Rating: PG
Category: Drama
Series: Instructions for Life
Warnings: A teensie peppering of smarm.
Notes: "Instructions for Life" is a new series of stories based an email forward I received by the same name. I (or rather my Muses) thought that most of them fit TS to a tee and would make great stories. Each will be based on a different instruction.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
What do I say? What can I say? Words won't change what happened, just like a good paint job won't really fix the hood of the truck. The memories remain, along with the pain, the loss, the god-awful blood.
Jim will probably sell the truck now, or have is demolished. Now amount of finish or body wax could remove the stained dent from that hood. It'll always be there, forever implanted in his mind. I guess it's selfish of me, but I'm glad I wasn't with him when it happened.
The water is boiling. I reach for the kettle and pour the steaming liquid into two ceramic mugs. One is pale blue, paler than Jim's eyes. The second is splashed with rainbow colors, a clown's face on one side. A protruding sphere, the nose, changes from green to red as the mug heats up. Jim gave it to me as a gag gift last Christmas. He said it reminded him of me. Go figure.
The soothing scents of chamomile waft up from the steeping tea leaves. I inhale deeply, hoping the scent will reach Jim, get him to react. I remove the steepers from the brown liquid and lay them in the sink next to the cooling teapot. No sugar. Neither of us needs any more stimulants.
I take a mug in each hand, my mind scrabbling to find more words. Three days of one-sided conversations have left me with little to say. Hell, I'd sing him a lullaby if I thought it would help. Jim doesn't want to talk and I've stopped prodding. I suppose he just needs a friend for now.
The few feet to the couch are crossed in an instant. A mug is accepted blindly. Clutching my own, I sit gently on the cushion next to my friend. An old sitcom is on the television. He is watching it without really seeing. I wonder what he does see. The high-speed chase through downtown Cascade? The movement of the truck as it skidded across the patch of black ice? The rag doll bouncing off the grill of the truck, tumbling through the air to land in a boneless heap that was once a seven year old girl?
I place a hesitant hand on one broad shoulder. Tense muscles seem to relax under my touch. I knead gentle circles, hoping this provides him with some level of comfort. Tossing me a grateful half-smile, Jim lifts the tea to his mouth. He stops, finally taking stock of which mug I'd given him. The half-smile etched farther across his face, making tired features seemingly light up.
I smile back, warm and compassionate towards the man that I owed so much.
//I will always be there for you, Jim.//
I want to say the words, but they'll still be here tomorrow. Sometimes, in moments such as these, it is better to stay silent.
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