Ten Petaled Rose

Chapter 4: No Rest For The Wicked

Mimi was late coming in. Opening the front door delicately, assuming John was in bed by now. Startled by the figure that sat in the dark by the kitchen table. Flicking on the light only to sigh in relief. It was only John. Hunched over a bit. Holding something, but she couldn't make out what.

"John?" She said softly, just in case he'd fallen asleep that way.

He didn't answer, but somehow she knew he'd heard her. Putting her purse down and removing the shoes from her aching feet before approaching him. Soft hand massaging the shoulder it found itself on. Gentle, as she lowered herself and looked up at him. Like she did when he was a child. In some aspects, he still was. So soft and forgiving. Under all that armor he wore, at least. Still so fragile in certain aspects.

"John?" She murmured, trying not to disturb him too much, as he also had a short fuse, "Are you alright, love?"

He sat quietly. Staring at the letter he'd written. All of three words inside. Angry at himself, for he didn't have the heart to send it. No matter what she did or how she hurt him, he never had it in himself to hurt her back. Contemplating her reaction upon opening it. Would she care? Would she listen? What would she do? Likely nothing. He imagined she'd just toss it in the rubbish and continue on with her antics. Disregarding him and his wishes like she'd done his whole life. God, he hated her.

"Is that..." She gestured toward the letter. Asking, without saying, if it was from Julia, his mother.

"No." he responded, turning away as he extended it toward her.

She took it with a hesitant hand. Sharp nail tearing it open. She read it and immediately understood. Arms wrapping around John's shoulders. Head resting against the fine hair at the base of his neck. She didn't say anything. He didn't want her to. He just wanted to sit in the dark and hate himself. Frustrated beyond belief. He didn't understand. Why torture him like that? Why do that to him? Hadn't he suffered enough?

Evidently not.

*

Paul awoke, somehow surprised to find himself on George's sofa. Having exhausted himself in his pathetic display of emotions. Groaning mentally at himself because even if his mother was dying, he didn't have to put George through it any more than he already was. It was selfish of him, really. Pushing himself upright, glancing out the window only to see that the sun had set. Eyes widening frantically as he stood. Fixing his hair in the mirror beside the door before reaching for the handle.

"Paul, dear are you leaving?" Louise, George's mother called from halfway down the stairs. Holding what looked like a pair of pyjamas, sympathetic eyes piercing his own.

"I-I'll be late." He replied, unsure how his father would react to his sudden outburst. Having run nearly eight blocks to get there.

She laughed a delicate laugh and met Paul by the door, "Oh, don't worry about that Darling. I called your father. He knows you're spending the night. I've set up a bed for you in George's room. These should fit you." She handed over a pair of baby blue pyjamas, kissed his cheek, and vanished into the kitchen. Still processing her words, Paul stood still. Was it really that easy? To avoid, as terrible as it sounded, his mother? All he had to do was show up? He thought about it for several minutes. Wondering how awful of a person that made him. Climbing the stairs and getting dressed, before appearing in the doorway of George's room, unsure exactly how he'd gotten there. Lost somewhere in his own mind.

"You feel better?" George questioned, gesturing to the mattress that lay on the ground beside him, where Paul then came to sit. Nodding, though terribly embarrassed. George had never seen him cry before. Especially not as dramatically as that had been. Eyes caste downward. He knew well that emotions made George uncomfortable. He just wasn't that type of person. Though he was eternally grateful for his trying.