~Crossroads~

:thud:
:notworthy:
That chapter was simply amazing. Everything Vaughn said *is* true though. Shrinks can't understand unless they've actually gone through the pain and suffering the patients have. They just can't. -_-
And then Vaughn standing up to him...priceless.
You did an excellent job, Kristina. Seriously, if you can't Vaugh and Sydney's name, I'm sure you could publish this.

Hugs and kisses,
Riley xoxo
 
go michael go michael
it's your birthday it's your birthday
go save syd from the sleaze ball then you can have someone to live for
update soon
 
I'll try to update today after i get home from classes. I don't have work tonight, so that means i have time to write.
 
~Part 8~


Sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them too. You try and plan out your life in your head like a script in a movie. But somehow, it never follows the same path. Because no one takes into consideration the small things that drastically change ones life. If you try to live by a plan, you miss the real meaning for living. The reason for living is not knowing. Not knowing what you’re going to wake up too in the morning, who you’re going to meet, or where you’re going to go. Not knowing what’s going to happen if you’re late to work or perhaps early. Not knowing a lot of things, but knowing that no matter how hard life gets it will all pay off in the end as long as you believe it will.

Otherwise you’re screwed.

I tried to plan out my life before it happened. I tried to figure out things I had yet to learn. I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t like everyone else, that bad things wouldn’t happen to me. I was naïve, and I paid dearly for it.

Example number one.

September 15th, 2001

It was like any other day for me. I made plans to hang out with a few drinking buddies of mine at a pool hall late into the night even though I was supposed to watch over my little sister.

My father had gotten back from one of his business trips and was passed out on the couch with a cigar lying in the ash tray on the coffee table, still emitting a steady stream of thick smoke that rose towards the ceiling. I put it out before I left.

I got so wasted that night I couldn’t even make it home, I crashed at a friend’s house and didn’t wake up until three in the afternoon on September 16th. Glenn dropped me off at my car and I made my way home with the worst hangover I’ve had in a long time. When I got there I was unable to pull into my driveway due to an unmarked police car parked in my spot. The only way I knew it was a cop car was due to the white license plate and green numbers.

I parked across the street and entered through the back door to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. I put my things down before quietly walking into the living room to find two detectives standing above a large patch of blood stained carpet.


“Wh-wha…” He’s at a loss for words as he stares at the stain. He looks back at his mother to see her shoulders shaking slightly as she sobs silently.

“What the hell are you doing in my house? What happened!?” He yells. Until that point, the detectives weren’t aware of the young mans presence in the room. They were too busy studying the crime scene.

“Son…”

“Mom!” He runs into the kitchen and kneels next to his mother. “Mom! What happened!?”

She’s silent for a few moments before her sobs become more violent and loud.

“Where’s dad? Where’s Jamie?” His father and his little sister immediately cross his mind seeing as they’re not present.

“You.” She says softly. “It’s all your fault.”


I was the scapegoat for that event.

My mother was supposed to stop by later to pick up my sister for the weekend, my father was passed out from exhaustion on the couch and Jamie was out in the backyard swinging on her swing set. They believe my father woke upon her screaming and muffled cries for help, and when he emerged from the house a middle-aged man had her on the ground in the grass. His pants at his ankles and her pajamas ripped clean off. It was too late to save Jamie from the emotional torture that would eat at her for the rest of her life. Luckily, she was young, and hopefully wouldn’t remember much detail of the night she was brutally raped as a little girl.

Neighbors heard the commotion and witnessed a struggle between my father and that sick bast**d. The man tried to run; my father blocked him and forced him to have to go through the house. No one saw anything else after that, just heard gun shots.

My father died from complications at the hospital. Four bullets ended his life. Two in the chest, one in the stomach, and another in the neck.

The sick part of all of this, the man didn’t get away, but that’s not the sick part. He was released two months ago. My father’s killer, and my sisters rapist is now on the streets again, stalking his next victim.

I haven’t seen my mother or sister for four years. My mother blamed me for leaving, for not being there to protect Jamie. She moved back to France, and I haven’t heard from her since.

If you ever thought life couldn’t catch up with you, you’re wrong. It caught up to me along time ago. I just didn’t realize it until September 16th.



He stares at the letter he’s just scribbled out. The words stare back at him with no sympathy or comfort. He’s not relieved to have gotten them off his chest. It’s just a piece of paper.

“A f***ing piece of paper.”

There are a lot of things I haven’t told you. A lot of things I’ve kept from you over the years because I don’t know how to cope with them other than to hide them from everyone. If I told someone my story, they wouldn’t look at me as a person. But rather as another American sob story.

I’m not the same person I used to be. I don’t care a lot about anything anymore. I live each day hoping that maybe I won’t wake up to this life anymore. I hate my life, I hate who I’ve become, I hate who I made myself out to be.

