Task Three - A Defining Moment
The room was getting darker.
Dorian’s vision blurred slowly, spinning softly, before finally going completely dark.
His head slipped from its spot on his palm, and he jerked himself awake.
Beside him, his lawyer cleared his throat.
"…If the younger Mr. Gallagher would like to stay conscious, we could try to get this hearing underway." said the judge, who had spent the morning dodging paparazzi outside her courthouse, and was understandably upset.
Dorian nodded sheepishly, and ran a hand through his unruly hair. He’d awoken early this morning, trying to get himself to look as presentable as possible. If he was going to prove today that he didn’t need his parents, he figured he should probably avoid coming in looking homeless. Even if at the end of this, he would be, technically, homeless.
But no matter what he tried, he was never really able to get his hair right.
He was still with his parents at this point. Technically. He lived in their house, anyway. He wasn’t sure if they even noticed that, but they hadn’t left for the hearing without him today, like he’d expected them to, even if they didn’t talk to him the entire way over.
He’d given them notice about the hearing, like he was required to.
He told them they could either consent to it, or contest it in court.
Either they wanted him or they didn’t.
The fact that they were here right now should have meant that they did. That they’d seen the light, and come to their senses, and wanted to be parents for once. That they wanted to keep their child.
But what they wanted was the extra income he’d been generating.
His father was looking at his cell phone under the table now, and his mother was applying lipstick with a little compact mirror, and he didn’t have to wonder where his lack of concentration came from.
He told himself he was playing a part. This character had his name, and his situation, and unfortunately his parents, but he was not sleepy, and not bored, and not angry, and not at all afraid.
No matter what the outcome of this hearing was - whether he ended up back with his parents or ended up on his own - he knew he’d be scared.
But he wasn’t Dorian Gallagher the terrified 15 year old nearly-homeless boy. He was Dorian Gallagher the character. The confident legal adult with really awesome hair.
"Now," the judge continued, "as you know, if this petition is granted, the minor, Dorian Henry Gallagher, will be considered to be over the age of majority for the purposes set forth in California Family Code section 7050. He will be permitted to consent to medical treatment, to apply for a work permit, and to enroll in school or college. He must, however, give up his right to be supported by his parents. He must still attend school, he may not get married without parental consent, and, in most cases, will remain under juvenile court jurisdiction if he commits a crime. Is all of this clear to all parties?"
It was.
And over the course of the hearing, it became clear to all parties that Dorian was better off on his own.
He explained that he was making more than enough money to support himself. He explained that he could find a place to live on his own. He explained that he understood enough about his situation to have found the proper documentation to file his emancipation petition on his own, which showed how serious he was about this.
The judge started off side-eyeing and eye rolling, and Dorian knew it was partially because of his job. He was a child actor. She probably thought he’d end up like Britney Spears, randomly shaving off all of his beautiful hair in a drugged up night on the town. But he didn’t want to get away from his parents so he could have parties. He wanted to get away from them so he could have a life. And maybe a little bit of say in it.
His parents did their best to tell the judge they were good parents. They kept Dorian fed and housed and clean, but the judge’s side-eyeing quickly turned onto them when it became clear that the one thing Dorian had never had enough of was love. …And then once it came out that they’d been stealing all the money he’d made from his last five years of working, nothing they could say could save them.
The judge quickly approved the petition, and signed Dorian’s Declaration of Emancipation.
He walked downstairs and filed it at the counter.
And it was done.
He walked into the courtroom a child, and walked out a legal adult.
His parents were still his parents, technically.
But they walked down the courtroom steps away from their son without a single look back.
Dorian wanted to feel bad. A normal person would feel bad for essentially divorcing their parents, wouldn’t they?
But it was their fault he’d never be normal.
So as they got into their stupidly expensive shiny silver car and drove away, Dorian stood alone on the steps, and smiled.
—-
The next few months were the happiest of Dorian’s life.
He was free.
He could go where he wanted, and do what he wanted, and he didn’t have to answer to anybody.
He started loving his job again, now that his mother wasn’t shouting at him from the sidelines on set.
He got his learner’s permit and made his agent drive around with him.
Once he was working on a movie with Russel Crowe and he made Russel Crowe drive around with him.
He ate what he wanted, bought what he wanted, chose the roles he wanted to play, and finally felt in control of his own life.
—-
But like it always is, Dorian’s happiness was short lived.
He got the call while he was driving.
As soon as it had stopped raining, he’d grabbed the nearest adult (who happened to be a friendly janitor working in his new apartment building named Bert) and ran to his car.
Dorian loved driving. It felt like freedom. Like he could just keep going forever if he wanted, and end up anywhere. He could go to Mexico, or Canada, or New York City. He had the world at his fingertips, and it was just him (and Bert) and the open road.
When his phone started ringing, he turned down the radio, and pulled over to the side of the road to avoid a crash.
He still thinks that’s kind of ironic now.
For the life of him, to this day, Dorian can’t recall who called him, or what exactly they said.
His parents had been driving in the rain.
Something about an awards show.
Somethng about a transport truck.
Slippery roads.
Someone wasn’t paying attention.
…They crashed.
They didn’t survive.
No matter how much you think you hate somebody, no matter how manipulative and horrible they were to you, or how free you feel once you’re finally without them… if you loved them even a little, even once, it’s still a punch to the gut when they’re gone completely.
There was a press conference.
A memorial service.
A funeral.
The paparazzi got a lot of good shots of Dorian wearing black and looking devastated.
But he wasn’t devastated. He knew he should be. A normal person would be devastated when their parents die in a car crash, wouldn’t they?
But it was their fault he’d never be normal.
What he felt was numb. A bit broken. Mostly alone.
All the papers reported it as a tragedy. For someone so young to lose his parents.
The media, like the vultures they are, crowded around him, trying to feed off of his misery. Oprah wanted to do a special. He wasn’t even sixteen years old yet and talks of an autobiography were swirling around. He kept getting scripts for darker and darker material, since broken and miserable was apparently how the world wanted to see him.
But through all of it, any sadness they saw was just exhaustion.
Dorian didn’t cry at his parents’ funeral.
Because he’d never believed that they would have cried at his.
