[cw: grief, self-hatred and self-blame, emotional abuse, perceived negligence, implied racism, description of parental death]
Martin shuts his eyes when John reaches out to him, the slow but inexorable resurgence of all these feelings he'd been trying so hard to avoid now threatening to drown him again, to crush him into a little ball of anguish that might crack and crumble at the slightest touch. But John catches him first, the gentle request laced with an undercurrent of need Martin is in no position to refuse. So instead of pulling away he pitches forward, collapsing against John with a heavy shudder and a quiet sob, tension draining from his shoulders as he finally lets himself just... feel it, all of it. He wraps an arm around John's middle, curling up and burrowing into the welcome safety of his bony shoulder. It's a long time before he can speak.
"A-after that," he says, "she started getting worse, and I had to, to put her in a home. And I thought, well, good. She won't have to look at me anymore. She'll get proper help from people who, who won't make any mistakes and won't... who aren't me. And I tried to tell myself that was... good. That it was okay."
He sucks in another breath, his body shaking with the effort, and struggles not to think about what a pitiful picture he makes, how easy it is for him to garner the sympathy he's not sure he deserves.
"But the thing is I—" His voice trembles and he chokes back another sob. "I left her there. I just wanted to have done with it, w-with her, and I—I didn't like it there, it was, it was sort of all we could afford and... those kinds of places are never good, you know? The halls smelled of, of chemicals and damp and sick, and... I didn't want to go there, to face her, so I just... didn't. I only went twice, when I admitted her, and, and when they called me to tell me—to tell me I should come. To say goodbye."
All too naturally he hasn't told anyone this story; he's sure he never even told John's unconscious body this story. In the coma ward he'd probably demurred and talked about how it was sad but he was getting on all right, that sort of non-committal garbage. Nothing worth remembering anyway. Even with John insensible and unable to judge him, he couldn't bear to lay this all out. Easier to pretend it away, keep it locked up. But now, with John's arms around him as if to keep him from drifting away, he suddenly feels like he can't stop.
"Sh-she was sort of lucid, I think," he says. "I mean, she was still having good days and bad days right up to the end, s-so... She knew I was there. She saw me when I came in, and I think for a second she thought I was him. Dad. Which is—"
He laughs, sort of, a desperate, hollow sound closer to a cough. "Y-you know the funny thing is I don't even remember my dad, what he looked like, anything. He was never really around even before he left, and it's not like she kept pictures. I don't even have his name, she never took his and she wanted me to have a good English name, s-so it's like—for me, it's like he never even existed. But she blamed me for all of it, everything he did, all these things I don't even know about, because I—just because I—"
He can't finish that thought, because it isn't that simple and he knows it. He was never enough, never good enough, and she resented him for reasons more than inheriting his father's features. That's just what sealed it, what made it reflexive and easy. Martin lets that line of thinking expire with a soft, frustrated tsk.
"Anyway," he says, his voice lowering a little as he starts to feel calmer, or maybe just numb. "I'm not even sure that's what she thought. She just looked surprised, and then... once she realized who I was, she... she wouldn't look at me. She didn't say a word, I don't even know if she could or she just... wouldn't, but I, I tried, I tried to talk to her, to hold her hand, and she wouldn't let me, and I just—"
The tide rises back up again and he ends up hunching over, not quite pulling away from John but feeling like he needs to compress himself, to disappear. He buries his face in his hands, his voice sounding at once muffled and too loud, echoing around his ears.
"I left," he whispers finally, bitterly. "I couldn't, I... Sh-she didn't want me there, so I just left. I left her there alone. Th-there was a nurse, the one who I think took care of her most often, and I know she saw me go. Maybe she ended up sitting with her, I don't know, but... I saw her later, the nurse, she was the only other person at the funeral, and... I mean, she was really kind. She didn't say anything about it, or, or ask any questions, and I—I suppose she's probably seen a lot worse, but... I don't know."
He keeps curled over, his hands still clutched tightly around his face, fingers digging into his hair. "And once she was gone, I... mostly I just felt relieved."
The moment he's admitted that it feels like something's shifted inside, and the shaking stops, and he just sits there, quiet and still and numb once more. "I was glad she was gone," he whispers, desolate, unable to avoid it. "And I—I don't know what kind of person that makes me."
