HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY! – @troubldtwn
he doesn't get there until after dark, as he had been careful not to disturb nathan's time, but the cemetery cloaked in shadow can’t possibly unsettle him more than the warring emotions that’ve been vying for his attention throughout the day. mother's day had never left a bittersweet taste on his tongue until this year, when a phone call home to his mama suddenly wasn't enough to ease the ache that throbs out a list of his failures as a son.
a long slow breath, trembling just slightly, hisses out of him when he finally finds the right name etched into stone. he stares down at the name, ELIZABETH WUORNOS glaring up at him and suddenly leaving him feeling lost. he doesn't know how to mourn a woman he doesn't know, whose name alone tears open a hole in his chest he's spent the last thirty odd years denying the existence of.
uncertain fingers lay flowers, wild ones, picked almost absently, one by one, on the walk here, at the corner of the stone. it’s not enough, he knows that, but it’s all he’s got, all he knows to do.
he doesn’t know how long he stands there, the whispering of grass and trees in the breeze around him the only soundtrack for silence he’s somehow managed to convince himself is awkward, before he sits. the movement is rushed, disjointed, like he’s a child rushing to obey some unspoken order. and before he knows it, he’s crosslegged on the ground, threading the grass lightly through his fingers.
the choice to start talking isn’t one he makes consciously, he’s not completely sure when exactly his rushing thoughts find their way out of his mouth, but they do.
it starts slowly, stilted introductions and a recap of his life so far. his name’s benjamin mitchell now, instead of hansen or wuornos. that he grew up in tennessee. that his adoptive parents were great, that they love him. that he’s a cop, like his dad, or was one, before everything went wrong. that he stumbled back into haven on accident and can’t seem to be able to bring himself to leave again.
then more words are spilling up his throat and past his teeth like a levy’s been broken: he thinks sometimes if he tries he can remember the sound of her voice, but it’s like reaching for something he can’t quite see through murky water. sometimes he thinks he can remember the sound nathan’s laughter when they were kids. that as long as he can remember, here comes the sun has made him cry and he thinks he knows why, now.
the more he talks, the faster the words come, almost tangling themselves into something intelligible as they come tumbling out, even in spite of his tightening throat and the tremble in his hands that has his grip on the grass blades tightening, shredding them against his palms. there are broken apologies for following max that night, for not making it back to home to haven in time to say goodbye. he’s sorry that she never got to know he hadn’t died, that she didn’t get to be his mother the way she should’ve been. that he wishes more than anything he’d have had the chance to meet her and garland. to have grown up at nathan’s side.
but maybe it’s for the best, he tells the open night air, if he’d come back in time to be her son again, she’d have only ended up as disappointed as he’s sure he’s made jo and jacob mitchell. he’d have only failed her, too, in the end.
he’s not entirely sure exactly how long he goes on, his soul spilling out onto the headstone before him, but by the time he’s got nothing left, his eyes are red, shoulders shaking. there’s a small pile of shredded grass on the ground before him, and the sky is beginning to lighten.
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