re listening, only to do the opposite the next second. People are assholes that way as well.
And sometimes you try. And sometimes the person actually listens. And sometimes even that’s not enough.
Shit happens like that.
--
When the sun is shining and the birds are singing and even the grass is an extra greenish sort of green, you know something is wrong when the sky is the color of my old dog’s fur—somewhat brown and really dingy.
It’s the damndest thing to look around and people are doing regular things without a care in the world (well, except that guy crossing the street, the one who’s so hunched over and plodding so slow, you know he has about fifty million problems, or one really big one). Then again, they don’t notice that the sky is a color that reminds me of Max, only without all the fleas and crap. To them it’s probably a blue so perfect it justifies the group of people clustered on the park field with their easels out, dabbing away color here and there. An art class, probably.
I scratch at my chin, squint at the sky, and, very carefully, sit down on the sidewalk. Colors being what they aren’t supposed to be is only step one. I actually liked step one. It’s a lot kinder than step two.
“What the hell. Get up man.” Some kid skids to a stop on his skateboard, flashy red and yellow, jamming his helmet down further on his head. At least he’s being safe, which was odd—
Pain explodes and I gasp, mouthing obscenities as the kid takes a startled step backwards. It feels like someone took a stick and swirled my brains with it, I can hardly breathe, let alone function normally.
“Hey! Hey, you okay?” The kid hovers, hands splayed out, like he doesn’t know if he should touch me or not.
I draw a breath, because does it look like I was okay, except that sends off another round of pain, and I whimper instead, fingernails clawing at the sidewalk, eyes shut tight.
I hate this. God I hate this. Pictures flash through my head, like looking at a slideshow run by someone on speed. I can’t concentrate, can’t do anything but rest my forehead on the cement and try to breathe.
A moment. An instant. And just like that, it’s over, and the pain fades away, leaving me a jittery mess on the sidewalk, with the kid still hovering like a mama bird over her chicks, mouth tight and hands flailing uselessly.
“Hey,” I say weakly, feebly batting away a hand as I haul myself up. I brace myself against the sidewalk. I won’t be able to stand for at least a couple of minutes.
“Oh god, are you okay. What the hell. Should I… should I call an ambulance?” The kid starts fumbling for his cell phone.
A good kid. Not too bright, but a good one. That’s why I reach out and stop him, shaking my head. “Look, kid, listen to me.” The kid twitches, but then stills, eyes darting from my head to my feet, like any second now I’ll collapse again.
“I’m fine.” Not too convincing since my voice sounds like it’ll give out at any second.
“Are you sure, man, because you just fell over and started to—”
“—listen to me you little idiot,” I spit out, and the kid startles, falls into silence. Good. “I’m okay, but you need to do what I tell you.”
“Should I call an amu—”
Christ. “No. Shut up.” Thankfully the kid does what I tell him to, wide eyes trained on my face. “Walk home.”
“What?”
I sigh impatiently. The world would run so much smoother if it just listened to me. “When you go home, walk. Don’t skateboard. Definitely don’t skateboard. Walk or take the bus or whatever. Just stay off your skateboard.” I tighten my grip on the kid, who is starting to look less afraid for my life, and more afraid for his own. Which he should be, though not because of me.
“Sure, okay.” He tugs at his hand and I let him go.
“I mean it.” My voice doesn’t sound so wobbly anymore, and I’m just about ready to try to get to my feet. “You,” I latch onto the first semi-plausible idea that comes to mind, “You’re probably shaken up too, yeah?”
At the mulish expression that threatens to overtake the kids face, I rush on. “I mean, I’ve seen people who need to lie down after I have one of my spasms. So you’re holding up really well.” The kid brightens. “But I’d feel a lot better if you promise me you’ll walk home.”
The kid shrugs uncomfortably.
“C’mon.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine.” He exaggerates tucking his skateboard under his arm. “You’ll really be okay?”
Sweet kid. I’m so glad I stopped him from getting run over and ground into the pavement. “Yeah kid. Get home safely.”
--
I’m about a block from where I had my little episode, still sorting through the images in my head. A little old lady about to be robbed, body dumped in some bushes. A man walking in the wrong place at the wrong time. Another man slipping, head slapping against the edge of some stairs. Cade—
Fuck. Cade.
I’m running before I really register it, hands fumbling for my cell phone. I speed dial Cade’s home, praying he’ll answer. All other accidents, all the other murders, they’re blown from my mind, like wind scattering leaves. Sometimes I could hate myself for what I do (or rather, what I don’t do), but sometimes there’s no helping what I feel.
