Between D2L and AS, this boy done become heartless
Shouldn't have gotten in them people business.
You think so huh
Invictus
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7883
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
You think so huh
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7883
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
Season IV | Chapter VII - Die On This Hill
The porch light flickers.
Not enough to go out - just enough to hum, a faint buzz that cuts through everything else. Zane stares straight ahead, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. The wood beneath him is cold, rough through the thin fabric of his sweats.
The front door sits open behind him, pushed just far enough that it creaks every now and then when the wind nudges it.
Voices spill out from inside. Sharp, urgent, and overlapping.
Zane hears it all but none of it lands.
A police radio crackles somewhere to his left. Another officer walks past him, boots heavy against the concrete walkaway, brushing by like Zane isn’t even there. Red and blue lights flash rhythmically across the street, washing over the house, over the yard, over him. Every few seconds, the world turns red.
Then blue.
Then red again.
It doesn’t feel real. It feels staged. Like if he just sat there still long enough, someone would yell cut and everything would reset.
From inside he could hear his grandmother’s voice. Broken. A sound Zane has never heard before and instantly knows he never wants to hear again.
It cuts through everything else. Higher than the officers. Louder than the radios. Raw in a way that doesn’t sound human.
Zane’s jaw tightens. Still nothing comes.
No tears. No anger. No words.
Just that same empty, hollow quiet for pressing in on his chest.
A car door slams somewhere down the street. Footsteps approach, quick against the pavement. Zane doesn’t turn his head at first. Doesn’t move at all.
“Zane.”
Bianca. Her voice cracks on his name.
He blinks slowly, like it takes effort to process it, and lifts his eyes.
She’s standing at the edge of the walkaway, breathing hard like she ran the whole way here. Her hair is slightly out of place, strands sticking to her cheeks. The makeup she had on earlier is smeared now - dark streaks trailing down from her eyes.
She’s still wearing the same outfit from the game. The jacket. His jacket. The red lettering across the back barely visible in the flashing lights.
She steps closer. Slow as first. Careful. Like she’s not sure if she’s allowed.
“Zane…” she says again, softer this time.
He looks at her. Really looked. Her lips tremble. Her hands hover at her sides, unsure of where to go. She glances past him, toward the open door, toward the noise inside, and her face crumples just a little more.
“Baby - I don’t -” she starts, but the sentence falls apart halfway through.
Zane just stares. There’s a long pause. The kind that stretches too far.
Bianca takes another step forward until she’s right in front of him. Close enough that he can see the way her chest rises and falls, quick and uneven.
She kneels down. Her hands come up, hesitating for a split second before they settle on his forearms.
“Hey,” she says gently. “What can I do?”
He looks at her. But something about the way she asks makes his eyes focus a little sharper.
“You’re okay,” she whispers, even though they both know that’s not true. “I’m here.”
Zane’s lips part slightly. He strains. Nothing comes out.
His throat moves like he’s trying to swallow something that won’t go down.
Inside, Mary lets out another cry - louder this time. It echoes through the house, spills out onto the porch.
Bianca flinches. Zane doesn’t.
He just sits there, staring through her now more than at her. She tightens her grip on his arms.
“Zane,” her voice is shaking harder now. “Talk to me.”
He blinks again. Slow. A whisper comes. Barely there.
“... he was just…”
His voice cracks off before the sentence can manifest. Bianca leans closer.
Zane’s eyes drift past her shoulder, unfocused. Trying to see something that wasn’t there.
“He was just at the game.”
The words come out flat. Distant. Like he’s repeating something he heard instead of something he knows.
“I know,” she says softly, her face tightening.
Zane shakes his head once. Small. Almost imperceptible. He exhales, the breath uneven.
“He bought you and Grandma hot chocolate. That’s the last thing he bought.”
Bianca’s eyes well again, fresh tears spilling over. Zane’s gaze drops to the ground between them.
There’s a dark spot on the concrete. He stares at it like it means something.
His hands curl slightly, fingers twitching. Bianca moves one hand up, cupping the side of his face. Gently. Careful.
His face tightens. His brow pulls together. His breathing stutters once. Bianca pulls him forward into her, wrapping her arms around him, pressing his head into her shoulder.
He doesn’t hug back. Doesn’t move his arms at all. But he doesn’t pull away either.
He just sits there, letting her hold him as the lights keep flashing, as the voices keep talking, as the door behind them creaks open and shut with the wind.
And somewhere inside the house, his grandmother keeps screaming.
Cam’s room is dim. The blinds are half-shut, letting in thin strips of gray daylight that cut across the carpet and up the side of his bed. His phone lies face down a few feet away, silent now after buzzing nonstop earlier. Clothes are scattered near the closet, one sneaker tipped over on its side.
He sits on the floor, back pressed against the edge of his mattress, knees bent, hands clasped tight in front of him.
His knuckles are still red. Swollen in spots. He stares at them for a long time, turning his hands slightly, watching how the skin stretches. There’s a faint smear of dried blood along one finger. He rubs at it with his thumb, but it doesn’t come off.
Cam exhales through his nose. Shakes his head once.
“I’m such a fucking idiot” he mutters under his breath. The words barely fill the room before they disappear.
His eyes start to sting again. He squeezes them shut, pressing the heels of his hands into them like he can stop it. Pressure builds behind his eyes, sharp and hot.
He inhales slow. Tries to steady it.
But when he lifts his hand to wipe his face, his expression tightens instantly - he hisses through his teeth, pulling back as pain shoots across his cheek.
“Fuck” he breathes, blinking hard. He forgot about that. When Zane decked him across his face.
His jaw flexes slightly, testing it. Still sore. Still real. Everything from last night feels real in flashes. Not the whole thing - just pieces.
Zane standing over him. The burning look on his face. The sound of everyone going quiet.
Cam’s fingers curl tighter together.
A knock hits the door. Before he can say anything, it opens anyway.
Rebecca steps in, closing it gently behind her. She lingers by the door for a second, eyes scanning the room before settling on him.
She doesn’t move right away. Just decides to watch for a moment. Cam doesn’t look up.
