Two Years Ago

The kind of silence stirring around me would usually send sharp chills down my spine, though now, it's the only friend I have. I let it caress my skin like a gentle breeze does to a delicate flower petal, as well as use its pale fingers to wipe away the tears tickling my sore cheeks.

My eyes are glued to the windshield of the car, the night clear and mallow as I gaze at the lights below. The car engine isn't running. It hasn't been for a while. For almost an hour now, I've been waiting patiently in the driver's seat, watching through glossy eyes the car lights and city ambience stirring in the distance. I haven't been to this place in a while. It's a popular spot where people from school go for romantic evenings. As for me, it's just somewhere I like to go when I need to think. The same thoughts have been rousing in my head for some time now.

"Don't do this. Don't do this," they whisper into my ears. I don't listen to them.

I slowly unfold my knuckles that clutch the one thing that can solve my problems, my last resort, and my only shot of getting my life back to normal. The white capsules shuttering at the bottom of the orange bottle stare at me, waiting for me to put them into action. It's an action I'm not sure that I'm willing to take, or one that I'm not strong enough to conquer.

Before I know it, more tears take over my vision as they begin to spill from my eyes, each one equaling a single drop of pain drowning my body. Everything about this moment feels wrong. It's as if I'm in the center of a hazy nightmare, or the balance of reality has been upset by the menacing facet of fantasy. If only this one a simple chapter from a fantasy. At least that way, I would be able to end this horrible tail in a way that offers closure instead of additional heartbreak. In the end, everyone would get some kind of a happy ending, and I wouldn't have to do what I'm about to do.

At a leisurely pace, I place an open palm on the heart of my stomach, feeling the heart of another just beneath my touch. It's a heart that I'm about to end myself. I might as well be shoving a knife through my gut. Either way, the ending would be sad and unforgivable. I don't even have to nerve or the courage to say my goodbyes. The only thing that I can say is that I'm sorry.

I hold out the bottle of Avaracil in front of me. These specific tablets belong to Sam's mother. I had asked for these specific ones after week's worth of research.

I remembered how her mother used these to end her pregnancy a few years back. It was during the early stages when she made the discovery. She had never meant to get pregnant, so she was given a drug known as Avaracil to cause a miscarriage. It's supposed to be taken prompt to the beginning stages, so there is a change that it may not work the way I want it to. The thought of ultimately hurting myself has crossed my mind, but it's a chance that I want to take, and one that I will not throw away.

I open the cover to reveal the white tablets within. There's only a few, but it should be enough. Every speck of moisture has now dissolved from my throat and mouth, leaving behind a filthy dryness and reminding me of the water bottle I had brought with me to swallow the medication. I look at both the capsules and the water for over a minute, asking myself if this is something I really want to do. Can I really do this? Can I really end the life of my own child?

I've spent my entire childhood thinking that people I saw on television, the ones that robbed banks and stoll cars, were monsters. Little did I know that I would grow to be the most monstrous of all.

The pills spill into my hand, all six of them. With a drug this powerful, it should take about two or three to successfully terminate a pregnancy. My heart races, churning my insides into a dense array of cramps that scamper into all of my muscles, resulting to more tears.

There's no other way, I tell myself.

With a shaky palm, I place the pile of pills so that only one is in contact with my lower lip, ready to take the final plunge. I'm just about ready to let them all tumble upon my tongue when an unexpected scream outside the metal of my car stops my heart.

My name mixed into the frantic cries of a once-comforting voice rings through the breath of the evening. Her reflection is only a shadowy figure in my rearview mirror, the running silhouette aglow my the face of light behind her. Long locks of hair whip her neck as she grows closer. I'm frozen completely, unable to make any kind of movement. The tears race one by one down my cheeks when her face appears behind the glass of my window.

"Rowen! Open the door, sweetie! Open the door!" She calls. Her face is laced with fear and printed with the black ink of frantic sadness. She seems out of breath as her chest heaves upwards and then downwards, but that doesn't stop her from putting all of her force into her fist as she tries to break the window.

I don't look up. I'm too ashamed too. Even as she pounds and hits and screams at the door, it's no use. She's only getting in if I allow it. And I don't. I can't let her see me do the one thing that will solve everything.

