look, it's all fun and games, but then this fucking card. jesus christ in heaven with a stripper on his lap, it breaks me every time.
travis hackett is a grown-ass 56-year-old man. he's an officer of the police, a respected member of society. a werewolf hunter, to top that. but he keeps a recent birthday card from his mom pinned to a board. at this age, most mothers don't send a card, and if they do, most sons don't keep them. he did. it's not even the fact itself, it's the how he kept it.
he puts it in a room upstairs, where nobody usually goes, but he also keeps it on display there. he hides it away from others, but to him, it's an object of pride.
he keeps it open, so they words are easily seen.
and like... it's not even a good card. dull-colored, showing lack of interest or emotion of the person who chose it. kinda generic with its forced joke and the oh how the time flies message. this takes two whole lines out of five total. the last two are the driest congrats ever and the standard sign-off.
but the third line. You're a good boy, like a pat on the head. He's not the best anything or the most anything. He's not a dear son. He's just. A good. Boy. AND HE FUCKING KEEPS IT LIKE A TROPHY.
but then this happens.
A good boy protects his family. You ain't no good boy.
and on that note, travis hackett starts to unravel. within the next seconds, he:
admits his failure at once (I wish I could take it back, but I can't) the moment his ma raises a voice
when it doesn't work, he does his best to calm the storm down, because I bet he knows exactly how this conflict escalates and he's been through it many times (he asks his mother to calm down, he says please to show he's being rational and not angry. him being angry makes her angry and the whole thing spirals out of control)
doesn't try to defend himself when his mother calls him a piece of shit and a trash and a motherfucker
calls out to her when nothing works
uses protective body language
you know who else does it? kids in abusive households, who had to find secret tracks around someone's temper and be on their best behavior, trying their hardest to prove their worth and failing. thinking: I'm not good enough. thinking: they wouldn't be angry with me if I were good.
so yeah, the fact that this royally fucked-up man clings to a birthday card with words of praise from the woman who got him that royally fucked-up in the first place? that. that's what breaks me.
Characters: Travis Hackett
Chosen ending: The Hacketts are all dead except Travis, Laura survives
Short summary: Travis is trying to cope with the trauma of losing his family as best he can (which is not good at all). At the same time, unsigned postcards start to arrive.
Words count: 2595 (trauma, healing)
Tags: @b33barlowsstuff, @imperfectjam, @sera-wonderland, @strawberryoverkill, @hrefna-the-raven (tagging my Travis squad, though it's ok if this one's not to your liking)
(I don't pretend to write master psychology or trauma, so I'm sorry if you hate it, but a Travis!meta thought wrote itself into a fic, plus I'm still on my Travis x Laura enemies-to-slightly-less-enemies-with-connection bullshit, oops)
September, 26
This feels stupid.
(no date)
fix the fence
buy coffee
start those quarterly reports !
check podcast nothing new
(no date)
No, I know, it ain't it. I'll try tomorrow.
Can't think of anything worth saying.
October, 6
Here's the thing. Chris used to keep a journal. He said it helped, and I owe it to him to try. Just gotta write whatever's on my mind or stuff that happened. So. Drank a beer. Took another patrol shift. Way behind on the quarterlies, really gotta start on them now. What else?
God, what a load of crap.
Chris is dead.
Bobby's dead.
Caleb's dead.
Kaylee's dead.
Dad's dead.
That's what's on my fucking mind.
October, 7
Ma is dead.
There, I wrote it. Feels good. Not that she's I don't mean fuck
October, 19
Full moon yesterday.
Didn't know what else to do, so I started packing.
Unpacked around dawn. I don’t need silver bullets anymore.
October, 27
A postcard came from NY. Weird. Nothing but the sender's address. Threw it out.
October, 31
Fucking habits.
I was patrolling, and drove to the camp site. Didn't mean to, just sort of ended up here. Sat in the car like an idiot looking at the windows. Usually, one would be lit. I'd get out, come in, we'd crack a couple of cold ones. I can’t bring myself to //
A bunch of kids just tried to break in on camp's grounds. I think they were looking for a place to get wasted on a Halloween night, which I completely forgot about. One of them was dressed as a werewolf and kept howling. For a moment, I thought Anyway. Scaring the shit out of them felt good. Shouting, too. Disrespectful assholes didn't have any right to be here. Not here.
PS. Almost called Chris to tell the story and have a good laugh.
November, 14
Sent in the quarterly reports last week. WAY overdue. Things kind of lose their importance, even I know it’s not a good sign. Everything that happens swooshes right through my brain, in and out, like a bullet. Maybe a bullet is what I need
That last part came out of nowhere. I'm not really thinking it. I mean I wasn't, but now that I wrote it, I obviously am. Shit! This whole journal thing is fucking my brain up. Great advice, C. Real nice. It should be helping, not making more mess. How am I supposed to figure it out?
No, fuck that. Ma raised us better than self-pity.
But then, Ma also raised us to protect the family.