She takes a few slow steps forward, stopping near the dresser. One hand rests against it, fingers tapping lightly against the wood like she’s trying to ground herself.
“How you doing?” she asks. Her voice is quieter than usual. Casual.
Cam shrugs. Barely a movement. Silence hangs for a beat.
Rebecca shifts her weight slightly, glancing at his hands, then his face.
“I assume you heard what happened?”
Cam nods once. Slowly. Doesn’t even move an inch to look at her.
Rebecca presses her lips together, then nods to herself. “Did you talk to him?” she asks.
Cam’s head lifts this time. His eyes are red. Wet. Confused.
“Were you not there last night?” he asks, voice cracking just enough to hear it.
Rebecca blinks, thrown off. Cam lets out a hollow breath, shaking his head.
“Then you know what happened,” he says. “Why the fuck would he wanna talk to me?”
He looks back down at his hands, rubbing them together anxiously now. “I fuck everything up,” he mutters.
Rebecca pushes off the dresser, taking a couple steps closer.
“You’re best friends,” she says. “Best friends fight.”
Cam let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not like that.”
The words come out firmer. “He’s done with me,” Cam continues, shaking his head, faster now. “I saw it. The way he looked at me - like I wasn’t even-”
He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
His hands start moving more, fingers picking at each other, restless. “I’ve been on bullshit for months,” he says, voice picking up pace. “Talking shit, acting like I’m - like I’m something I’m not. And he did me a favor time and time again. Letting the shit slide.”
He swallows hard. “And then I do that shit?” he scoffs, shaking his head again. “At our State Championship party. In front of everybody.”
Rebecca watches him, arms folding loosely across her chest.
Cam drags a hand down his face - careful this time - and exhales.
“I let him down,” he says, quieter now. “For real.”
The room goes still.
Cam’s shoulders slump forward slightly, like something inside him is finally giving way. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel,” he admits. “Like I’n sad, right? I should be. But after last night-”
He shakes his head again, faster, flustered.
Rebecca steps closer now, standing just in front of him.
“Hey,” she says, softer. “Look at me.”
Cam hesitates.
“I get that you’re beating yourself up, and maybe some of it is justified,” she tells him. “But, all that shit doesn’t matter right now, does it?”
He frowns slightly, but shakes his head.
“You won’t remember drunkenly swinging on each other at a party in ten years,” she continues. “But you will remember when Zane’s grandfather gets killed and who didn’t show up? His best friend.”
Cam looks away again, jaw tight.
“I don’t even know what I’d say,” he admits.
Rebecca shrugs lightly. “Probably start with ‘I’m sorry’” she says.
The room settles into silence again.
Rebecca doesn’t say anything else. She just stays there, standing a few feet in front of him, while Cam sits on the floor trying to piece together what comes next.
The phone cord stretches tight between Rasheed’s hand and the wall.
He stands with his shoulder slightly turned, back angled just enough to the rest of the unit that no one can see his face fully. The receiver is pressed hard against his area.
“...when?” he asks.
His voice is low and controlled.
A pause. “...yeah.”
Another pause. His eyes flick once toward the floor, then back up, unfocused. The noise of the pod hums around him - metal clanking, voices overlapping, a TV blaring somewhere down the tier - but it all feels distant.
“...no, I hear you,” he says. A beat.
His lips press together. “...nah, I’m good.”
It’s automatic. Reflex. He shifts his weight slightly, free hand coming to rest on his hip His fingers twitch once, then still.
“...Mom.”
He swallows. “...you okay?” Silence on his end. Listening.
His eyes close for just a second. He nods, even though he knows she can’t see him.
His chest rises slow. He forces the air out through his noise. “...Zane?” he asks.
Another pause. Longer this time. Rasheed’s jaw flexes.
“...aight.” He licks his lips, glancing over his shoulder as a couple of inmates walk past behind him. One of them looks his way for a second too long. Rasheed straightens slightly, posture firming up.
No cracks. Not here.
“...listen, he says, voice dropping a notch. “I’m gonna call back when I can.”
A beat. Then, quieter. “...I love you too.”
He hangs up before anything else can come through. The receiver clicks back into place.
Rasheed stands there for a second, straight at it.
He exhales once, sharp, and turns. The world comes rushing back.
The noise The movement. The weight of eyes that might be watching, might not. Doesn’t matter - he moves like they are.
His face is blank now. Locked in.
He walks down the tier, measured steps, shoulders squared. A guy calls something out to him from across the way - Rasheed doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look.
He cuts toward an open cell halfway down the row. Inside, Guapo sits on the lower bunk, back against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent. Tattoos crawl up his arms and disappear under the collar of his shirt. A deck of cards is spread beside him, half a game of solitaire abandoned.
Guapo looks up as Rasheed stops at the doorway. Eyes him.
“...you lost?” Guapo asks.
Rasheed doesn’t step in. Just grips the edge of the doorframe with one hand.
“I need information,” he says. Straight to it.
Guapo smirks slightly, leaning his head back against the wall.
“Information come with a cost, my nigga,” he replies. “Heard you ain’t really the paying type.”
Rasheed’s expression doesn’t change.
“Someone shot and killed my father last night,” he says. The words land flat. No emotion in them
Guapo’s eyes narrow, but his smirk never leaves his face.
Rasheed takes a small step forward now, just inside the threshold.
“I need a name.”
Guapo exhales through his nose, sitting up a little straighter now.
“Lotta names out there,” he says. “Lotta people gettin’ shot nowadays.”
Rasheed’s eyes lock onto his.
“I want this one. And I know you know how to get it from in here.”
Guapo tilts his head, considering.
“What you offering?” he asks.
Rasheed doesn’t hesitate.
“Whatever I need to do.”
Guapo lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Everybody say that shit until its time to actu-”
“I’m ten toes, nigga.” Rasheed cuts him off.
His voice is still low. “I ain’t asking twice.”
The two of them hold eye contact. The air in the cell tightens. Guapo’s fingers tap lightly against his knee, once and then twice. Thinking.