Fourth and last ring before the answering machine and I curse and try again, praying underneath my breath to a god I’m not sure I even believe in.
The phone keeps ringing, and something tears at my chest. I hang up and try his cell phone number, darting between a few joggers, running full tilt to an unknown destination. When people say to follow your heart, I follow my gut. The worse it feels, the more it wants to climb out of my throat, the closer I know I am to the scene of (potential) disaster.
Cade doesn’t pick up his cell phone either.
I head towards where my gut is taking me; past the mom and pop stores, the little boutiques, and the coffee shop nestled beside a bookstore. I pay almost no attention to where I’m going, absorbed in the actual getting there. My heart is in my ears, it’s pounding so loudly it drowns out every other noise.
Just a corner. One more. I’m darting around, dodging a group of teenage girls, probably looking insane. “Cade!”
It isn’t Cade. A little old lady, eyes huge behind even larger glasses, stares at me. She frowns. I gasp for breath. My gut wrenches to the side.
There’s a moment where I think of just taking off again to where the next gut twisting feeling is coming from. In an hour or so, the old woman is going to be dead, her throat cut, body unceremoniously tossed into shrubbery. I can stop it. I can, at the very least, try.
“Lady,” I manage to get out.
“Go away!” She glares at me, muttering about horrible manners people have these days, how she remembers when she was younger and the nice young men used to open doors for her.
I cut her off before she gets further. “Just listen to me.”
“Young man,” she draws herself up, blinking owlishly, “I will scream if you do anything.”
Irony tastes bitter on my tongue. I don’t have the time for this. I don’t have the patience either.
“In an hour or so, you’re going to walk down a street that has a broken red sign. To the right there is an abandoned shop. To your left there is an empty lot. Don’t go down that street. Turn around. Go home. Or at least go another way.”
As the woman is spluttering I wheel around and dart towards Cade (I hope. I’m hoping so hard, I feel lightheaded). I can’t waste time with people who won’t listen. I’ve wound up hurt, screamed at, and even in jail a few times. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk my best friend (my only friend).
The next person my gut leads me to is a man with a sweet smile and honey brown eyes. He’s ordering coffee, blowing at it carefully before taking a sip. He blinks at me in bemusement when I catch his sleeve.
“Can I help you?”
Nice guy. Hope he’ll listen to me. “Avoid stairs.”
“Pardon?” He tilts his head to the side, puzzled.
“Don’t take the stairs! You see stairs, you avoid stairs.”
“But I can’t get to my apartment without taking the stairs. Well…” He pauses. “There’s the elevator, but I’m only a floor up from the ground level. I like to think of it as exercise, even if it’s only one flight.”
Odd, odd man. An odd man that’s going to tumble to the floor and crack his head open and his brains will spill out if he doesn’t do as I say. I wretchedly think of Cade.
“Take the elevator.”
“Is this for the day? Or for a week or something?”
Sometimes even I can’t believe the sort of people I run into. “For the day,” I say. At least this one sounds like he’s listening to me. “Just don’t take the stairs. If the elevator is broken, stay with a friend. You can go back tomorrow.”
The man purses his lips, but nods. “Okay,” he says, “Do I happen to know you…?”
I give a shadow of a grin. “No.”
“Well,” he says slowly, “My horoscope today does tell me to stay away from high places.”
I hope this one survives. I surprise myself when I tell him goodbye. He gives me a sunny smile and waves me off.
--
“Cade!” Two people later, I have finally found him. I’m sweaty and my legs are rubbery. If I sit down for even a second, I think that I’ll collapse.
I would have run for hours longer if I needed to.
Cade gives me a startled look and folds his paper. He’s sitting prim on a bench, apparently enjoying the midday sun. For a second I want to strangle him myself. Cade is the type of man who would calmly stroll into a hostage situation and offer himself up in exchange for the others to be let go. That’s what’s going to kill him. “Mik? What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing he—never mind that! Why haven’t you answered your phone?”
“Eh,” he shrugs, “Forgot to recharge the battery. It’s dead now.”
I rub at my temples and throw myself down next to him. “I’m going to fucking kill you, you stupid bastard.”
“Huh,” he says, grinning at me. I really am going to kill him. After I save him, I’m going to murder him myself.
“You’re going to be with me all day,” I announce.
“But I have—”
“With me. All day.”
He frowns a bit. “I think I have some sort of seminar… Mik. Why are you so sweaty?” He scoots a bit away, wrinkling his nose.
Cade’s so smart the man has two doctorates and is working on his third. He’s so smart that he figured out my secret two days into meeting me, and is now working on doing something about it for no real reason other than he wants to help me. He’s one of those people who are larger than life—if I didn’t like him so much, I would hate him on principle.
