WILL YOU STILL CALL ME SUPERMAN /

[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=algin,center] words: 710

[style=width:210px; background-color: #4c4143; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #000000;margin-left: -225px; margin-top: -20px; overflow:auto; height: 300px;]"Wake up, Hayden... We're having a family meeting." The seventeen-year old grumbled in response, attempting to pull the sheets over his head. Hayden Emory Scott, I mean it," said his mother. She was usually so gentle, not demanding. He frowned, realizing that she was probably being very serious, but his hangover was telling him to ignore her. He opened his eyes to the blinding light of the sunlight that escaped through his closed shutters. His mother had a concern in her eyes that he had seen a million times. Lately, it had stopped. She was used to him coming late by now, used to him being out with friends instead of being home. It wasn't that they didn't provide a happy home for him; he just didn't want to be there. His sister annoyed him and fought with him, his father was constantly pressuring him about sports, and his mother was constantly nagging him about chores. None of those struggles were truly an issue. They simply weren't as fun as what he could achieve with his basketball crew. "Yes, mother?" he asked, scooting back to his backboard. He was shirtless, but he quickly leaned over his bed to grab one that was lying on the floor. Was that from last night? It felt damp from sweat or beer, but he wasn't concerned. He sniffled, trying to get used to the blinding sunlight by blinking it away. His mother was still staring at him. He felt like hours had already passed between her waking him up and now. "Mom, what?" he questioned again, irritated. She stared back and sighed. She pulled his hand to get him out of the bed. "I'm going to ask you to get dressed. Come downstairs. I think this is what you call an intervention." Hayden Scott was a basketball star. He had friends in all of the right places and didn't concern himself with those who weren't his friends. Some could say that he was a real asshole, but other people could see that he simply cut to the chase with the relationships he made. He rarely made relationships with girls that lasted and never made friends outside of basketball, a few football players, and, of course, cheerleaders. He was the typical jock. He wasn't cruel to the smart kids or the artsy ones, but he chose not to speak to much to them outside of class. It didn't make since; they were never going to spend time together, so trying to create bonds was futile. He spent his free time at parties or messing around in the town with his friends. He grew up with his closest handful of friends in the cul de sac. He could remember each one of their phases: skateboarding, football, soccer... Well, they were all athletic and experimental. Hayden and his friends were the kind of kids who worried their moms by breaking bones and never learning the lesson. Hayden never thought it was a large concern that he had become accustomed to a life full of drugs and alcohol. That was a normal trend in teens. The recklessness was a part of being young, and he saw no crime in it. Once he was showered and cleaned up, he put on a clean dress shirt and pulled on khaki pants. If someone outside of the family were downstairs, he would have to get his ass cleaned up for real if he wanted his dad to let him see tomorrow. Kevin Scott was the best-known lawyer in the small town of Chantilly. He worked in DC, but his reputation in the small town was large and respected. That was probably why he wanted everyone in his house to behave submissively, to treat him as a king. Hayden didn't admire his father, not truly. He didn't know how to treat Mrs. Scott. He was too violent. He was a time bomb; they all knew it. One day, he was going to blow. One day, he was going to leave. Hayden was just waiting for it. Once he hit the bottom step of the stairs, he could see what was happening. He could see it, and he didn't like it. Change was coming. Change that he wasn't going to like was coming.

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APRIL 2002

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TABLE BY AMETHYST @ DECIMATED DREAMS
PURPLESTRIPE93 @ CAUTION 2.0

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[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=algin,center] words: 1,122

