Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (37 page)

All
he can recall is Danny's mother telling him he should eat to keep his
strength up while shoving her burnt offerings under his nose. He
cannot recall eating anything though.

Gage
wasn't even there to keep him sane; Bobby hasn't seen him since that
day. Since the police took him home, he has been wondering where Gage
has gone. He can only assume he is gone for good.

Bobby
cannot help snorting now as he thinks about what the therapists said.
They cannot have been right about Gage being nothing more than his
mind's fabrication to cope with his brother's death.

If
he was, then he would be here now, instead of leaving me to face
endless questions alone.

He
tried to handle the traumatic interrogation as facts without emotion,
but what he couldn't stand were the questions about his whereabouts
while his mother was getting beaten to a pulp each time.

Bobby
squeezes his head and tries to wish the police officer's stern voices
away to no avail.

If
Gage exists, then he was probably wandering around looking for a fox
to tame while I was going through hell.

All
Bobby knows is he called for him to come while curled up on the sofa,
but he never did.

As
he stands in the dead grass, something else occurs to him: is this
what he said would happen?

When
he glances at the brown strands where he used to see a blue and
violent vibrancy, he shakes his head.

How
was I so blind not to see this is what he wanted?

Raising
both trembling palms to his cheeks, Bobby runs his fingertips over
his face, then drops them to his sides again with a sigh.

Why
does everybody leave me?

It
may be a wave of self-pity that washes over his entire body in thick,
swampy puddles then, but he doesn't care because that is the mood he
feels like drowning in. The ridges of his jumper sting his tired skin
as he laps up the moisture and wills himself to stop, but both the
tears and the shakes refuse him.

He
remains clutching at himself until the fading light crosses the trees
to the West. He recalls how the sun used to go from piercing through
the lush leaves to being radiant over the tree tops.

Once
he wipes away the tears to leave only a sticky residue stinging the
corners of both eyes, he unravels his numbing limbs. He shakes them
as his ass leaves the dirty ground with a gentle breeze whipping at
his back.

It
isn't warm as it used to be, but he doubts that will change with the
thick mist here now. In the summer, the real heat doesn't hit until
three or four in the afternoon back in the real world. Here, it was
continuous even at night; despite the sun moving across the sky,
nightfall never came.

Peeling
the jumper from his t-shirt, damp clings to his armpits and spine.
His skin is not covered in a heated perspiration, but the direct
opposite.

As
his hair flops back into its messy place, he squeezes the charcoal
cotton into his fist. With nothing to see here, he contemplates going
back the way he came.

Why
is everything here dead and empty?

He
doesn't turn and try to find his way back into his shed; it sealed up
behind him, so he doesn't see how that is possible. So he looks ahead
into the shaded mist and decides on proceeding forward.

I'm
meant to come here, so it must be to see something.

Even
when the red path was visible, he hadn't traveled this far. And he
definitely hasn't seen the end of the woods in his waking life.

If
there is an end.

The
image of the painting hanging in the elderly residence comes to mind,
and he wonders if he will find that glorious white house depicted in
acrylic if he keeps walking.

Will
I find those blue shutters with the blinding light pouring out, or
are they gone too?

Having
Benji read him
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
as a child, he
considers if it would have been a better idea to stick to the faded
red brick path. It is too late now though as he can no longer see it
from his position. But even if there is no white house at the end of
the woods, he decides that now is as good a time as any to find out
the truth. After all, what does he have to go home to now?

Trudging
on, he wonders if the red he saw in his dream was a fire. And, if it
was, whether he is now standing in the aftermath of that fire years
later.

Why
did we never think about going any further?

He
searches his memory bank for his mother having broken away from the
path, but he can find nothing to support it.

We
were too busy having fun to worry about anything else.
She
didn't want to trample the bluebells, so only let us sit where the
grass was in patches. Like beside the trees in the shade.

He
cannot recall her speaking about where the path leads, why she loved
bringing him here, or how they could get to this secret place from
their back garden.

It
won't be my back garden for long though.

He
thought coming here would bring him closer to his mother—the
person she used to be through his childhood years—but it
doesn't. It only allows the grief to consume him further—not
just the grief from losing her to death, but losing her to life. It
could be because the place no longer holds the vivid hum it once did,
or because she is not here with him. Perhaps the two are even linked
somehow.

He
hoped the intoxicating perfume of the flowers and the constant sun
would remind him of her in a good way. Instead, all that is left is
the bitter remnants of what was. It's as though all those things are
gone from the world altogether—a reminder of what he has lost
and can never reclaim.