"Rowen, put down the pills. Please, just come out of the car, sweetie, and we will figure this out together. You just have to put down the pills."

My gaze falls to the six tablets laying in the beds of my hand, almost lining up with my lifeline. My mouth is now wide open, allowing louds sobs to escape without an means of effort. She had to have seen these by now. She must have seen her only daughter holding them, preparing to hurt herself with them in attempts of destroying a life that she had created. Even if it was an accident, it was my accident, and I have to atone for it. I have to fix it by any means necessary.

My mother continues to scream at the top of her lungs. It isn't until I can no longer stand her painful sobs that I look up, gazing at her worried-filled eyes through the barrier of glass. She looks so scared, even more scared than I looked before she arrived. But how can that be when I'm the one that's about to undergo the most tremendous pain of all?

I can't do this. I can't go on another second. I want to feel my mother's comforting arms around me. I want to drop every last pill until they escape from my site entirely so I never have to feel this confliction ever again. All I want is right there is front of me, outside the car window, and all I have to do is drop these damn capsules.

And in one swift, emotionless movement, each pill slides down the flesh of my trembling hand, their impact with the car sounding like boulders collapsing in the mountaintops, and I give my mom one last sad look before whipping my car door open and falling into her arms.

She lets me cry into her shoulder and she does mine, my tears glucing strands of her blonde hair to my cheeks. Her arms hold me closer than they have ever before as I continuously whimper her name into the crook of her neck. After a few seconds, she takes my head in her hands and she examines me closely, relief storming in her eyes.

"We'll figure this out together, okay? You don't need to be alone anymore, sweetheart," she soothes. Rapidly nodding, she then takes my entire body in her arms and I do the same, feeling her love for me through the beating of her own heart.

All of the sudden, another black figure breaks through the streaks of the car lights in the distance, and I look up from my mother's shoulders. A male figure now stands by the other car, his hair shaggy, and his eyes too filled with relief.