“You sure you wanna go down that road?” he asks. “A lil’ birdie told me you up for parole soon and this shit don’t end once you on the outside.”
Rasheed’s jaw sets.
“My pops is dead.”
A beat.
“Ain’t nothing halfway about that.” Rasheed doesn’t move. Guapo’s eyes narrow just a fraction.
“Whoever did this,” he says slowly, “they don’t get to keep breathing.”
The porch light flickers.
Not enough to go out - just enough to hum, a faint buzz that cuts through everything else. Zane stares straight ahead, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. The wood beneath him is cold, rough through the thin fabric of his sweats.
The front door sits open behind him, pushed just far enough that it creaks every now and then when the wind nudges it.
Voices spill out from inside. Sharp, urgent, and overlapping.
Zane hears it all but none of it lands.
A police radio crackles somewhere to his left. Another officer walks past him, boots heavy against the concrete walkaway, brushing by like Zane isn’t even there. Red and blue lights flash rhythmically across the street, washing over the house, over the yard, over him. Every few seconds, the world turns red.
Then blue.
Then red again.
It doesn’t feel real. It feels staged. Like if he just sat there still long enough, someone would yell cut and everything would reset.
From inside he could hear his grandmother’s voice. Broken. A sound Zane has never heard before and instantly knows he never wants to hear again.
It cuts through everything else. Higher than the officers. Louder than the radios. Raw in a way that doesn’t sound human.
Zane’s jaw tightens. Still nothing comes.
No tears. No anger. No words.
Just that same empty, hollow quiet for pressing in on his chest.
A car door slams somewhere down the street. Footsteps approach, quick against the pavement. Zane doesn’t turn his head at first. Doesn’t move at all.
“Zane.”
Bianca. Her voice cracks on his name.
He blinks slowly, like it takes effort to process it, and lifts his eyes.
She’s standing at the edge of the walkaway, breathing hard like she ran the whole way here. Her hair is slightly out of place, strands sticking to her cheeks. The makeup she had on earlier is smeared now - dark streaks trailing down from her eyes.
She’s still wearing the same outfit from the game. The jacket. His jacket. The red lettering across the back barely visible in the flashing lights.
She steps closer. Slow as first. Careful. Like she’s not sure if she’s allowed.
“Zane…” she says again, softer this time.
He looks at her. Really looked. Her lips tremble. Her hands hover at her sides, unsure of where to go. She glances past him, toward the open door, toward the noise inside, and her face crumples just a little more.
“Baby - I don’t -” she starts, but the sentence falls apart halfway through.
Zane just stares. There’s a long pause. The kind that stretches too far.
Bianca takes another step forward until she’s right in front of him. Close enough that he can see the way her chest rises and falls, quick and uneven.
She kneels down. Her hands come up, hesitating for a split second before they settle on his forearms.
“Hey,” she says gently. “What can I do?”
He looks at her. But something about the way she asks makes his eyes focus a little sharper.
“You’re okay,” she whispers, even though they both know that’s not true. “I’m here.”
Zane’s lips part slightly. He strains. Nothing comes out.
His throat moves like he’s trying to swallow something that won’t go down.
Inside, Mary lets out another cry - louder this time. It echoes through the house, spills out onto the porch.
Bianca flinches. Zane doesn’t.
He just sits there, staring through her now more than at her. She tightens her grip on his arms.
“Zane,” her voice is shaking harder now. “Talk to me.”
He blinks again. Slow. A whisper comes. Barely there.
“... he was just…”
His voice cracks off before the sentence can manifest. Bianca leans closer.
Zane’s eyes drift past her shoulder, unfocused. Trying to see something that wasn’t there.
“He was just at the game.”
The words come out flat. Distant. Like he’s repeating something he heard instead of something he knows.
“I know,” she says softly, her face tightening.
Zane shakes his head once. Small. Almost imperceptible. He exhales, the breath uneven.
“He bought you and Grandma hot chocolate. That’s the last thing he bought.”
Bianca’s eyes well again, fresh tears spilling over. Zane’s gaze drops to the ground between them.
There’s a dark spot on the concrete. He stares at it like it means something.
His hands curl slightly, fingers twitching. Bianca moves one hand up, cupping the side of his face. Gently. Careful.
His face tightens. His brow pulls together. His breathing stutters once. Bianca pulls him forward into her, wrapping her arms around him, pressing his head into her shoulder.
He doesn’t hug back. Doesn’t move his arms at all. But he doesn’t pull away either.
He just sits there, letting her hold him as the lights keep flashing, as the voices keep talking, as the door behind them creaks open and shut with the wind.
And somewhere inside the house, his grandmother keeps screaming.
***
Cam’s room is dim. The blinds are half-shut, letting in thin strips of gray daylight that cut across the carpet and up the side of his bed. His phone lies face down a few feet away, silent now after buzzing nonstop earlier. Clothes are scattered near the closet, one sneaker tipped over on its side.
He sits on the floor, back pressed against the edge of his mattress, knees bent, hands clasped tight in front of him.
His knuckles are still red. Swollen in spots. He stares at them for a long time, turning his hands slightly, watching how the skin stretches. There’s a faint smear of dried blood along one finger. He rubs at it with his thumb, but it doesn’t come off.
Cam exhales through his nose. Shakes his head once.
“I’m such a fucking idiot” he mutters under his breath. The words barely fill the room before they disappear.
His eyes start to sting again. He squeezes them shut, pressing the heels of his hands into them like he can stop it. Pressure builds behind his eyes, sharp and hot.
He inhales slow. Tries to steady it.
But when he lifts his hand to wipe his face, his expression tightens instantly - he hisses through his teeth, pulling back as pain shoots across his cheek.
“Fuck” he breathes, blinking hard. He forgot about that. When Zane decked him across his face.
His jaw flexes slightly, testing it. Still sore. Still real. Everything from last night feels real in flashes. Not the whole thing - just pieces.
Zane standing over him. The burning look on his face. The sound of everyone going quiet.
Cam’s fingers curl tighter together.
A knock hits the door. Before he can say anything, it opens anyway.