“Your plans are cancelled as of now. I’m not taking any chances, you idiot.”
“Oh,” he says, pale green eyes thoughtful as they track the expressions crossing my face. Most of which is annoyance, I’m pretty sure. “What’d you see?”
“None of your business,” I bite out. If I told him, he’d probably do it anyway. Stupid bastard.
“Hmmm,” he hums, but then inclines his head. “Yeah, okay. So what’s on the agenda today, Mik?”
I reach over and touch his arm. I can save him. This person believes me. I’m going to stay with him the entire day, just to make sure. This can work. Cade’s not going to die.
I feel so relieved I hold my head between my knees and clench my eyes shut. Cade’s hand is heavy and warm on my shoulder.
--
When I read the next day’s paper, the headline announces a hostage situation at the local bank. Five people were killed. Another article details the robbery and murder of one Angela Phearson; the woman had been 72 years old, her body found in some bushes. Her murderers were still at large.
“Mik?”
I won’t know about the others. The accidents may or may not have happened. Certainly they’re not exactly things that would get on the news. I see no mention of the skateboard kid’s hit and run death, so I’m hoping that he really did listen to me and walked home. And for some reason, I think the man who would have had an accident on the stairs is all right. He seems like the type of guy who would make it, in the end.
“Mikael.”
And of course Cade’s safe. I’ve never been so thankful for my powers in my life. I refuse to feel guilty over not trying harder with the others. Sometimes I have a choice to make. Sometimes things don’t go the way I want them to.
Cade slaps my head. “Ow! What the hell, Cade?” He dances out of my reach.
“Stop staring at the paper and help me make excuses. It’s all your fault that my sister is yelling at me for breaking our get together, and the college is asking—though more like demanding—a reason for why I skipped out on classes yesterday.”
I rub my head. If I see Cade get swallowed by a whale next time, I might not help him.
Then again, maybe I would.
Rating: PG
Warnings: ...Profanity? XD
Summary: An ordinary day in the life of a not-so-ordinary guy.
Comments: Whee! I finished this in about 3 hours, I think. Not sure.
-----
When I tell people things, I don’t really expect them to do anything about it. I’m not some hero or some saint. I don’t really care what happens to them or what will happen to their families, or even if it’ll affect the whole world. I’m just not that kinda guy. I’m an asshole that way, though Cade tells me that at least I get props for trying.
The thing is, you learn from an early age that sometimes there’s just nothing you can do. You try, but people either ignore you, call you crazy, or pretend that they’re listening, only to do the opposite the next second. People are assholes that way as well.
And sometimes you try. And sometimes the person actually listens. And sometimes even that’s not enough.
Shit happens like that.
--
When the sun is shining and the birds are singing and even the grass is an extra greenish sort of green, you know something is wrong when the sky is the color of my old dog’s fur—somewhat brown and really dingy.
It’s the damndest thing to look around and people are doing regular things without a care in the world (well, except that guy crossing the street, the one who’s so hunched over and plodding so slow, you know he has about fifty million problems, or one really big one). Then again, they don’t notice that the sky is a color that reminds me of Max, only without all the fleas and crap. To them it’s probably a blue so perfect it justifies the group of people clustered on the park field with their easels out, dabbing away color here and there. An art class, probably.
I scratch at my chin, squint at the sky, and, very carefully, sit down on the sidewalk. Colors being what they aren’t supposed to be is only step one. I actually liked step one. It’s a lot kinder than step two.
“What the hell. Get up man.” Some kid skids to a stop on his skateboard, flashy red and yellow, jamming his helmet down further on his head. At least he’s being safe, which was odd—
Pain explodes and I gasp, mouthing obscenities as the kid takes a startled step backwards. It feels like someone took a stick and swirled my brains with it, I can hardly breathe, let alone function normally.
“Hey! Hey, you okay?” The kid hovers, hands splayed out, like he doesn’t know if he should touch me or not.
I draw a breath, because does it look like I was okay, except that sends off another round of pain, and I whimper instead, fingernails clawing at the sidewalk, eyes shut tight.
I hate this. God I hate this. Pictures flash through my head, like looking at a slideshow run by someone on speed. I can’t concentrate, can’t do anything but rest my forehead on the cement and try to breathe.
A moment. An instant. And just like that, it’s over, and the pain fades away, leaving me a jittery mess on the sidewalk, with the kid still hovering like a mama bird over her chicks, mouth tight and hands flailing uselessly.
