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The clock stops
Oct. 14th, 2005 09:25 amHe had meant to stay away. That was what his request had been all about, staying away. But Connor told himself he had to be sure. Sure that it worked. After all, magic was capricious, nobody knew that better than he did, and it wasn't like Angel, Darla and Todd Campbell were the most trustworthy of sources anyway.
On the day that the spell would be broken which gave Lawrence, Colleen and Mere Riley and their various friends and relations the memory of having raised a son named Connor, a happy child who never gave them more serious problems than the loss of teeth until he got hit by a van and survived without a scratch, Connor skipped class, drove to his parents neighbourhood, bought some pizza and showed up at their front door. He had it all figured out. If they didn't recognize him, the spell was truly broken, and he would say he was the delivery boy with some pizza. Of course, they hadn't ordered any, but it could be a simple misunderstanding, someone giving the wrong address. And he would have seen them one last time.
If they did recognize him, if the spell was still intact, he'd say it was a surprise, that he wanted to spend some time now that the new term had started. He'd find something to say. And he probably would not try to have the memories removed again, because seriously, whom could he ask?
Lawrence's car was outside, but strangely, so was today's newspaper. Which was odd. His father and mother both were always reading the L.A. Times during breakfeast; they had a well-established routine of switching various parts. Connor checked, and the mailbox was full with today's mail as well. And yet the car was there. His mouth began to feel dry. He rang the doorbell, and nobody answered.
Maybe they all decided on an impromptu visit somewhere. Aunt Jane's, for example. Or Yosemite. His parents always loved Yosemite Valley in autumn. Indian Summer and all. For a long weekend. It was Friday, after all. But why was Dad's car outside if that was so?
He wavered, then decided to use the keys he still had. Just to check. If they were was a note somewhere about that long weekend, he could leave the keys in the house anyway. He probably should.
Why would they leave you a note if they don't remember you anymore?
Connor opened the door, and the smell assaulted him at once, the smell which would not have been noticable for any normal human being yet. Not blood. No gore. Simply the start of decay.
Lawrence and Colleen were in their bed, which was where they had been at midnight between Thursday and Friday, sleeping. Lawrence's glasses were lying on the book he had been reading before switching out the light. Mere was in her room, but fully dressed for what was obviously a secret party, lipstick, eyegloss and all, lying on the floor in front of the openend window, as if she had been planning to climb out. None of them showed any physical signs of harm.
In his head, he could hear the voice of Colleen Riley, as he had never heard it in reality, reading to her small son, reading a fairy tale. Briar Rose. One prick of a thumb, and the entire castle fell to sleep, because there was a curse. Only they weren't asleep. The fairy tale had gotten it all wrong. He felt their pulses, but he knew as soon as he saw them. Dead. All three. Dead.
Time splintered. He was five years old, and finding his parents again in a supermarket, after having been so sure they were lost, but here they were, embracing him, and wasn't it silly to have been afraid? He was five, only it was hard to count the years in Quortoth, and found Father again after five days of tracking, and the skin around Father's eyes crinkled which meant Father was pleased and proud, and wasn't stupid to have ever doubted he'd find him again?
He was seventeen, or so they said, and Angel's minions Fred and Gunn brought him to the sea to deceive him and talked about Angel's secret plans for Father. He raced back, back, back, but it was too late. Father was dead. He was seventeen, and Mom and Dad gave him enough cash to buy Tracy her dress for the prom as a surprise, and Mere teased him mercilessly about his taste, and nobody ever went away. He was eighteen, and dealing out death for his goddess, though there was a choice, wasn't there, there was always a choice, and then she was gone, and how dare that man try and committ suicide, how dare he leave his family? Stupid human face splintering beneath his fists. He was eighteen, and earned a place at Stanford, and everyone was proud. A toast. A toast to family. Family was everything. Wasn't it?
Oh, I don't mean this family.