Rebecca steps in, closing it gently behind her. She lingers by the door for a second, eyes scanning the room before settling on him.
She doesn’t move right away. Just decides to watch for a moment. Cam doesn’t look up.
She takes a few slow steps forward, stopping near the dresser. One hand rests against it, fingers tapping lightly against the wood like she’s trying to ground herself.
“How you doing?” she asks. Her voice is quieter than usual. Casual.
Cam shrugs. Barely a movement. Silence hangs for a beat.
Rebecca shifts her weight slightly, glancing at his hands, then his face.
“I assume you heard what happened?”
Cam nods once. Slowly. Doesn’t even move an inch to look at her.
Rebecca presses her lips together, then nods to herself. “Did you talk to him?” she asks.
Cam’s head lifts this time. His eyes are red. Wet. Confused.
“Were you not there last night?” he asks, voice cracking just enough to hear it.
Rebecca blinks, thrown off. Cam lets out a hollow breath, shaking his head.
“Then you know what happened,” he says. “Why the fuck would he wanna talk to me?”
He looks back down at his hands, rubbing them together anxiously now. “I fuck everything up,” he mutters.
Rebecca pushes off the dresser, taking a couple steps closer.
“You’re best friends,” she says. “Best friends fight.”
Cam let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not like that.”
The words come out firmer. “He’s done with me,” Cam continues, shaking his head, faster now. “I saw it. The way he looked at me - like I wasn’t even-”
He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
His hands start moving more, fingers picking at each other, restless. “I’ve been on bullshit for months,” he says, voice picking up pace. “Talking shit, acting like I’m - like I’m something I’m not. And he did me a favor time and time again. Letting the shit slide.”
He swallows hard. “And then I do that shit?” he scoffs, shaking his head again. “At our State Championship party. In front of everybody.”
Rebecca watches him, arms folding loosely across her chest.
Cam drags a hand down his face - careful this time - and exhales.
“I let him down,” he says, quieter now. “For real.”
The room goes still.
Cam’s shoulders slump forward slightly, like something inside him is finally giving way. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel,” he admits. “Like I’n sad, right? I should be. But after last night-”
He shakes his head again, faster, flustered.
Rebecca steps closer now, standing just in front of him.
“Hey,” she says, softer. “Look at me.”
Cam hesitates.
“I get that you’re beating yourself up, and maybe some of it is justified,” she tells him. “But, all that shit doesn’t matter right now, does it?”
He frowns slightly, but shakes his head.
“You won’t remember drunkenly swinging on each other at a party in ten years,” she continues. “But you will remember when Zane’s grandfather gets killed and who didn’t show up? His best friend.”
Cam looks away again, jaw tight.
“I don’t even know what I’d say,” he admits.
Rebecca shrugs lightly. “Probably start with ‘I’m sorry’” she says.
The room settles into silence again.
Rebecca doesn’t say anything else. She just stays there, standing a few feet in front of him, while Cam sits on the floor trying to piece together what comes next.
***
The phone cord stretches tight between Rasheed’s hand and the wall.
He stands with his shoulder slightly turned, back angled just enough to the rest of the unit that no one can see his face fully. The receiver is pressed hard against his area.
“...when?” he asks.
His voice is low and controlled.
A pause. “...yeah.”
Another pause. His eyes flick once toward the floor, then back up, unfocused. The noise of the pod hums around him - metal clanking, voices overlapping, a TV blaring somewhere down the tier - but it all feels distant.
“...no, I hear you,” he says. A beat.
His lips press together. “...nah, I’m good.”
It’s automatic. Reflex. He shifts his weight slightly, free hand coming to rest on his hip His fingers twitch once, then still.
“...Mom.”
He swallows. “...you okay?” Silence on his end. Listening.
His eyes close for just a second. He nods, even though he knows she can’t see him.
His chest rises slow. He forces the air out through his noise. “...Zane?” he asks.
Another pause. Longer this time. Rasheed’s jaw flexes.
“...aight.” He licks his lips, glancing over his shoulder as a couple of inmates walk past behind him. One of them looks his way for a second too long. Rasheed straightens slightly, posture firming up.
No cracks. Not here.
“...listen, he says, voice dropping a notch. “I’m gonna call back when I can.”
A beat. Then, quieter. “...I love you too.”
He hangs up before anything else can come through. The receiver clicks back into place.
Rasheed stands there for a second, straight at it.
He exhales once, sharp, and turns. The world comes rushing back.
The noise The movement. The weight of eyes that might be watching, might not. Doesn’t matter - he moves like they are.
His face is blank now. Locked in.
He walks down the tier, measured steps, shoulders squared. A guy calls something out to him from across the way - Rasheed doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look.
He cuts toward an open cell halfway down the row. Inside, Guapo sits on the lower bunk, back against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent. Tattoos crawl up his arms and disappear under the collar of his shirt. A deck of cards is spread beside him, half a game of solitaire abandoned.
Guapo looks up as Rasheed stops at the doorway. Eyes him.
“...you lost?” Guapo asks.
Rasheed doesn’t step in. Just grips the edge of the doorframe with one hand.
“I need information,” he says. Straight to it.
Guapo smirks slightly, leaning his head back against the wall.
“Information come with a cost, my nigga,” he replies. “Heard you ain’t really the paying type.”
Rasheed’s expression doesn’t change.
“Someone shot and killed my father last night,” he says. The words land flat. No emotion in them
Guapo’s eyes narrow, but his smirk never leaves his face.
Rasheed takes a small step forward now, just inside the threshold.
“I need a name.”
Guapo exhales through his nose, sitting up a little straighter now.
“Lotta names out there,” he says. “Lotta people gettin’ shot nowadays.”
Rasheed’s eyes lock onto his.
“I want this one. And I know you know how to get it from in here.”
Guapo tilts his head, considering.
“What you offering?” he asks.
Rasheed doesn’t hesitate.
“Whatever I need to do.”
Guapo lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Everybody say that shit until its time to actu-”
“I’m ten toes, nigga.” Rasheed cuts him off.