“Hey,” I say weakly, feebly batting away a hand as I haul myself up. I brace myself against the sidewalk. I won’t be able to stand for at least a couple of minutes.
“Oh god, are you okay. What the hell. Should I… should I call an ambulance?” The kid starts fumbling for his cell phone.
A good kid. Not too bright, but a good one. That’s why I reach out and stop him, shaking my head. “Look, kid, listen to me.” The kid twitches, but then stills, eyes darting from my head to my feet, like any second now I’ll collapse again.
“I’m fine.” Not too convincing since my voice sounds like it’ll give out at any second.
“Are you sure, man, because you just fell over and started to—”
“—listen to me you little idiot,” I spit out, and the kid startles, falls into silence. Good. “I’m okay, but you need to do what I tell you.”
“Should I call an amu—”
Christ. “No. Shut up.” Thankfully the kid does what I tell him to, wide eyes trained on my face. “Walk home.”
“What?”
I sigh impatiently. The world would run so much smoother if it just listened to me. “When you go home, walk. Don’t skateboard. Definitely don’t skateboard. Walk or take the bus or whatever. Just stay off your skateboard.” I tighten my grip on the kid, who is starting to look less afraid for my life, and more afraid for his own. Which he should be, though not because of me.
“Sure, okay.” He tugs at his hand and I let him go.
“I mean it.” My voice doesn’t sound so wobbly anymore, and I’m just about ready to try to get to my feet. “You,” I latch onto the first semi-plausible idea that comes to mind, “You’re probably shaken up too, yeah?”
At the mulish expression that threatens to overtake the kids face, I rush on. “I mean, I’ve seen people who need to lie down after I have one of my spasms. So you’re holding up really well.” The kid brightens. “But I’d feel a lot better if you promise me you’ll walk home.”
The kid shrugs uncomfortably.
“C’mon.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine.” He exaggerates tucking his skateboard under his arm. “You’ll really be okay?”
Sweet kid. I’m so glad I stopped him from getting run over and ground into the pavement. “Yeah kid. Get home safely.”
--
I’m about a block from where I had my little episode, still sorting through the images in my head. A little old lady about to be robbed, body dumped in some bushes. A man walking in the wrong place at the wrong time. Another man slipping, head slapping against the edge of some stairs. Cade—
Fuck. Cade.
I’m running before I really register it, hands fumbling for my cell phone. I speed dial Cade’s home, praying he’ll answer. All other accidents, all the other murders, they’re blown from my mind, like wind scattering leaves. Sometimes I could hate myself for what I do (or rather, what I don’t do), but sometimes there’s no helping what I feel.
Fourth and last ring before the answering machine and I curse and try again, praying underneath my breath to a god I’m not sure I even believe in.
The phone keeps ringing, and something tears at my chest. I hang up and try his cell phone number, darting between a few joggers, running full tilt to an unknown destination. When people say to follow your heart, I follow my gut. The worse it feels, the more it wants to climb out of my throat, the closer I know I am to the scene of (potential) disaster.
Cade doesn’t pick up his cell phone either.
I head towards where my gut is taking me; past the mom and pop stores, the little boutiques, and the coffee shop nestled beside a bookstore. I pay almost no attention to where I’m going, absorbed in the actual getting there. My heart is in my ears, it’s pounding so loudly it drowns out every other noise.
Just a corner. One more. I’m darting around, dodging a group of teenage girls, probably looking insane. “Cade!”
It isn’t Cade. A little old lady, eyes huge behind even larger glasses, stares at me. She frowns. I gasp for breath. My gut wrenches to the side.
There’s a moment where I think of just taking off again to where the next gut twisting feeling is coming from. In an hour or so, the old woman is going to be dead, her throat cut, body unceremoniously tossed into shrubbery. I can stop it. I can, at the very least, try.
“Lady,” I manage to get out.
“Go away!” She glares at me, muttering about horrible manners people have these days, how she remembers when she was younger and the nice young men used to open doors for her.
I cut her off before she gets further. “Just listen to me.”
“Young man,” she draws herself up, blinking owlishly, “I will scream if you do anything.”
Irony tastes bitter on my tongue. I don’t have the time for this. I don’t have the patience either.
“In an hour or so, you’re going to walk down a street that has a broken red sign. To the right there is an abandoned shop. To your left there is an empty lot. Don’t go down that street. Turn around. Go home. Or at least go another way.”
As the woman is spluttering I wheel around and dart towards Cade (I hope. I’m hoping so hard, I feel lightheaded). I can’t waste time with people who won’t listen. I’ve wound up hurt, screamed at, and even in jail a few times. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk my best friend (my only friend).
