Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (36 page)

When
the dusty contents greet him, he sees the bikes still leaning against
one another. Strings of cobwebs coat them from handles to pedals like
he imagined they would. A pang of guilt rises in his stomach at the
sight, so he turns from them in a hurry.

“
You're
doing it, Stick! You're flying—”

Bobby
attempts to keep the handlebars steady, but they continue to fling
from side to side. He loses control and the tires leave the narrow
path, plunging him sidewards into the blue flowers.

Oh
god, he thinks as he rushes to lift the metal so he can get out the
soil before his mum sees the flowers he has crushed. Benji is already
helping him pull the bike up and laughing without restrain.

“
Ah,
you'll get the hang of it, Stick.”

Breathing
in bursts, he cannot help being shook up by the speed things went
wrong. He doesn't likes bikes, but maybe if he learns to ride without
the aid of stabilizers, his dad will take him to the park next time
he takes Benji.

“
You
got the hang of it straight away.” Bobby wipes the mud off his
dungarees and clambers back onto the pavement with his cheeks a
fierce red shade. He can feel the embarrassment stretching toward his
ears, but if his brother notices, he doesn't comment.

“
So
what? I'm naturally good at this stuff, but you can practise.”

“
But
I want to be good at it like you. You're good at everything.”

Benji
tousles his mop of hair and slings his arm around him. “Well,
you know what? I wish I was like you—”

“
Me?”

“
Yeah,
you! You're clever and write the most fantastic poems I've ever
read,” Benji exclaims as he pulls him in for a hug.

I
can't be that clever because I can't even ride a bike, Bobby sulks.

When
Bobby steps
inside,
a wave of tiredness hits him in the face. He isn't sure whether it's
the large quantity of dust attacking his irritated eyeballs, or the
memory draining everything from him, but he yawns into his palm.

I'm
on my own now, and no amount of memories can change that.

Cardboard
boxes sit atop each other with permanent marker scribbled on the
folds to his right. The top one reads his brother's name in his
mother's handwriting. Old toys fill them most likely, but Bobby
doesn't bother to open them. Instead, he moves past them into the
back to find what he believes he is here to retrieve.

Leaning
against the back wall to the left is the cabinet where his father
kept the item in case he ever needed it for protection. Since he
started drinking, he hasn't bothered to worry about his family's
safety, so his mother must have stolen the key within that time.

For
protection none of us could have conceived of.

He
runs his fingers over the keys, searching for the one that will fit
inside the cabinet lock. When he locates the smaller, silver key, he
rubs his thumb over the smudged surface and considers what he is
about to do.

Is
this what I'm going to resort to if everything goes wrong?

“
I
can't do this. You're suggesting something I'm not capable of doing,”
he whispers, yet he doesn't know who he is talking to.

As
he turns back to the metal cabinet, something slides to his right. As
he averts his attention to the back of the shed where the noise comes
from, his nerves are on high alert. A piece of wood has come loose
and fallen away. It drops against the grass and out of sight to
reveal a vague and strange familiarity.

She
always took my hand as we slid through. We could never get to the
woods without going in here first.

Forgetting
the cabinet, Bobby steps towards the gap in the shed where he can see
the back fence through the hole. He places his hand through the gap
and wiggles his fingers to feel a tingling sensation take over. The
warm, electrical surge coming from the invisible land prickles his
skin until he withdraws it with regret.

He
is considering locking up the house before he messes with things he
doesn't understand, when a whisper finds his ear. He is unsure
whether the soft hum is inside his head, or from the gap, but it
tells him to leave everything.

“
Come
inside, Bobby,” the soft voice urges.

Pocketing
the keys, Bobby wastes no time placing his hand back through the gap.

There's
no way I can fit through here—it's too small.

His
arm slips through to the elbow as he pushes his chest against the
wood. As he feels about, swiping at the air, he can almost reach the
garden fence.

When
nothing happens, he is about to withdraw when the tingling returns.
This time, the sensation slips over his palm, knuckles and wrist,
then makes its way up his arm. It becomes so intense it vibrates
within his chest and along his throat.

He
wants to back away, lock the shed up and never speak, or think of it
again. Yet, he stays put with his feet jiggling on the wooden boards.
And then the brightest, pure white light opens and swallows him
whole.

Between
here and the destination, Bobby smells the sweet aroma of jam and
feels cotton rubbing against his lips. The heat ruffling his hair
brings with it so much love it cradles his lucid flesh. Then, the
shed sits empty with the door hanging a jar.