His voice is still low. “I ain’t asking twice.”
The two of them hold eye contact. The air in the cell tightens. Guapo’s fingers tap lightly against his knee, once and then twice. Thinking.
“You sure you wanna go down that road?” he asks. “A lil’ birdie told me you up for parole soon and this shit don’t end once you on the outside.”
Rasheed’s jaw sets.
“My pops is dead.”
A beat.
“Ain’t nothing halfway about that.” Rasheed doesn’t move. Guapo’s eyes narrow just a fraction.
“Whoever did this,” he says slowly, “they don’t get to keep breathing.”
Last edited by Captain Canada on 17 Apr 2026, 12:26, edited 1 time in total.
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7883
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7883
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7883
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
Season IV | Chapter VIII - Stand By Me
The park is alive with noise. Children dart across the grass in uneven lines, their sneakers kicking up dirt as they chase one another toward the play structure. The metal slide flashes in the sun, warm and bright, while swings creak rhythmically under the weight of laughing kids pumping their legs higher and higher.
A warm breeze rolls through, rustling the leaves of the trees overhead. It carries the faint smell of cut grass and sunscreen.
Felix sits on a wooden bench, elbows resting loosely on his thighs, hands clasped together. The wood is warm beneath him, worn smooth from years of use. To his felt, Mary sits close, one hand resting lightly on the handle of the stroller parked between them.
Inside, bundled in a soft blue blanket, their son shifts slightly.
A small coo escapes him.
Seven months old, round-cheeked, eyes wide as they catch the light filtering through the trees above. His tiny hand pokes free from the blanket, fingers curling and uncurling aimlessly.
Felix watches him. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.
His eyes drift from the stroller out toward the park. Toward the chaos of kids yelling, the thud of a ball hitting the ground, the distant bark of a dog chasing after something it won’t catch.
He smiles.
Small. Quiet. Just for himself.
Mary catches it out of the corner of her eye. She tilts her head slightly, studying him.
“What’s that look for?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Felix exhales through his noise, shaking his head faintly.
“Nothing,” he says at first.
Mary nudges his arm lightly. “Nah, don’t do that. You’re smiling like you just won the lottery.”
Felix lets out a short breath, then leans back against the bench, stretching his arms along the backrest behind them.
“I’m just…” he starts, trailing off for a second as he looks back down at the stroller.
Rasheed makes another soft noise, kicking his legs under the blanket.
Felix’s smile returns. “I’m just happy to be here,” he finishes.
Mary lets out a small laugh.
“Who are you,” she teases, “and what did you do with my husband?”
Felix smirks, glancing over at her for a brief second before looking forward again.
“I’m serious,” he says.
He gestures loosely with one hand toward the park, the sky, everything around them. “I’m just sitting here. It’s a nice day. I’m good. You’re good.”
His eyes drop to the stroller again. “He’s good.”
Mary’s expression softens. She shifts slightly on the bench, settling in deeper, her shoulder brushing against his arm.
They both look down at their son. Rasheed blinks up at nothing in particular, then lets out a quiet babble, like he’s trying to join the conversation in his own way.
Mary smiles. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “He’s good.”
Felix nods once. “Got everything I need right here,” he says.
The breeze passes through again, lighter this time. The sounds of the park continue around them, but on the bench, everything feels still.
Felix glances at Mary. Doesn’t turn fully. Just enough.
“I love you,” he says.
Mary doesn’t look at him either. Her eyes stay on the stroller, on their son.
“I love you too,” she replies.
They sit like that. Just being there.
…
Mary wakes up to silence. Not complete silence - there’s a faint hum of something in the house, maybe the fridge, maybe the heater - but it feels empty in a way that makes her chest tighten before her eyes even fully open.
The room is dim. Curtains half-draw, letting in thin morning light that barely reaches the bed.
She blinks slowly, her vision adjusting in pieces. The ceiling. The wall. The edge of the dresser.
For a second, she doesn't know where she is.
Then it comes back.
Her body is heavy. Her head throbs faintly, like she’s been crying for hours - because she has. Her throat is dry, her eyes swollen, lashes stuck together in places.
She turns her head slightly. The other side of the bed is empty.
The sheets are undisturbed. Pillow untouched.
Mary stares at it. Her hands shift across the mattress, fingers brushing against the cold fabric where Felix should be. She presses her palm down like she expects to feel something there.
There’s nothing. Her breath hitches. And then it hits her again.
Not like a wave this time. Like a weight. Settling into her chest and refusing to move.
He’s not coming back. The thought doesn’t even fully form into words - it just exists.
Her hand curls into the sheet. Her face tightens, but no sound comes out this time. No wail. No sob. Just a quiet, broken inhale that doesn’t quite fill her lungs.
She knows what she should do. Call someone. Start arrangements. Get dressed. Tell Rasheed in person, even though she already called.
Find Zane and hold him. Be something for him.
She knows all of it. Her body doesn’t move. Her arms feel like they weigh too much to lift. Her legs don’t respond when she tries to shift them. Even turning her head feels like effort.
She swallows, her throat tightening again.
Her eyes close for a moment, fresh tears slipping out from the corners, tracing slow paths down into her hairline.
She doesn’t wipe them. Just lies there. Broken in a way that feels too big to fix.
Malik stepped over the threshold slowly, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there. The door shut behind him a soft click. The house was dim, the only light coming from a lamp somewhere deeper inside, casting a dull amber glow across the living room. The TV was off. No music. No movement. Just quiet.
He shifted the bouquet in his hands, glancing around. Shoes scattered by the door. A jacket draped over the back of a chair. A blanket half-slide off the couch like someone had been sitting there and just stopped.
Bianca move ahead of him without saying anything, her steps dragging slightly against the floor. Malik followed, unsure where to stand, where to look.
“Kitchen’s this way,” she said faintly, nodding her head.
Malik walked in and set the flowers down on the counter, adjusting them awkwardly like that somehow mattered. There were dishes in the sink. A mug with a ring of dried coffee at the bottom. He could see where life had just hit pause.
Bianca had stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame like holding herself up was taking effort.