The next person my gut leads me to is a man with a sweet smile and honey brown eyes. He’s ordering coffee, blowing at it carefully before taking a sip. He blinks at me in bemusement when I catch his sleeve.
“Can I help you?”
Nice guy. Hope he’ll listen to me. “Avoid stairs.”
“Pardon?” He tilts his head to the side, puzzled.
“Don’t take the stairs! You see stairs, you avoid stairs.”
“But I can’t get to my apartment without taking the stairs. Well…” He pauses. “There’s the elevator, but I’m only a floor up from the ground level. I like to think of it as exercise, even if it’s only one flight.”
Odd, odd man. An odd man that’s going to tumble to the floor and crack his head open and his brains will spill out if he doesn’t do as I say. I wretchedly think of Cade.
“Take the elevator.”
“Is this for the day? Or for a week or something?”
Sometimes even I can’t believe the sort of people I run into. “For the day,” I say. At least this one sounds like he’s listening to me. “Just don’t take the stairs. If the elevator is broken, stay with a friend. You can go back tomorrow.”
The man purses his lips, but nods. “Okay,” he says, “Do I happen to know you…?”
I give a shadow of a grin. “No.”
“Well,” he says slowly, “My horoscope today does tell me to stay away from high places.”
I hope this one survives. I surprise myself when I tell him goodbye. He gives me a sunny smile and waves me off.
--
“Cade!” Two people later, I have finally found him. I’m sweaty and my legs are rubbery. If I sit down for even a second, I think that I’ll collapse.
I would have run for hours longer if I needed to.
Cade gives me a startled look and folds his paper. He’s sitting prim on a bench, apparently enjoying the midday sun. For a second I want to strangle him myself. Cade is the type of man who would calmly stroll into a hostage situation and offer himself up in exchange for the others to be let go. That’s what’s going to kill him. “Mik? What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing he—never mind that! Why haven’t you answered your phone?”
“Eh,” he shrugs, “Forgot to recharge the battery. It’s dead now.”
I rub at my temples and throw myself down next to him. “I’m going to fucking kill you, you stupid bastard.”
“Huh,” he says, grinning at me. I really am going to kill him. After I save him, I’m going to murder him myself.
“You’re going to be with me all day,” I announce.
“But I have—”
“With me. All day.”
He frowns a bit. “I think I have some sort of seminar… Mik. Why are you so sweaty?” He scoots a bit away, wrinkling his nose.
Cade’s so smart the man has two doctorates and is working on his third. He’s so smart that he figured out my secret two days into meeting me, and is now working on doing something about it for no real reason other than he wants to help me. He’s one of those people who are larger than life—if I didn’t like him so much, I would hate him on principle.
“Your plans are cancelled as of now. I’m not taking any chances, you idiot.”
“Oh,” he says, pale green eyes thoughtful as they track the expressions crossing my face. Most of which is annoyance, I’m pretty sure. “What’d you see?”
“None of your business,” I bite out. If I told him, he’d probably do it anyway. Stupid bastard.
“Hmmm,” he hums, but then inclines his head. “Yeah, okay. So what’s on the agenda today, Mik?”
I reach over and touch his arm. I can save him. This person believes me. I’m going to stay with him the entire day, just to make sure. This can work. Cade’s not going to die.
I feel so relieved I hold my head between my knees and clench my eyes shut. Cade’s hand is heavy and warm on my shoulder.
--
When I read the next day’s paper, the headline announces a hostage situation at the local bank. Five people were killed. Another article details the robbery and murder of one Angela Phearson; the woman had been 72 years old, her body found in some bushes. Her murderers were still at large.
“Mik?”
I won’t know about the others. The accidents may or may not have happened. Certainly they’re not exactly things that would get on the news. I see no mention of the skateboard kid’s hit and run death, so I’m hoping that he really did listen to me and walked home. And for some reason, I think the man who would have had an accident on the stairs is all right. He seems like the type of guy who would make it, in the end.
“Mikael.”
And of course Cade’s safe. I’ve never been so thankful for my powers in my life. I refuse to feel guilty over not trying harder with the others. Sometimes I have a choice to make. Sometimes things don’t go the way I want them to.
Cade slaps my head. “Ow! What the hell, Cade?” He dances out of my reach.
“Stop staring at the paper and help me make excuses. It’s all your fault that my sister is yelling at me for breaking our get together, and the college is asking—though more like demanding—a reason for why I skipped out on classes yesterday.”
I rub my head. If I see Cade get swallowed by a whale next time, I might not help him.
Then again, maybe I would.