November, 19
Full moon. I still measure time by calendar marks. Three moons ago they were all alive.
December, 18
Full moon.
December, 26
Another postcard came. Obnoxious Christmassy stuff, with one snowman sneezing the carrot out and another dodging it and shouting 'I'm okay!' Nothing more, nothing less. Someone must have screwed up the address. This had better stop.
Anyway, this past month. Nothing much to say, I was clearing out the house. Couldn't be there with all of the rooms untouched, so. Yeah. That's it. Done the job.
(later) No, I shouldn't lie, should I? What's even the point.
It smells empty now, the house. Desolate. Like a place where people haven't lived for a long time, even though I've literally been there. I can't seem to fill it up on my own. I'm not enough.
Many things there. Memories. Found Bobby's old book about horses. He fucking loved horses, that kid. Couldn't remember where he put his shoes but recited dozens of breeds by heart. He dreamt we'd turn the house into a ranch. It was that one year when our folks shut the Quarry down cause Bobby was getting bigger, and more and more different, and he needed more attention instead of less. He was obsessed with the idea for months, driving Ma insane. Chris finally had to step in and say, 'Hey, I'll do you one better. We'll reopen the camp, and you'll have lots of kids to play with, how's that?' Bobby almost shat his pants with happiness. Poor lonely kid. I was too grown-up and off to college, and Chris was too… I don’t want to say normal, but maybe he was. He had his own friends. Bobby was with Ma most of the time and Ma was… well, she was Ma. Out of us three, Chris was the only one who had his special way with her. So they decided to reopen. I don't know if Bobby ever remembered the ranch idea again because I think, from then on, he slept and saw himself with a bunch of kids playing together on the camp's grounds.
Spent half an hour on the floor with that goddamn book, nearly crying. We should have got the fucking horses.
January, 17
Full moon. Don't know why I keep doing that.
January, 27
Moved into the station a couple of weeks ago. With all that space in the house, there's just too much, well, space. I'm used to having a big family, that’s the thing. Another habit. Anyone who grew up with one would know, it sinks it teeth in and doesn't let go.
Even C. and I, we went away for college only to come back home. I think, by then it had already been late. That's how Ma rasied us, always keep close to your family and care for it as best you can. We learned it with Bobby, and then with Chris's kids when they came along. We had been a wolf pack long before half of us turned into wolves. The house is cracked in the corners and crooked all over, and we were, too, with our issues and complicated relationships. It was never simple. At least, I knew who I was when I was there. A son, an elder brother, an uncle, lots and lots of strings upon strings. I don't really know who I am now. A survivor, I guess. I survived my family. Any one of us would say that's worth a gold fucking medal.
February, 3
Apparently, in order for it to help, it's supposed to hurt. Catharsis.
Don't have much time to write, but I got on one of those websites for people who lost someone. There are therapists there, too, so you can talk to them if you need to.
Long story short, after a few false-starts, I found Doc Morgan. She was okay. Talked to me for a while about loss, about myself, too. How I’m eating, how I’m sleeping, agitations, fixations. There was, surprisingly, a lot to say. That’s when the catharsis thing came up, I was talking about how Chris was writing and I was trying, too, but it wasn’t working. Then she started asking questions about my family and how I lost them, when it happened (this I could answer) and how (this I couldn't), so I had to drop it.
Before that, she also said I 'harbor a lot of guilt'. No shit, Doc. I wish there was someone to talk about it with. Someone who knew the truth.
Catharsis, huh? Shit.
March, 8
Thirty-five years on the force, and that’s the first time it happens. Got shot on the job. Nothing deadly, a bullet in the arm. Had to wear a cast for a month, so writing is more of an exercise now. Some punk was trying to rob the petrol station, things went south, and I got a bullet, that’s it. Guess hunting werewolves makes you cocky enough to underestimate an ordinary dick with a gun.
Anyway, the whole thing blew out of proportion, and I got handed an award and got my picture taken. Sweet fucking Jesus. I bet they knew there’s no other fool who’d agree to patrol this god-forsaken piece of land, so they were sucking up like hell.
Two new postcards came. This is getting annoying. Haven’t had a look yet, just noticed them in the mail box.
February 16 was the full moon. Still restless.
March, 9
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.
The postcards. Almost forgot about them again, but went to take a look.
One looks kind of vintage, with two dogs sharing a bone and the ‘I don’t have a bone to pick with you’ phrase in a heinous font. The other is a goddamn get-well card sent by post.
I looked the address up, should have done that long ago (some cop!). It’s a dorm address, for the NYS College of Veterinary Medicine at Cornell University. A vet college.
I don’t know if I’m tired or pissed. Both. Pissed, more. Who does she think she is sending me postcards? Why? Is this a joke, does she think we’re friends? Why would I ever want to hear from her? What in hell are those writings? Got a hold of the previous card, the Christmas one. ‘I’m okay’. And now, ‘I don’t have a bone to pick with you’. God, and the get-well one, too. She must have checked the local papers to see that article. The sheer ARROGANCE. Should have left her right there in that basement with Chris.
