by maven
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Constant c Productions and Amblin Television in association with Warner Bros. Television, NBC and probably a slew of other people have prior claim. Anyone you don't recognize comes from my imagination. Songs courtesy of The Smiths (How Soon is Now?) and They Might Be Giants (Birdhouse in Your Soul).
RATINGS DISCLAIMER: Sex = a same sex relationship but otherwise PG, Violence = PG, Language = PG.
CONTINUITY DISCLAIMER: To be precise canon up to Rampage and then alternative universe. This is a segment of the Thing-verse, a chronological list can be found at the site.
BLAME DISCLAIMER: Sharon Bowers. I didn’t even watch the damn show until she started writing it.
FEEDBACK, COMMENTS AND FLAMES: Email at maven369@sympatico.ca
*I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar. I am the son and the heir, oh, of nothing in particular.*
Once, in my third year of premed, Christie and I went to a club for alternative night. We met up with some friends and the group of us drank and danced as only college students should be allowed to do.
*You shut your mouth, how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved. Just like everybody else does.*
Anyway, I’m at the bar, listening to this song and getting a couple of pitchers for the table, when I look across the floor and catch Christie’s eye and we smile and I realize that she and I are going to break up. Not tonight or even soon but in that one glance I realize that Christie isn’t the person that I’m going to build a life with.
*I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar. I am the son and the heir, oh, of nothing in particular.”
And I realize a heartbeat later that it doesn’t matter because she’s the best friend I’ve ever had and that while we won’t be building it together we’ll always be there to share in each other’s lives.
*You shut your mouth, how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved. Just like everybody else does.*
In second year psych the professor gave us an exercise to explore a treatment technique. Pick a song, poem or a painting that had both positive and negative emotional meaning.
*There's a club, if you'd like to go, you could meet somebody who really loves you.*
My choice was a bit of a no-brainer.
*So you go, and you stand on your own. And you leave on your own. And you go home, and you cry and you want to die.*
The deal is you listen to the song, calling up all the negative emotions that the song inspires and adding to it whatever your problem is.
*When you say it's gonna happen "now", well, when exactly do you mean? See I've already waited too long and all my hope is gone.*
Then you let them go…
*You shut your mouth, how can you say I go about things the wrong way ? I am Human and I need to be loved.*
…and let the positive feelings of the song fill you. Bloody stupid new age hippy stuff.
*Just like everybody else does.*
But it works.
It wasn’t until I’d been able to let go, to let the pain fly up, that I found the strength to stay in the lounge that day. To finally make the offer of friendship that led to where I now stood. Full circle to begin again.
I gather it up, the loss, the hurting, the denial and the anger and I let it go, singing it into the living room ceiling. And when I open my eyes I see her, standing in the doorway in her soaking wet raincoat with her dripping umbrella and drowned rat hair and her bright questioning eyes.
The most beautiful sight in the world and I look at her with new eyes again.
I open my arms and she comes to me as the song begins to repeat. My eyes close as I hold her to me, ignoring the damp clothes and the crutch trapped awkwardly between us as I support her as she supports me.
“Ker?”
“Yeah,” she answers voice low and gravelly as it gets when she can’t process the emotions fast enough.
“I want to try again.”
She doesn’t bother to ask what about.
“Cleo says…”
“I know.”
“Kim?”
“Yeah, Kerry?”
“Don’t do this for me.”
I think about it. Think about why I am willing to risk so much. Because Cleo had spelled out that any future pregnancies would be risky for both me and the child.
“It’s not just for you.”
“Then why?”
I wait, for the song and for my voice to be steady. I duck my head lower to her ear so she can hear my words over Morrissey’s. “Because we are Human and I want that love. Just like everybody else does.”
I hold her, eyes closed again as the song ends and I raise the remote to finally stop the CD. Twenty six repeats, a new record. The CD changer clicks and whirls, seeking the next song on the memory list now that I’ve released it from its chains.
“So,” she asks in the silence, “parthenogenesis?”
“No. Candles, a little wine, a turkey baster, a fertility technician or two. You know. The old fashioned way.”
I know she’s smiling at me as her arms tightened and I know that I’m smiling back. But it’s Abby I see when I opened my eyes, standing in the stairway to the basement flat, shrouded in shadows.
*I'm your only friend, I'm not your only friend, but I'm a little glowing friend, but really I'm not actually your friend, but I am…*
She smiles, fists crossed over her heart before disappearing into the darkness. My eyes close again and a wash of tears run down my cheeks.
*Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch, who watches over you. Make a little birdhouse in your soul.*
“This is a silly song,” Kerry says.
“This is a beautiful song.”
*Not to put to fine a point on it, say I'm the only bee in your bonnet.*
“Yes,” she allows, “But its still silly.”
“Make love with me?” I ask. Non sequitor I know but it’s been awhile and my timing is obviously rusty.
“Here?” she asks, voice teasing and I realize that on some level she too was aware of Abby’s presence.
“Problem with that Weaver?” I ask in my best triple dog dare growl.
She pulls my head down and my last conscious thoughts are that I hoped that Abby closed her door and never dare Doctor Kerry Weaver.
*And while you're at it keep the nightlight on inside the birdhouse in your soul.*
The End
Next story in the Thing-verse: A Thing About You
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Email at maven369@sympatico.ca