Which is sort of a cowardly thing to say, in the end, because he's fairly certain he knows exactly what kind of person it makes him, but he's finally run out of words, and he just sits there, crumpled in John's arms, exhausted, nothing left to do but wait for him to speak.
no subject
Martin shuts his eyes when John reaches out to him, the slow but inexorable resurgence of all these feelings he'd been trying so hard to avoid now threatening to drown him again, to crush him into a little ball of anguish that might crack and crumble at the slightest touch. But John catches him first, the gentle request laced with an undercurrent of need Martin is in no position to refuse. So instead of pulling away he pitches forward, collapsing against John with a heavy shudder and a quiet sob, tension draining from his shoulders as he finally lets himself just... feel it, all of it. He wraps an arm around John's middle, curling up and burrowing into the welcome safety of his bony shoulder. It's a long time before he can speak.
"A-after that," he says, "she started getting worse, and I had to, to put her in a home. And I thought, well, good. She won't have to look at me anymore. She'll get proper help from people who, who won't make any mistakes and won't... who aren't me. And I tried to tell myself that was... good. That it was okay."
He sucks in another breath, his body shaking with the effort, and struggles not to think about what a pitiful picture he makes, how easy it is for him to garner the sympathy he's not sure he deserves.
"But the thing is I—" His voice trembles and he chokes back another sob. "I left her there. I just wanted to have done with it, w-with her, and I—I didn't like it there, it was, it was sort of all we could afford and... those kinds of places are never good, you know? The halls smelled of, of chemicals and damp and sick, and... I didn't want to go there, to face her, so I just... didn't. I only went twice, when I admitted her, and, and when they called me to tell me—to tell me I should come. To say goodbye."
All too naturally he hasn't told anyone this story; he's sure he never even told John's unconscious body this story. In the coma ward he'd probably demurred and talked about how it was sad but he was getting on all right, that sort of non-committal garbage. Nothing worth remembering anyway. Even with John insensible and unable to judge him, he couldn't bear to lay this all out. Easier to pretend it away, keep it locked up. But now, with John's arms around him as if to keep him from drifting away, he suddenly feels like he can't stop.
"Sh-she was sort of lucid, I think," he says. "I mean, she was still having good days and bad days right up to the end, s-so... She knew I was there. She saw me when I came in, and I think for a second she thought I was him. Dad. Which is—"
He laughs, sort of, a desperate, hollow sound closer to a cough. "Y-you know the funny thing is I don't even remember my dad, what he looked like, anything. He was never really around even before he left, and it's not like she kept pictures. I don't even have his name, she never took his and she wanted me to have a good English name, s-so it's like—for me, it's like he never even existed. But she blamed me for all of it, everything he did, all these things I don't even know about, because I—just because I—"
He can't finish that thought, because it isn't that simple and he knows it. He was never enough, never good enough, and she resented him for reasons more than inheriting his father's features. That's just what sealed it, what made it reflexive and easy. Martin lets that line of thinking expire with a soft, frustrated tsk.
"Anyway," he says, his voice lowering a little as he starts to feel calmer, or maybe just numb. "I'm not even sure that's what she thought. She just looked surprised, and then... once she realized who I was, she... she wouldn't look at me. She didn't say a word, I don't even know if she could or she just... wouldn't, but I, I tried, I tried to talk to her, to hold her hand, and she wouldn't let me, and I just—"
The tide rises back up again and he ends up hunching over, not quite pulling away from John but feeling like he needs to compress himself, to disappear. He buries his face in his hands, his voice sounding at once muffled and too loud, echoing around his ears.
"I left," he whispers finally, bitterly. "I couldn't, I... Sh-she didn't want me there, so I just left. I left her there alone. Th-there was a nurse, the one who I think took care of her most often, and I know she saw me go. Maybe she ended up sitting with her, I don't know, but... I saw her later, the nurse, she was the only other person at the funeral, and... I mean, she was really kind. She didn't say anything about it, or, or ask any questions, and I—I suppose she's probably seen a lot worse, but... I don't know."
He keeps curled over, his hands still clutched tightly around his face, fingers digging into his hair. "And once she was gone, I... mostly I just felt relieved."
The moment he's admitted that it feels like something's shifted inside, and the shaking stops, and he just sits there, quiet and still and numb once more. "I was glad she was gone," he whispers, desolate, unable to avoid it. "And I—I don't know what kind of person that makes me."
Which is sort of a cowardly thing to say, in the end, because he's fairly certain he knows exactly what kind of person it makes him, but he's finally run out of words, and he just sits there, crumpled in John's arms, exhausted, nothing left to do but wait for him to speak.