“Uh - where should I put these?” he asked quietly.
“You didn’t have to come, you know,” she said, her voice low. Not cold - just empty.
Malik rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know” He set the flowers down gently, adjusting them so they didn’t look like they had just been dropped there. He stood there for a second, unsure what to do next, before turning back.
Malik shifted his weight. “Is he-”
“Asleep,” she cut in quietly. “Finally.”
Malik nodded. He glanced down the hallway, noticing one door cracked slightly open, a sliver of darkness inside.
“How long?” he asked.
Bianca shrugged. “Hour, maybe two.” She swallowed. “He doesn’t stay asleep long.”
Malik’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t say anything to that.
From upstairs, there was a faint creak - barely audible. Both of them instinctively looked up.
“Mary hasn’t come out,” Bianca added, almost as an afterthought. “If she didn’t get up to go to the bathroom, I would be freaking out that she’s de-” she stopped herself.
Malik nodded slowly, ignoring her slip. Unconsciously, Bianca thanked him.
Another silence settled between them, thick but not hostile.
Bianca pushed herself off the doorway and walked past him into the living room. Malik followed a step behind.
The couch cushions were indented, like someone had been sitting there for hours. A phone charger trailed across the floor. A glass of water sat untouched on the coffee table.
Bianca picked it up, stared at it for a second, then set it back down in the exact same spot.
“How much longer you in town for?” Malik asked, trying to settle into the couch.
“I was supposed to head back yesterday, but my professors and Coach told me to take the week, so I’m heading out Friday afternoon.”
Malik nodded in understanding. Then there was a beat. He cleared his throat.
“I told the guys not to come,” he said after a moment. “Didn’t think that this was the time to have 50 football guys in the house.”
Bianca nodded. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
“I’m guessing that’s why Cam hasn’t showed up either?”
Malik shot her a surprised look, leaning forward unintentionally. “He ain’t been here?”
Bianca shook her head, holding her chest. She let out a quiet breath, almost like a laugh without any humour. “I don’t even know what to expect anymore. It was like one second you guys were winning the championship, and then the world fell out from under us.”
Malik didn’t try to respond to that. He was at a loss of words himself.
He glanced down the hallway again, the back at her. “You need anything?”
Bianca shook her head automatically. Then stopped. Then shrugged.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Malik nodded once, like that made sense.
“Then don’t,” he said simply. “Not right now.”
Bianca looked at him then, really looked at him for the first time since he walked in.
Her eyes softened just a fraction. Malik shifted again, uncomfortable under the attention, but he held it.
“Is it cool if I stay?” he asked. “I want to see Z - see how he’s doing.”
Bianca hesitated, then gave a small nod.
Malik exhaled softly, like he didn’t realize he had been holding his breath.
He adjusted himself on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Bianca remained standing for a second, then lowered herself onto the opposite end, pulling the blanket over her lap without really thinking about it.
Neither of them spoke.
The house remained still.
The floor is cold under Zane’s feet. He steps carefully, placing each foot down slow, avoiding the sports he knows creak. The house feels different at night - every small noise louder, every shadow stretched longer across the walls.
Behind him, Bianca shifts slightly in the bed but doesn’t wake. Her breathing stays steady.
Zane pauses at the doorway for a second, glancing back at her. Then he turns away and slips into the hallway.
The staircase looms ahead, dimly lit by the faint glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the front window. He grips the railing lightly as he makes his way down, each step deliberate.
One step then another.
The wood groans softly beneath him and he freezes, listening.
He continues. At the bottom of the stairs, the living room opens up in front of him. The lamp that had been left on earlier is off now, leaving the room bathed in pale moonlight. The shapes of furniture sit still and unfamiliar.
Zane walks past the couch, his hand brushing against the back of it absentmindedly.The front door is just ahead.
He slows as he approaches it. For a second - just a second - he hesitates. Simply because he truly doesn’t know what he’s doing. If what he has in mind is going to help or harm.
Zane’s jaw tightens. He exhales slowly through his nose, places his hand around the door knob and turns it slowly, feeling every gear working behind it.
The door opens with a soft click. Cold air slips inside immediately, brushing against his skin. He steps out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him just as quietly.
Zane walks down the steps and across the driveway. Mary’s car sits there, untouched.
He feels the spare key he swiped before walking out in his pocket and unlocks the door. He opens it, slides into the driver’s seat, and shuts it behind him.
He turns the key. The engine comes to life, low and steady. He stares straight ahead through the windshield. He pulls out of the driveway, the house shrinking behind him into darkness.
The car eventually rolls to a slow stop. Zane doesn’t even remember turning onto this street.
The engine hums softly as he stares through the windshield. The auto shop sits in front of him - dark, lifeless. The familiar sign above the garage is barely visible under the dim streetlight, but the yellow police tape cuts across everything, bright and wrong.
It flutters slightly in the breeze. For a second, he doesn’t move.
Then he opens the door.
The cold hits him sharper this time, but he barely reacts. His shoes scrape against the pavement as he steps out, the sound echoing louder than it should in the empty street.
He walks toward the shop slowly. Each step keeps feeling heavier and heavier. Like all of a sudden, he’s stuck in mud.
The tape stretches across the front - looped around the door handle, across the garage entrance. One side has come loose and hangs lower than the other, swaying gently.
Zane takes another step forward, his hand brushing against the tape. It sticks slightly against his sleeve before slipping away.
He doesn’t cross it. He just stands there. His breathing starts to change - slow at first, then uneven.
A sharp inhale. His shoulders hitch. He turns slightly, pacing once - twice - like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, his hands coming up to his head.
“Fuck…” he mutters, voice cracking.
His body folds. The sob comes out of him raw, sudden, like its been sitting in his chest waiting to explode. He bends forward, hands bracing on his knees, trying to catch his breath but it keeps coming - another, and another.
“I don’t-” he chokes, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to do this.”
His voice echoes faintly off the building, swallowed by the night.
Zane straightens up, barely, his eyes fixed on the dark doorway.