[style=width:210px; background-color: #4c4143; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #000000;margin-left: -225px; margin-top: -20px; overflow:auto; height: 300px;]Hayden sat on the bus as they made their way to the rehabilitation boot camp. He tried not to shift. The boy beside him didn't look like the friendly type, so Hayden made the choice that he wasn't going to speak to him. Instead, the two seemed happy with Hayden staring out of the window and the boy staring at Hayden without shame. The ride went on for thirty minutes before Hayden finally spoke up. "You want to know how I got here," he suggested, turning to the larger boy beside him. He was obviously a wrestler. That was the way he was built. He was a fighter. The two had name tags on like the eighteen other guys on the bus. A co-ed boot camp was never going to work, so they stuck these athletic, addicted boys into the same fucked up bus. Hayden had inspected enough to understand the situation. Of course, his parents and Lieutenant Price had told him what the situation was. It just didn't explain to him what it was supposed to do for him when he got out. The boy beside him shifted, still staring. He hadn't shifted out of discomfort, but more as a response. His name was Reese, according to his name tag. Hayden would have put money on the hypothesis that he probably had some tough nickname. He almost laughed when he thought to himself that Spike would be a suitable nickname. He didn't say that out loud. He didn't feel like getting his ass kicked. As angry as he was, he planned on coming back in one piece to give his father a piece of it. "Okay, here's how I got here," Hayden said easily, leaning back onto the bus seat. It was a story that he didn't need to hide. The whole town knew by now. Judge Scott's son was a fuck-up. Surprise, surprise. "I'm Judge Scott's son, if you've ever heard of him. The president doesn't know him by name, but he thinks he's tough shit in DC. But I'm not the son they expected. I don't wear glasses or read a ton of books. I don't want to go into law just like him. I don't know what I want to do and don't think I need to. Basketball is going to get me through college. I plan to go pro, but no one knows what's going to happen, especially now that we're headed down this path. "I had my first drink when I was thirteen, my first doobie when I was fourteen. I don't regret either incident because it was fun, and life is too short to sit around and study or waste time. I live. I risk. I don't do it because I think it makes be a badass. I do it because it's my philosophy." Hayden didn't wait for the guy to respond at all, to nod to him. He licked his lips and continued his story, looking at the guy in the face. In the movies, the kid telling the story would be looking out the window and talking like some lost cowboy, but Hayden's story wasn't special. There were nineteen kids in that bus with him with similar stories. "Anyway, I was fine until April. I broke a few bones and didn't mind it. No one really minded it. Nothing really mattered until my boys and I started a fire. I can't remember anything, you know, but one of my dudes was left behind..." Hayden did look out the window this tie, realizing that it was the first time he had spoken of it for these past few months. "No one caught us. In fact, it took a while for Preston to tell anyone what happened. He had gone to the hospital to fix up those burns on his legs with his parents. He kept on telling them that it was an accident, that it was a fire that had started in someone's kitchen during a party. It was more than that, though, and I guess that's expected from some kid's cliché little story. We burned down a warehouse on outskirts of town, some shitty place we used to go to fuck around and have some drinks. Plot twist here is that it was a place where drug dealers went to do their business. The police had assumed that the fire happened because of the dirty dealings or that the drug dealers had just decided to take the damn thing down, but it was us. And we kept it under wraps, you know, for months. "When the truth came out, we were all burned. I guess my parents were trying to straighten me out for a while, but when they found out about the fire, it was all different. They got Price in my house and acted like I was hopeless and lost. And they made a deal with the devil that if I came here and became a better guy, those charges wouldn't matter. I guess they assumed that we were buying from the dealers at the warehouse. Even if we had wanted some shit, we never ran into them. So I guess the story's another plot twist, but that doesn't concern me. I knew I'd end up here, so to avoid complications, I kept my mouth shut. It doesn't matter if I bought those drugs or not because I've been drinking and screwing around since, you know, preteen years. And my parents knew I had to figure shit out... I guess they don't know howt o make me. We're going to some lame-ass camp that isn't going to teach us anything but how to be physically stronger. I'm sure we'll be ready for basketball or football or wrestling season, but I'll be damned if they change me, if they affect what I stand for. "I'm gonna live, you know? They think I'm going to let this die, to let myself regret what happened and regret living my life to my fullest. I'm bigger than that, Reese." The boy looked back at him, seeming like he was finally ready to talk. Hayden looked down, waiting for his response. "You talk like you're old, but you're not," the guy replied in a booming voice. "I hate this shit too, but don't start thinking that you stand for some cause. Living isn't about making mistakes and not regretting them. I don't know what it's about, but that isn't it, man. It's not big enough. If it's big enough for our tiny brains to understand, it's just not big enough." Hayden didn't smile. He only turned to look out of the window again, holding onto that seat to avoid shifting. "Yeah," he replied. "Maybe you're right."