All
is gone and there is no hope left.

Bobby
continues on with the brown leftovers crunching underfoot. He heads
through the trees, taking no clear path and keeping his hands from
touching the bark like his heart suggests he should. The thought that
his whole being will peel away if his fingertips grace the harsh
surface conflicts with his heart, so he stays clear.

When
he glances into the sky, he watches the mist drift across the tree
tops. The veil gives the place an eerie sense instead on the familiar
serene atmosphere.

Further
through the foggy concealment, Bobby finds a trunk between the tall
bark. Its dried roots curl up from the mud like lifeless snakes. More
stumps stand indignity behind with their flat surfaces facing
skyward.

Who
would do such a thing to a place like this?

A
brief flash pierces through his mind of the trees cast in a dank
shade against a maroon background. Fierce, glowing crosses burn
through the bark, then the vision disappears. Yet, he finds the marks
still imprint on his sight until he blinks them away.

When
he glances backwards to the surrounding trees, his face freezes with
horror because they are now in the same condition. The tall barks
have vanished to leave a wasteland of chopped trees.

What
has happened here?

In
the silence, Bobby hears the petals screaming as a ravaging furnace
sweeps them inside its clutches. The smoldering crackles intensify as
the flowers turn dark and shrivel into crumbling ash.

With
an ache rising over the back of his legs, he takes off through the
hundreds of trees. Sorrow leaks from each of them, and the droning of
lost voices rattle around within his mind like a sandstorm.

Pushing
his hands against his ears, he moves with haste, dragging his body
along. He scuffs his trainers in the mud as he tries to ignore all
the noises, but it does no good. The noises drift out from the
confines of his brain instead of the other way around, so there will
be no escape no matter where he goes, or how fast he gets there.

After
five minutes of stumbling through the old woods, the trees become
more sparse. The grass, although still brown and lifeless, sprouts in
thicker bunches.

As
he steps through an invisible barrier into the overgrowth where the
grass tickles his thighs, the mist drops, turning the land into a
blanket of cloud. The world closes in around him, sealing all its
contents away. Perhaps the land is healing itself, he considers, but
the suffocating air sucks into his lungs and gives way to a trembling
panic.

The
curls on his forehead bob as he switches from side to side, then back
behind him with wide eyes. He can no longer see the trees that were
there moments ago. When he spins around again, his sense of direction
falls away, so he drops his hands to his sides in frustration.

The
voices have departed, but the emptiness left in their wake is
damning.

He
allows the whiteness to drown him as the mist thickens and conceals
the grass. The dead blades lean against his jeans for a moment, then
dissolve to make him appear as though he is floating within the
clouds.

A
sense of dread clings to him as he prays for this to end, but that is
not what he receives. Instead, bubbles of faint pastel shades glow
around his feet like city lights piercing through the fog, creating
the
sensation
he is falling from the sky. Any moment now, he knows his feet will
hit concrete and his body will break like a porcelain doll.

I'm
not falling; I'm still touching the ground. Please let me still be
touching the ground.

The
colourful, circular shapes form into more sharp tones and, when he
concentrates, the bubbles appear to resemble clear glass stones.

They
aren't stones, they're pebbles.

As
soon as he identifies them, the colours become more vibrant with
their sheen surfaces shining between his feet.

Mum
used to buy opaque glass pebbles years back from a cottage that sold
antiques and old bric-a-brac. She used to put them in the flower pots
because Benji and I loved them when we were kids.

Hunkering
between the pebbles, Bobby plucks a sky blue one from the ground. He
tries to inspect it, expecting to feel nothing at all, but it's firm
within his palm. The smooth surface strokes his skin, and with it in
his possession, a distant relief rises from his mourning.

When
Bobby replaces the pebble, it doesn't cross his mind that it may have
its own place among the others. He rubs his hand over his face and
warns himself to contain the pressure building inside without its
touch.

Dropping
his hand against his knee, his closed eyelids twitch, and when they
open again, all clarity is gone. Clammy skin rolls upon itself as his
fists curl and he uses them to push himself straight. He is lifting
when he spots something within the pebbles which halts him in a half
crouch.

As
he delves between the glass and drops his knees into the stones, his
anger swiftly departs. While reaching to grab the item he's found,
the pebbles dig into his other palm to create yellow pressure points.

With
the item collected, pebbles form beneath him as he shifts back into
his spot. He fidgets onto one knee and opens his hand to the larger
pebble. He notices the connection, but this time it comes in one
wave, sweeping him into a warm embrace.

“
Mine
is going to have spots. It's a ladybird.”