“Come back, Grandpa…” he pleads, his voice small now, cracking under the weight of it. “Please … just - just come back.”
Nothing answers him.
His face crumples as another wave hits him. He presses his hand over his mouth like he can stop the sound from coming out, but he pushes through anyway - broken, uneven.
Right now, there’s no star receiver. No champion. No expectations.
Just a boy standing in the dark.
The park is alive with noise. Children dart across the grass in uneven lines, their sneakers kicking up dirt as they chase one another toward the play structure. The metal slide flashes in the sun, warm and bright, while swings creak rhythmically under the weight of laughing kids pumping their legs higher and higher.
A warm breeze rolls through, rustling the leaves of the trees overhead. It carries the faint smell of cut grass and sunscreen.
Felix sits on a wooden bench, elbows resting loosely on his thighs, hands clasped together. The wood is warm beneath him, worn smooth from years of use. To his felt, Mary sits close, one hand resting lightly on the handle of the stroller parked between them.
Inside, bundled in a soft blue blanket, their son shifts slightly.
A small coo escapes him.
Seven months old, round-cheeked, eyes wide as they catch the light filtering through the trees above. His tiny hand pokes free from the blanket, fingers curling and uncurling aimlessly.
Felix watches him. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.
His eyes drift from the stroller out toward the park. Toward the chaos of kids yelling, the thud of a ball hitting the ground, the distant bark of a dog chasing after something it won’t catch.
He smiles.
Small. Quiet. Just for himself.
Mary catches it out of the corner of her eye. She tilts her head slightly, studying him.
“What’s that look for?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Felix exhales through his noise, shaking his head faintly.
“Nothing,” he says at first.
Mary nudges his arm lightly. “Nah, don’t do that. You’re smiling like you just won the lottery.”
Felix lets out a short breath, then leans back against the bench, stretching his arms along the backrest behind them.
“I’m just…” he starts, trailing off for a second as he looks back down at the stroller.
Rasheed makes another soft noise, kicking his legs under the blanket.
Felix’s smile returns. “I’m just happy to be here,” he finishes.
Mary lets out a small laugh.
“Who are you,” she teases, “and what did you do with my husband?”
Felix smirks, glancing over at her for a brief second before looking forward again.
“I’m serious,” he says.
He gestures loosely with one hand toward the park, the sky, everything around them. “I’m just sitting here. It’s a nice day. I’m good. You’re good.”
His eyes drop to the stroller again. “He’s good.”
Mary’s expression softens. She shifts slightly on the bench, settling in deeper, her shoulder brushing against his arm.
They both look down at their son. Rasheed blinks up at nothing in particular, then lets out a quiet babble, like he’s trying to join the conversation in his own way.
Mary smiles. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “He’s good.”
Felix nods once. “Got everything I need right here,” he says.
The breeze passes through again, lighter this time. The sounds of the park continue around them, but on the bench, everything feels still.
Felix glances at Mary. Doesn’t turn fully. Just enough.
“I love you,” he says.
Mary doesn’t look at him either. Her eyes stay on the stroller, on their son.
“I love you too,” she replies.
They sit like that. Just being there.
…
Mary wakes up to silence. Not complete silence - there’s a faint hum of something in the house, maybe the fridge, maybe the heater - but it feels empty in a way that makes her chest tighten before her eyes even fully open.
The room is dim. Curtains half-draw, letting in thin morning light that barely reaches the bed.
She blinks slowly, her vision adjusting in pieces. The ceiling. The wall. The edge of the dresser.
For a second, she doesn't know where she is.
Then it comes back.
Her body is heavy. Her head throbs faintly, like she’s been crying for hours - because she has. Her throat is dry, her eyes swollen, lashes stuck together in places.
She turns her head slightly. The other side of the bed is empty.
The sheets are undisturbed. Pillow untouched.
Mary stares at it. Her hands shift across the mattress, fingers brushing against the cold fabric where Felix should be. She presses her palm down like she expects to feel something there.
There’s nothing. Her breath hitches. And then it hits her again.
Not like a wave this time. Like a weight. Settling into her chest and refusing to move.
He’s not coming back. The thought doesn’t even fully form into words - it just exists.
Her hand curls into the sheet. Her face tightens, but no sound comes out this time. No wail. No sob. Just a quiet, broken inhale that doesn’t quite fill her lungs.
She knows what she should do. Call someone. Start arrangements. Get dressed. Tell Rasheed in person, even though she already called.
Find Zane and hold him. Be something for him.
She knows all of it. Her body doesn’t move. Her arms feel like they weigh too much to lift. Her legs don’t respond when she tries to shift them. Even turning her head feels like effort.
She swallows, her throat tightening again.
Her eyes close for a moment, fresh tears slipping out from the corners, tracing slow paths down into her hairline.
She doesn’t wipe them. Just lies there. Broken in a way that feels too big to fix.
***
Malik stepped over the threshold slowly, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there. The door shut behind him a soft click. The house was dim, the only light coming from a lamp somewhere deeper inside, casting a dull amber glow across the living room. The TV was off. No music. No movement. Just quiet.
He shifted the bouquet in his hands, glancing around. Shoes scattered by the door. A jacket draped over the back of a chair. A blanket half-slide off the couch like someone had been sitting there and just stopped.
Bianca move ahead of him without saying anything, her steps dragging slightly against the floor. Malik followed, unsure where to stand, where to look.
“Kitchen’s this way,” she said faintly, nodding her head.
Malik walked in and set the flowers down on the counter, adjusting them awkwardly like that somehow mattered. There were dishes in the sink. A mug with a ring of dried coffee at the bottom. He could see where life had just hit pause.
Bianca had stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame like holding herself up was taking effort.
“Uh - where should I put these?” he asked quietly.
“You didn’t have to come, you know,” she said, her voice low. Not cold - just empty.
Malik rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know” He set the flowers down gently, adjusting them so they didn’t look like they had just been dropped there. He stood there for a second, unsure what to do next, before turning back.
Malik shifted his weight. “Is he-”
“Asleep,” she cut in quietly. “Finally.”