I wish I could be the same guy that used to run with you after softball practice because you were late. Or the guy that was okay with being your best friends date to Prom as well. But I can’t be. I’m not anymore. The truth is, I don’t know if I ever really was that person, or if he just looked so good that I wanted to be him.

I haven’t seen you in four months, not since the morning after that Blackhawk’s game. I thought about calling you, I did once, but hung up after the first ring. I figured that if you didn’t call then you didn’t want to talk to me. So I guess this is just my good-bye, my formal apology to you for anything I’ve ever done to upset you or hurt you. You were the only person that I never wanted to love, because I knew once I did I would never be able to stop.

I was right.

I’m sorry.

~Michael


He quickly folds the letter three times and stuffs it into an envelope. He writes her name on it and address before getting up and grabbing his coat. However, he never makes it to the post office.

He’s felt sick for the last few weeks, but seeing as he doesn’t really give a shi* if he’s dying, he doesn’t go to the doctor. But then again, the pain never caused him to be unable to breath and also cause him to lose his balance and fall down the stairs that led up to his apartment. Lucky for him, the landlord was repainting the railing and witnessed the entire thing before promptly calling an ambulance.

At the hospital, when he came too, the doctors were forced to put him on sedatives because he tried to get up and leave twice. He nearly scared a nurse half to death when she saw him stumbling down the hallway in only his boxers, blood running down his arms from where he pulled out the IV’s.

Michael Vaughn was a stubborn a** man, but not stubborn enough to cheat death.

The cool sheets of the bed make his legs itch as they tickle the hairs on his skin. The room is so plain that it could easily cause a person to go crazy if they had to spend more then forty-eight hours surrounded by the torturous white plastered walls. No imperfections can be seen, not even a nail hole from a previous decorative picture. It might even be easier for people to cope if they put a neon sign on the wall that read, Hey, motherf***er, you’re dyin’! Sucks doesn’t it?

He tries to move, but the message doesn’t process in his brain, he’s been temporarily paralyzed. So all he can do in this room is think. Death sounds a whole lot better as opposed to the burning sensation he has in his chest. Everytime he breathes, it’s as if someone sets his lungs on fire.

The door across the room opens slowly and a man in a white lab coat steps in followed by his old psychiatrist buddy.

What the f*** is he doing here?

The doctor walks over to his bed and checks his vitals before bringing his clip board to rest against his leg. He sighs.

“Mr. Vaughn, there’s no….easy way….to say this.” The doctor treads carefully over thin ice. “We ran tests on your blood work since you’ve been here with us. I’m sorry, I’m afraid you have cancer.”

What? What did he just say? Cancer? Ha! Okay, never mind, that’s not funny. Why the f*** does he sound as if he’s afraid? He goes home and f***s his wife with no major health problems.

“Don’t lie to me.” Michael rasps out softly. He has to force the air out.

Phillip, who is standing in the corner, bites his lip and looks down at the white linoleum floors. Never, has he seen a man so uneasy about something. He realizes then, that Phillip Greene’s fear is death by disease. It makes him squeamish and uncomfortable.

“I wish I were lying to you. The cancer started in your lungs, it’s starting to spread. Most likely this wasn’t caused by only your smoking habits. Your record here shows that your father was a heavy smoker, which I can conclude you were most likely subjected too as a child. Second hand smoke over time can be more deadly than smoking itself.”

“So I’m dying?”

The doctor sighs and pulls the clipboard against his side. “If you would have come in sooner, we could have most likely helped you immensely. At this point, we can is start you on chemotherapy. Other than that, there’s nothing much more anyone can do. I give you four months maximum.”

F*** the number four. It can burn in motherf***ing hell. I’d rather die today.

The doctors pager goes off and he rushes out of the room in a hurry, leaving Michael alone with a man he completely despises.

“I know you don’t want to see me.”

“Got that f***ing right.” Michael rasps out.

Phillip stuffs his hands in his pockets and clears his throat.

“I….uh…I left a message for Sydney. I told her about your condition.”

What the f***? Who do you think you are?

“No…”

“You need someone.”

“I’m dying alone.” He says.

“Well, you won’t be. No one deserves to die alone.”

“Who the f*** do you think you are?” he takes a breath. “Go home to your perfect little life and stay out of my shi*ty one. I don’t want your help.”

“You may not be seeing me for sessions. But the state still requires me to keep an eye on your behavior.”

“Good-night.” Michael says. He struggles immensely to reach for the IV dropper next to him. He bumps up his own morphine, and within a few moments he’s sleeping again.

To him, dying alone was the only way he could go. He didn’t want to leave a mark on anyone, especially not Sydney. But it appeared to be too late.
 
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