(later) Got so wound up that I drove to the nearest post office. Picked the one white card there, the one you’re supposed to draw on to make it personal. Left it blank, wrote STOP IT on the back, and sent right away. This has got to end.
March, 18
Full moon.
Up all night again. This, too, has got to end.
March, 26
Went patrolling again and drove to the Quarry by the end of the shift. There’s nothing horrifying on uneasy about it in morning light, just a bunch of wooden cabins with sun shining on the surface of the lake. Almost peaceful. Walked around for a while there, thinking. You’d never guess how close to the earth lie the dark secrets hidden all around.
I don’t know what to do with it. The main cottage is ruined, and I don’t exactly have the time or money to repair it. Even if I did, I certainly can’t run it on my own. Chris knew his way around, he loved it. Really, loved it. Spent hours designing improvement plans, or getting the best deals for food delivery, or talking with kids. He was a natural. I’m no Chris. I can’t really fill his shoes, never could.
I’ll probably have to shut it down or resell. The thought doesn’t sit right. I’m on the verge of the right, reasonable decision but can’t make it for the life of me. It’s all wrong.
April, 4
A postcard came. Of course. I guess I felt it in my guts that it would.
A profound-quote kind this time, the type that’s used for aesthetics, not for actual posting.
Stood by the mail box for a good minute. I think I understand now.
Catharsis.
April, 13
It’s time now, makes no sense to postpone it any longer. In order for it to help, it’s supposed to hurt.
I have always, all my life, tried to be a good person. Do the right thing, make the right decisions. I am a police officer, for God’s sake, have been for thirty-five years. I swore to protect people. But Ma also raised us to protect the family. What does one do when being a good person contradicts being a good brother, a good son?
I harbor a lot of guilt, Doc Morgan said. Damn right, I do. Good people, innocent people died, because I made a choice. All it takes is one broken oath, because once you break it, there’s no going back. There’s no clear path, nowhere to put your loyalty. All you can do is keep going, further and further into the woods. And along that road, there’s always a choice. People you don’t know, whom you’d sworn to protect, or your family, whom you love. Who do you protect? Whose life do you save? They don’t have answers in the police academy. It’s like that ethical problem where you’re riding a trolley without any sort of brakes, and if you keep on your track, you’ll kill a bunch of people, but if you make a choice to pull the lever and switch the trolley to another track, you’ll only kill one. They say the answer is often ‘don’t switch, don’t take that responsibility, let it ride’. Here’s where the catch comes in. What if those people are your family? One stranger seems like a reasonable enough sacrifice to save the ones you love. Here’s another catch. What if this situation comes up over, and over, and over again? And what if you pull the lever so many times that the pile of bodies grows out of control? Does a good person still do it? Does a good son?
He does, it turns out, because no one ever says: enough. Not one damn person. Dad didn’t say it, Ma certainly never did, not even Chris. The good son, the golden son. I can’t hold it against him, really, we all loved him. He was the kind of person who made everything better simply by showing up with his broad smile and stupid jokes. It just so happened, that the choice was mine, and there were always switches, and Chris was always on the tracks. His children, too. Ultimately, all of us. And once I stopped making that damn choice, the trolley rode right through.
‘Guilt is a ravenous creature,’ that’s what it said, on the postcard. It is, indeed. It’s the never-ending tear between ‘what if I never pulled the lever’ and ‘what if I pulled it just one more time’. It’s people you swore to protect but didn’t, and family you were raised to protect but didn’t. The guilt of not being a good person and not being a good son.
I’ve split myself over it so much I can hardly feel the halves, so I’m saying: enough. I’ve done enough. I’d loved them and protected them as best I could but the truth is, the most important choice is to stop sitting in a crashed trolley contemplating your choices. One person with a rope can’t pull everyone else back from the well. At some point, you’ve got to decide to cut the rope. I’m doing just that. I’ve spent enough time being a good brother and son. Maybe I can try being a good person again now.
April, 14
Went to send a postcard. I don’t know what she’s gonna make of it and if she understands at all. The whole thing is just too hard to explain. Catharsis.
For a second, I even thought of tearing out the last entry and sending it as a letter, but shit, the drama. So I went to the camp and took one of the Quarry postcards instead, from the souvenirs stand. Didn’t know what to write. Then just wrote THANK YOU. Maybe it helps her guilt, too, the one that’s been making her send those cards.
I hope so. God, I hope she understands.
April, 17
Full moon yesterday.
Slept through it.
May, 1
The answer came.
LIKEWISE.
She did understand.
//
//
//
P.S.
July, 7
I didn’t plan on writing anything else, but then another card came. A happy-birthday card, an absolutely idiotic one, with printed cake, and candles, and confetti.
I’m not even gonna ask how the hell she knew.
But then again, I could always send a postcard and find out.