He picked up the phone next to his mother's bed and dialed Justine's number. Justine was whom you shared your parents' dead bodies with; this much he remembered. She ought to be here. They had to burn them, hadn't they? When she picked up, he said:
"Dead. They're all dead."
Then he hung up again.
On the day that the spell would be broken which gave Lawrence, Colleen and Mere Riley and their various friends and relations the memory of having raised a son named Connor, a happy child who never gave them more serious problems than the loss of teeth until he got hit by a van and survived without a scratch, Connor skipped class, drove to his parents neighbourhood, bought some pizza and showed up at their front door. He had it all figured out. If they didn't recognize him, the spell was truly broken, and he would say he was the delivery boy with some pizza. Of course, they hadn't ordered any, but it could be a simple misunderstanding, someone giving the wrong address. And he would have seen them one last time.
If they did recognize him, if the spell was still intact, he'd say it was a surprise, that he wanted to spend some time now that the new term had started. He'd find something to say. And he probably would not try to have the memories removed again, because seriously, whom could he ask?
Lawrence's car was outside, but strangely, so was today's newspaper. Which was odd. His father and mother both were always reading the L.A. Times during breakfeast; they had a well-established routine of switching various parts. Connor checked, and the mailbox was full with today's mail as well. And yet the car was there. His mouth began to feel dry. He rang the doorbell, and nobody answered.
Maybe they all decided on an impromptu visit somewhere. Aunt Jane's, for example. Or Yosemite. His parents always loved Yosemite Valley in autumn. Indian Summer and all. For a long weekend. It was Friday, after all. But why was Dad's car outside if that was so?
He wavered, then decided to use the keys he still had. Just to check. If they were was a note somewhere about that long weekend, he could leave the keys in the house anyway. He probably should.
Why would they leave you a note if they don't remember you anymore?
Connor opened the door, and the smell assaulted him at once, the smell which would not have been noticable for any normal human being yet. Not blood. No gore. Simply the start of decay.
Lawrence and Colleen were in their bed, which was where they had been at midnight between Thursday and Friday, sleeping. Lawrence's glasses were lying on the book he had been reading before switching out the light. Mere was in her room, but fully dressed for what was obviously a secret party, lipstick, eyegloss and all, lying on the floor in front of the openend window, as if she had been planning to climb out. None of them showed any physical signs of harm.
In his head, he could hear the voice of Colleen Riley, as he had never heard it in reality, reading to her small son, reading a fairy tale. Briar Rose. One prick of a thumb, and the entire castle fell to sleep, because there was a curse. Only they weren't asleep. The fairy tale had gotten it all wrong. He felt their pulses, but he knew as soon as he saw them. Dead. All three. Dead.
Time splintered. He was five years old, and finding his parents again in a supermarket, after having been so sure they were lost, but here they were, embracing him, and wasn't it silly to have been afraid? He was five, only it was hard to count the years in Quortoth, and found Father again after five days of tracking, and the skin around Father's eyes crinkled which meant Father was pleased and proud, and wasn't stupid to have ever doubted he'd find him again?
He was seventeen, or so they said, and Angel's minions Fred and Gunn brought him to the sea to deceive him and talked about Angel's secret plans for Father. He raced back, back, back, but it was too late. Father was dead. He was seventeen, and Mom and Dad gave him enough cash to buy Tracy her dress for the prom as a surprise, and Mere teased him mercilessly about his taste, and nobody ever went away. He was eighteen, and dealing out death for his goddess, though there was a choice, wasn't there, there was always a choice, and then she was gone, and how dare that man try and committ suicide, how dare he leave his family? Stupid human face splintering beneath his fists. He was eighteen, and earned a place at Stanford, and everyone was proud. A toast. A toast to family. Family was everything. Wasn't it?
Oh, I don't mean this family.
He picked up the phone next to his mother's bed and dialed Justine's number. Justine was whom you shared your parents' dead bodies with; this much he remembered. She ought to be here. They had to burn them, hadn't they? When she picked up, he said:
"Dead. They're all dead."
Then he hung up again.