Noah smiles, thankful that I am alright. He must've told my mom everything after I stole his car, afraid that I was going to do something stupid. And I'm glad he did. Having my mother with me now, the one person that I love more than anything, means the world to me, and I wouldn't ask any more of him.

~~~~~

After spending a good chunk of the afternoon with Silas, I realized that I had forgotten my wallet at my house, forcing me to make an extra pitstop before meeting up with Sam and Taylor. I just finished messaging them about the situation, telling them that I would be just a little while longer. They didn't seem to mind, but I still told them to eat without me if I took too long.

Pulling into the driveway of the house, I almost don't notice the known vehicle sitting in my usual spot. I have to slam on my breaks upon crashing into it. Just a few inches away from my front bumper stands a silver and black motorcycle. I begin to wonder whether or not Dylan invited one of his friends over, but I don't know any of them that rides this thing.

Getting out of the car, I carefully inspect the motorcycle as I walk towards the front door, looking at it with a line of furrowed brows. Things suddenly get even more peculiar when I put my key into the lock of the door. Slowly, the door opens crack, as if it's been open this entire time. I immediately think that Dylan forgot to close the door correctly, or perhaps it was his mystery visitor who is responsible. In the moment that I take one step into the house, I hear the yelling.

One voice I recognize to be Dylan's, and the other I can't quite hear. It's like the person that my brother is fighting with doesn't want to fight back, his words hardly making it to a shout. There's a possibility that it could be Caleb that he's having a spat with, but the two of them seemed to have been getting along lately. I can't think of why they would be fighting, let alone what about.

I realize that the quarrel is coming from the kitchen, so after shutting the door completely and locking it, I walk in the direction of the noise to investigate. As I predicted, it's Dylan who's doing most of the shouting, but the sight of his contender nearly robs me of my ability to stand.

"You need to get out of here. Now," Dylan heatedly ordered.

"I'm not going anywhere until you hear what I have to say."

"I don't want to hear a word of what comes out of your mouth." My brother's words practically spit fire, the fury burning beneath his skin pressuring him to say the words only it desires. I've only seen him like this once before, and with only one person.

"Will you please just listen to me for once in your life?" The man begs, dropping his gaze to the tile floor of the kitchen.

"No, you listen. Get your self-absorbed ass out of here before I-" Dylan pauses as he eyes fall on me. The words seems to freeze all around us and none of us know how to react. None of us blink or even dare speak a word. We all suddenly become as imobile as frozen statues, unable to move, think, or breath. I know for sure that I can't. Seeing the one person that I once loved and now hate standing in front of me is of corresponding power with sun itself, every emotion forcefully burning through me and blistering every part of me.

There, standing in front of me, is Dad. My dad.

"Rowen," Dylan says, his volume over fifty notches quieter than the last time it rang. "I thought you weren't coming home until later this afternoon."

"I forgot my wallet. What the hell is going on here?" I ask bitterly, already on the verge of tears. I haven't seen my dad in months, and all of the sudden, he decides to drop by without any warning signs. Just the very sight of him makes me relieved, angry, and sad all at once. Such a dangerous dance of complex emotions means havoc for my mind, as I can't decide on a proper reaction. I don't know whether to cry, yell, punch, or kick someone in the room.

I then notice Dad's eyes. They're different since the last time I saw them. He no longer has dark circles roaming their outer circumference. His hair doesn't stick up in odd places and the sent of alcohol doesn't jump out at you when you stand in the same room as him. The most surprising change that I notice is the emotion that he carries on his face. Months back, it was practically carved from stone. Each twitch of the eyes, nose or mouth was forced and deemed as fake as he was. Now, he not only displays emotion, but he displays heartbreak. Even his own eyes are welling up with tears as we lock our gazes.

Then the memories resurface. All at once, I recollect how he shut us all out after Mom died, and how he turned to drinking in his timeless hours of grief. He could never hold up a conversation with any of us, and the only times I spoke to him were to ask him to clean up his empty cans and bottles. I hate him for what he did to us, to me. And just like those painful memories, that very resentment returns as well.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss at him, pushing away all other feelings to leave the dominant space for my vexation.

"It's nothing. Just go upstairs and we'll talk about it later," Dylan answers my question before Dad can even think up the words.

All signs of hope that ventures in my father's eyes suddenly dies at the pierce of my words. He was expecting me to welcome him home with open arms, but instead, we was met with a rude awakening. "No, I need to speak to both of you," he says.

"No one gives a rat's ass what you want."

"Rowen," Dad denounces his position alongside Dylan and walks toward me, but I'm too stunned to react. "Can you please just give me ten minutes? Ten minutes and I'm done."

"Don't even talk to her," Dylan demands, stepping between our father and me.

Dad doesn't seem to care. In fact, he only gives my brother a second of his attention before he silently pleads for mine a second time. My oldest brother does the same, expecting me to back him up on this. He expects me to have the same amount of hatred for this man as he does, the one thing I might not be able to provide. How can I truly hate someone when that someone is the one that helped to raise me? Both of my parents helped to shape the person that I am today, despite that both are now on completely separate paths. It doesn't change the fact that I am who I am because of them.

No matter what he's done, he is still my father. He is still my dad. Deep down, I will always love him.

Ignoring Dylan's attempts on pushing me behind him, I look into my dad's hollow eyes, noticing the small hints of light behind the darkness of his irises.

"You have seven minutes."

~~~~~

Dylan and I sit next to one another on the couch, both with different ideas travering our minds. He wants nothing more than to rid himself of Dad forever, to cause him the same pain that he caused us for two years. He couldn't care less about what he has to say.

A part of me doesn't care either. Whatever it is that he has to tell us, whatever is so important that he couldn't talk to us over the phone, nothing can make up for the way he acted throughout these past years.

Even so, I still care, therefore I'm entitled to listen to whatever he wants to say, regardless of whether or not I want to hear it.

And as for Caleb, who came home not too long ago, there's no telling what he's thinking.

"After I left, I spent the first few days at a motel in Rochester. Whatever money I had on me was all that there was because I knew that you would kids would need it. But after it was gone, I forced myself to go out and look for a job. To my luck, I was able to find work at a local supermarket, but that didn't last. Someone there found out about my drinking habits, and I was fired on the spot. Not only did I lose the job, but I was forced to sell the car as well just for the few extra bucks."

