Turning Year

Chapter 2: Rainy Days

(A Few Weeks Later)

Usually these were Stiles' favorite days, rainy days. He loved the way the pavement smelled. He loved the way the thunder would crack and how the lightning would light up the sky soon after. He loved how all the trees looked exceptionally green. And most of all, he loved to watch his mother during these rainy days.

She would sit at the window bench with her hair messily tied back in a ponytail and read, little fly aways tickling her forehead as the wind softly blew through the open window. Sometimes Stiles would come over and sit with her. They wouldn't speak, they would just read, Stiles head on his mother's lap. 

He didn't like those days anymore.

Today was Stiles's least favorite day. It was a rainy day. But the rain wasn't what ruined the day the day was already ruined. The rain was just an extra slap in the face.

Today was the day of his mother's funeral.

When he woke up after a sleepless night, he immediately wanted the day to be over. Him and his father had not spoken very often since his mother's passing. Of course there was questions about how she had died, but after that night, after the full story, they hadn't spoken. Not really. There was the occasional small talk, the "are you hungry?" and the "goodnight's," but no real conversations.

His dad never said that it was all his fault, but he could see the disappointment in his father's eyes. The brokenness. 

Stiles got up and got dressed, skipping breakfast. He dressed in a simple black shirt, tie and pants. Luckily he had a suite, so he didn't have suffer the pain of going to find them with his dad. He went downstairs and waited until his dad was ready. Then they walked to the cemetery.

It was held outside, but Stiles didn't bother bringing a jacket or umbrella, allowing the soft drizzle to coat his hair, sticking to the ends. Pretty soon everyone started arriving. People who Stiles had only met once or never at all giving their condolences, to which Stiles would thank them for, just like he had rehearsed. He probably said thank you and I'm fine, thirty times each.

During the ceremony he looked around to see many red, tear stained faces, both men and women. When he looked at his dad he didn't see any tears, only pain. His face was twisted, trying not to break.

Stiles could feel nothing. Not sadness, not grief, not remorse, or pain, or guilt, or anything. He felt nothing. He was empty. And he felt wrong for it, upset that he couldn't cry at his own mother's funeral. 

Though he was sure it was a beautiful ceremony, he didn't hear a word. In fact he didn't hear the minister ask him to place his rose in front if the grave.

Everyone had one. They were all white, except for his and his father's, who were red.

"Mom always said that roses were fake and over used." He muttered. This ceremony wasn't for her, it was just something to attend so you didn't look like a jerk.

"What's that?" The minister asked.

Without answering the question, Stiles stomped up to his mother's grave and threw his rose on the ground forcefully.

"Stiles!" His long lost cousin, shrieked, an older woman. 

She was the type of woman where if things were not perfectly proper, she would fix it herself, even if it meant scolding a misbehaving child at the supermarket. 

All of these people here, they didn't know her like he did. These people probably met her once for maybe five minutes and they think that they are greatly affected by her death.

He looked at his cousin and glared.

The minister cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should continue. Everyone please say your goodbyes and once you are through, you may either join all of us in the church for food, or you may return home."

They all did so and made there way into the church, besides a few people, who returned home.

Stiles stayed behind.

"I'm sorry mom. I-I don't know what to do, mom. What do I do? Dad won't even talk to me and. . ." He looked down at the ground for a few moments then back at the grave. "What do I do mom? I'm lost." He felt like collapsing.

He wished she would answer, say something, but she never would.

Instead of going into the church to join his father and everyone else, he walked straight into the woods behind the graveyard. Then he started running, he didn't stop even when the tree limbs were tearing at his skin and clothes. He used to feel alive when he ran with his mother, free and overjoyed. Now he just felt as though he died with his mother.

His vision became blurred by tears and he didn't see that the ground was no longer under his feet. He tumbled and rolled down a hill until his back smacked against a tree.

He groaned as he felt his back snap against it. His eyes stung from him falling and getting hurt. He pulled himself into his knees, looked up at the sky, and let out a scream. 

His throat felt raw and he let out a sob, collapsing onto the cold ground. He curled up into a ball and after crying himself out, he fell asleep, dreaming of red and white.