Malik nodded. He glanced down the hallway, noticing one door cracked slightly open, a sliver of darkness inside.
“How long?” he asked.
Bianca shrugged. “Hour, maybe two.” She swallowed. “He doesn’t stay asleep long.”
Malik’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t say anything to that.
From upstairs, there was a faint creak - barely audible. Both of them instinctively looked up.
“Mary hasn’t come out,” Bianca added, almost as an afterthought. “If she didn’t get up to go to the bathroom, I would be freaking out that she’s de-” she stopped herself.
Malik nodded slowly, ignoring her slip. Unconsciously, Bianca thanked him.
Another silence settled between them, thick but not hostile.
Bianca pushed herself off the doorway and walked past him into the living room. Malik followed a step behind.
The couch cushions were indented, like someone had been sitting there for hours. A phone charger trailed across the floor. A glass of water sat untouched on the coffee table.
Bianca picked it up, stared at it for a second, then set it back down in the exact same spot.
“How much longer you in town for?” Malik asked, trying to settle into the couch.
“I was supposed to head back yesterday, but my professors and Coach told me to take the week, so I’m heading out Friday afternoon.”
Malik nodded in understanding. Then there was a beat. He cleared his throat.
“I told the guys not to come,” he said after a moment. “Didn’t think that this was the time to have 50 football guys in the house.”
Bianca nodded. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
“I’m guessing that’s why Cam hasn’t showed up either?”
Malik shot her a surprised look, leaning forward unintentionally. “He ain’t been here?”
Bianca shook her head, holding her chest. She let out a quiet breath, almost like a laugh without any humour. “I don’t even know what to expect anymore. It was like one second you guys were winning the championship, and then the world fell out from under us.”
Malik didn’t try to respond to that. He was at a loss of words himself.
He glanced down the hallway again, the back at her. “You need anything?”
Bianca shook her head automatically. Then stopped. Then shrugged.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Malik nodded once, like that made sense.
“Then don’t,” he said simply. “Not right now.”
Bianca looked at him then, really looked at him for the first time since he walked in.
Her eyes softened just a fraction. Malik shifted again, uncomfortable under the attention, but he held it.
“Is it cool if I stay?” he asked. “I want to see Z - see how he’s doing.”
Bianca hesitated, then gave a small nod.
Malik exhaled softly, like he didn’t realize he had been holding his breath.
He adjusted himself on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Bianca remained standing for a second, then lowered herself onto the opposite end, pulling the blanket over her lap without really thinking about it.
Neither of them spoke.
The house remained still.
***
The floor is cold under Zane’s feet. He steps carefully, placing each foot down slow, avoiding the sports he knows creak. The house feels different at night - every small noise louder, every shadow stretched longer across the walls.
Behind him, Bianca shifts slightly in the bed but doesn’t wake. Her breathing stays steady.
Zane pauses at the doorway for a second, glancing back at her. Then he turns away and slips into the hallway.
The staircase looms ahead, dimly lit by the faint glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the front window. He grips the railing lightly as he makes his way down, each step deliberate.
One step then another.
The wood groans softly beneath him and he freezes, listening.
He continues. At the bottom of the stairs, the living room opens up in front of him. The lamp that had been left on earlier is off now, leaving the room bathed in pale moonlight. The shapes of furniture sit still and unfamiliar.
Zane walks past the couch, his hand brushing against the back of it absentmindedly.The front door is just ahead.
He slows as he approaches it. For a second - just a second - he hesitates. Simply because he truly doesn’t know what he’s doing. If what he has in mind is going to help or harm.
Zane’s jaw tightens. He exhales slowly through his nose, places his hand around the door knob and turns it slowly, feeling every gear working behind it.
The door opens with a soft click. Cold air slips inside immediately, brushing against his skin. He steps out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him just as quietly.
Zane walks down the steps and across the driveway. Mary’s car sits there, untouched.
He feels the spare key he swiped before walking out in his pocket and unlocks the door. He opens it, slides into the driver’s seat, and shuts it behind him.
He turns the key. The engine comes to life, low and steady. He stares straight ahead through the windshield. He pulls out of the driveway, the house shrinking behind him into darkness.
The car eventually rolls to a slow stop. Zane doesn’t even remember turning onto this street.
The engine hums softly as he stares through the windshield. The auto shop sits in front of him - dark, lifeless. The familiar sign above the garage is barely visible under the dim streetlight, but the yellow police tape cuts across everything, bright and wrong.
It flutters slightly in the breeze. For a second, he doesn’t move.
Then he opens the door.
The cold hits him sharper this time, but he barely reacts. His shoes scrape against the pavement as he steps out, the sound echoing louder than it should in the empty street.
He walks toward the shop slowly. Each step keeps feeling heavier and heavier. Like all of a sudden, he’s stuck in mud.
The tape stretches across the front - looped around the door handle, across the garage entrance. One side has come loose and hangs lower than the other, swaying gently.
Zane takes another step forward, his hand brushing against the tape. It sticks slightly against his sleeve before slipping away.
He doesn’t cross it. He just stands there. His breathing starts to change - slow at first, then uneven.
A sharp inhale. His shoulders hitch. He turns slightly, pacing once - twice - like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, his hands coming up to his head.
“Fuck…” he mutters, voice cracking.
His body folds. The sob comes out of him raw, sudden, like its been sitting in his chest waiting to explode. He bends forward, hands bracing on his knees, trying to catch his breath but it keeps coming - another, and another.
“I don’t-” he chokes, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to do this.”
His voice echoes faintly off the building, swallowed by the night.
Zane straightens up, barely, his eyes fixed on the dark doorway.
“Come back, Grandpa…” he pleads, his voice small now, cracking under the weight of it. “Please … just - just come back.”
Nothing answers him.
His face crumples as another wave hits him. He presses his hand over his mouth like he can stop the sound from coming out, but he pushes through anyway - broken, uneven.
Right now, there’s no star receiver. No champion. No expectations.
Just a boy standing in the dark.
Last edited by Captain Canada on 17 Apr 2026, 12:27, edited 1 time in total.