Dylan lightly chuckles, clearly not giving into a word that's being said. He's clearly not surprised, and my any definition, neither am I. If my dad couldn't hold a job before because of his drinking, there's no chance he could hold a different one.

"After that, I felt so ashamed in myself, and I was trying to work up the nerve to call one of you. I wanted to apologize for the way I've been acting, but I knew none of you would accept me back into your lives. That being said, I took it upon myself to get sober, and I went into alcoholic rehab."

"Things were rocky at first, but I knew I had to get myself straightened out if I ever wanted to come home to my kids. I knew it was the only way to win you all back, so I made it my top priority. When I was away, all I could think about was the way I hurt each of you when I should've been there for you. I should've stepped in and... and have been the father you deserved." His voice begins to crack under the weight of the obvious pain clamping on his words. It's almost paining to listen to.

"When your mom died, I became a self-centered, arrogant, stubborn piece of garbage; I turned to drinking as my way out, my way of escaping the harsh reality, the one where you mom is gone and she isn't coming back. I figured that if I could... drown my sorrows then the pain would go away. But instead, it only caused my children more pain, pain that I didn't want them to feel. And I didn't do anything about it. I sat on this damn couch, day after day, watching the same television shows, and drinking the same poison, while you kids had to suffer alone. That was when I realized that I couldn't come back. Even if I were completely sober, it wouldn't change the fact that I broke your trust. Each of you has every right to be angry with me, hell, you each have the right to hate me. I hate myself for what I did, who I have become, and what I put you all through. And for that, I am so... so sorry."

An ambience of quiet strutted elegantly throughout the space between the four of us. Tears of rosen in my father's eyes, his hands clasped into a tight ball in front of him and his feet placed firmly on the carpet below. Never has he looked so guilty in his lifetime. Not even when we lost Mom did so much misconduct and sin radient from his sunken appearance, and the thoughts occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, he's telling the truth. Maybe his apology is as genuine as air we're all breathing, and it's not just a trick of the toxins that used to fill his lungs and heart with deception and deceit. Maybe all of his actions to get sober were not for his own benefits, but for us, his children, the ones that he claims to love with every fiber of his mortality. Maybe there is the slightest chance that I could have my father back, and that my life could be a little more full again.

Maybe, just maybe, we could work our way to becoming a family again.

"Now I don't expect any of you to forgive me, I just needed you all to hear the truth. You do not need to feel obligated to allow me back into your lives, but the one thing that I will not be doing is leaving. You can tell me to leave the house, but I won't run out on you kids ever again. I fully intend on making up for my mistakes, even if you never forgive me for them. One word, just one word, and I'll leave. But it won't be forever."

"So just like that? You're sober?" Dylan asks, his voice rupturing as well. "Just a few months and you're completely clean?"

"I haven't touched a drop alcohol in exactly one month," Dad replies.

Dylan's face renders from speechless to contemplation, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. I can tell that he's fighting against his most inner reflexes, rebelling against the urges to beat every last ounce of life from our father. There's a fraction of him that forgives him, I know there is. Just like there's a fraction of me that does.

Caleb's eyes hold more tears than any of us, and Dad notices it too.

He reaches over and grasps Caleb's shoulder, clutching it in a way that's both comforting and relieving, and my brother's head narrows downwards. "Caleb, I am so sorry. What I did to you, to all of you... it was unforgivable. You're mom would've handled this a lot better than I did. It should have been me in that car, not her."

"No." The word comes out of my mouth unintentionally, and the only word that's come out of my mouth since my Dad began his story. "It shouldn't have been either of you in the car that night. It was me. I killed her. I'm the one that she came to get, I'm the reason she was in the car in the first place." I pause, snuffing back the tears. I've shed enough for one day. The only thing that will be shed now is my words. "Mom shouldn't have died that night, and if the places were reversed, I wouldn't have wanted you in that car either, Dad. And no matter what you've done, we still need you. You're all that we have left."

I let it all loose from there. Every secret word that I was holding back, every tear still managing to liger; everything was set free in a few simple phrases.

I'm now looking into my father's glossy eyes, not the ones of the man he was after the loss of his eyes, but the ones of the man he is now. They are the eyes of my dad.