•

This
isn't how I remember it.

The
scents rushing up his nostrils should calm him, but as the tingling
departs, he finds himself choking on something he cannot outrun. Yet,
he sets his feet into motion and gives it his best shot. He tries not
to notice his surroundings, or how it is a shadow of what it once
was.

This
is not how I remember it at all.

The
soles of his cheap Converse knock-offs trample the dead grass as he
runs at speed. Dead brush slaps against his hands and scratches his
palms, but he doesn't feel it. He feels nothing besides the need to
outrun the excruciating wound inside his chest.

The
further he runs, the less he escapes what he thought coming here
would achieve. Instead, it has the opposite effect. The longer he
speeds through the grass, the more time his demons have to consume
him.

This
place used to be beautiful. Now, it is nothing more than leftovers,
just like my life.

Each
beat of his heart and every forced breath he exhales is more weight
piling upon his already strained heart. The grief tries to bring him
down until all his legs can do is buckle beneath him. When he
inevitably falls to his knees where the blue flowers used to be, he
pushes back up with his palms and pushes on.

The
crimson path is long gone, but its faded trail of dried earth remains
to his right. Although sticking to it may seem logical, it is
irrelevant right now because he couldn't care less about it. He has
never veered so drastically from it before, but the fear of getting
lost is of no consequence right now. He could get lost for all he
cares.

Lost
sounds appropriate.

It
has been two days since he held the woman who birthed him in his arms
as she let go. Those two days involved him not feeling anything while
Danny's mother watched him. Bobby never imagined having Miss Summers
watching out for him to be such a terrible thing, but maybe that
makes it even worse. She isn't his mother—she's nothing like
her at all. Life is all nails, make-up and fun to her as she pretends
to be younger than her years.

And
all that feminist bull crap.

He
knows that's not fair as he curses himself for thinking it, but he
can't picture her doing picnics and gardening. Over the past two
days, he has resented that. He also finds himself resenting the other
neighbours for popping around to give their condolences and bringing
casseroles and lasagnes in foil trays.

They
never helped her when she needed it, or cared while she was here, so
why now when it is too late?

Bobby
resents the police for their constant questioning, condescension and
offers of bereavement counselling while pity fills their eyes.

He
resents his father for having the gull to not hand himself in,
leaving Bobby with the shattered ruins. He resents him for still
having the audacity to be breathing while she cannot.

I
should have killed him while he was sleeping.

But
more than anyone, he resents himself. He was the only one who knew
the whole truth. He was the one who it mattered to, and he did
nothing. So, he continues to run until he collapses in the dirt.

His
temples throb as his jagged breath turns into trembles. Thoughts of
where he goes from here circle within his mind, hazy and half-formed.
However, most of his thoughts are 'what-ifs' that drive the anger
bubbling to the surface like lava.

What
if I had insisted she go to that refuge sooner? What if I had stayed
in that room? What if I was bigger and had fought back? What if Benji
never died?

If
his brother hadn't drove the car that night, then everything would
still be like it was before this mess. The moment the accident sweeps
across his mind, a brief resentment forms for his brother too.

It
is fate.

“
So
whose fault was his crash?”

Wiping
his eyes on his sleeve, Bobby brings his legs out from under his
bottom and crosses them within the dead grass. The muddy ground
stains his backside, but he doesn't notice.

He
can recall sitting in the bluebells between the trees to his left,
but now there is only brown grass. Only a dark mist lingers over the
anorexic twigs where the sun used to poke through the lush leaves.
They ominously hang like claws within the chilly air that once
carried a drowsy warmth.

O'
clarity (within the fragile sun) resume

Through
the sea of petals once here, wavering in bloom

Ghosts
now speak in hushed tones in unison,

So
shall the past not be undone?

For
life passes within the blink of an eye,

If
this is only a dream, do my acts still pass me by?

Tears
trickle down his skin in heated trails within the gloomy light. When
the sky glimmered in the deepest blue, it seemed like a river's
surface hovered within the air. The heat was a delicate mirage, but
the love here was real.

Now
it's all gone. Mum's gone.

Until
this moment, he hadn't thought too long on the events he witnessed
two nights ago. In many ways, he disappeared into a endless void and
cannot recall anything with clarity.

Maybe
I was inside my own cling-film of dissociation.

He
has acknowledged nothing like this within his heart's suffering
before, not even when Benji died. The pain was vivid then, but this
seems beyond the realm of possibility. The grief is so real and seems
beyond saving now he is here.