SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

Remember

Johnny's Point of View

The room was too quiet after Maeve left.
Too cold.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the tidal wave to hit.

And when it did, it wasn't loud or dramatic – it was silent and steady and all-consuming.

The grief.
The rage.
The fear.
The bone-deep sense that something had broken, and not just in my leg.

It was me.
All of me.

My body had tapped out.
Given up.
And I didn't know what was left.

When my Da finally came in he was alone, as I'd asked.

"Morning, Stud." He said with a tired smirk, holding a takeaway cup like it might anchor the world.

"Da." I choked out, and then the tears came.

Real ones.
Ugly ones.
The kind I hadn't let myself cry in years.

The minute he saw my face, that smirk dropped.
Without saying anything else, he walked over, set the cup down, and sat beside me.

He pulled me into his arms like I was five years old again and the world had just tipped sideways.

"Johnny." He murmured, steady and low. "Let it all out, son."

So I did.

I cried into my father's shoulder like a child.
Like someone who hadn't slept in weeks.
Like someone who didn't know who they were anymore without their boots laced up and their number on their back.

It took me a while to speak.

"What am I looking at?" I finally rasped, blinking through the blur.

"Six weeks minimum." He said simply.

And those three words knocked the air out of my lungs.

"Da..." I shook my head, voice cracking. "The summer campaign. The U20s. It's gone. It's all over for me."

"It's not gone." He said calmly. "Slim. But not impossible."

"Slim." I repeated bitterly, the word tasting like rust in my mouth. "Jesus."

The pressure behind my eyes built again. I clenched my jaw to keep it together. "You don't get it. This was it. Everything I've been killing myself for since I was six. Everything."

"I do get it." He said. Then he stood up, helped me swing my legs off the bed, and lowered my feet to the floor.

"You don't feel like a fighter." He said, seeing the look on my face, "But you are. You've been fighting since the day you were born. Every match, every try, every exam, every late-night run in the freezing rain. That's you, Johnny."

"I don't know if I can do it again." I whispered, ashamed of the honesty in it. "What if I don't make it back? What if this – this is it?"

"Then it's not your time." He replied. No drama. No pity. Just truth. "And you try again."

A sob tore out of me before I could stop it. "I can't cope."

"You can." He said. "Even if you don't make it this summer, you're still Johnny Kavanagh. Still our boy. Still an honour student. Still the best decision your mother and I ever made."

He grabbed the chair from the corner and sat across from me.

"Now." He said, loosening his tie and folding his arms. "Let's get real."

"Real?" I croaked.

He nodded. "Say you don't make the U20s in June—"

"Da, I can't hear that right now—"