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JULY 2002

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TABLE BY AMETHYST @ DECIMATED DREAMS
PURPLESTRIPE93 @ CAUTION 2.0

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[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=algin,center] words: 813

[style=width:210px; background-color: #4c4143; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #000000;margin-left: -225px; margin-top: -20px; overflow:auto; height: 300px;]Three years after rehab and Hayden was a different man. He was changed, sculpted by tragedy and experience. He was learning so much by going out into the real world and by keeping away from drugs and alcohol. Many factors played into that decision. Of course, boot camp had changed his life. He had felt so bitter toward his family for it, but those days were over. Now, he was thankful to understand that he had a family that cared for him, no matter what. He stepped across the grass quietly, moving silently across the graveyard where his friend lay. He could still remember the night when Neal died. He remembered every word, every flashing color of the ambulance truck. His friends used to tell him that they had blocked the details, but Hayden? No, he couldn't block what had happened to Neal. He knew that it was partially his own fault for not saving him, for letting someone die while in his midst. Neal didn't know it then, but the guy was going to inspire Hayden more than anyone. Neal was the reason why Hayden was going to go into the medical field... He was going to do if to stop that suffering, to help those who got hurt the way Neal had hurt himself. He could remember the buzz of alcohol. Of course, rehab hadn't stopped his drinking right away. Boot camp wasn't the greatest form of rehab; it gave kids feelings of aggression and anger that were left-over. Hayden's temper had altered during the experience. No one could have expected him to walk out of there with a smile on his face after running in the rain and sweating buckets in the sun, all because he had been a teenager with the same level of ambition as any other upper middle-class kid in Chantilly. He was a regular kid with a tougher punishment. After Neal's death, alcohol seemed more than just unappealing to Hayden Scott. The guy would grow up to be a bit more tolerant, but he would never get drunk again, not the way Neal had been before he suffered an untimely death. Hayden could still hear the yell and the distant crunch. He shuddered as he sat beside the grave of one of his best friends. "Hi, Neal," he said, slinging his arms across his knees. "It's my birthday," he smiled, looking at the grave. The guilt rushed into his heart like a fresh wound, as if Neal had just died again. Each visit was torture and paradise. The grave seemed to understand Hayden's pain, to absorb what suffering Neal's death had put him through. At the same time, his pain was nothing compared to Neal's. He still remembered the screaming. He could have saved him. "It's my birthday," Hayden repeated, licking his lips and looking at the flowers at the grave. "Just wanted to say that, well, you were on my mind today. I guess you could say that I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you, you know? You didn't die in vain, man. You taught us something. I mean, you taught me what it is to live... that life is valuable." Hayden nodded, closing his eyes and putting his head down. "I pray that, you know, wherever you are, God is taking hella good care of you. And I'm so sorry," Hayden said, shaking his head. "I can't go back, but Neal, I swear to you, I don't forget about you." Hayden thought about him every single day. He came back home on the anniversary of Neal's death, regardless of what was happening in his life. "And I can't take it back. I'm sorry," Hayden said, running his hand across the grave as a gentle and friendly gesture. It felt like Neal was still there to listen. Hayden could remember the times when he and his sister discussed their dreams with Hayden. Those days were behind them. Hayden was pursuing an education at Johns Hopkins. Basketball had been taking up so much of his time, but Hayden didn't care. He wanted to get as much done as he could while he was young, and Neal was going to continue to inspire him. Hayden hadn't given up on being an actor. Neal had believed in him in every goal, and that's what friends did. What made that conviction stronger was that Neal hadn't been cowardly about what he believed in, and he certainly hadn't been cowardly on the night of his demise. He was brave, even when it was stupid. "Thank you, Neal," Hayden said, leaning in and looking at the words on his grave. He sat there for hours, talking to Neal on his birthday. Some people would fade with death and others would be simple dust in the wind, but Neal was still Hayden's friend -- one who inspired him to pursue the highest goals.

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JANUARY 2005

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TABLE BY AMETHYST @ DECIMATED DREAMS
PURPLESTRIPE93 @ CAUTION 2.0

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[Deleted]

[atrb=cellspacing,15,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 470px; background: url(http://i.imgur.com/DhinN.jpg); top-padding: 20px; box-shadow: 5px 5px 5px #777777, btable][STYLE=font-family: georgia; font-size: 40px; letter-spacing: -3px; color: #FF99FF; text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #000000; letter-spacing: -1px; margin-left: 10px;]Dear Tiffany,[/style]

[STYLE=width: 400px; font-family: tahoma; color: #000000; margin-left: 20px; padding-left: 20px; padding-bottom: 10px; font-size: 10px; line-height: 12px;]It's been a while since we last spoke. Things have been going well at Johns Hopkins. It's not too far from home, so every once in a while, I come and visit my parents. I think you get why I don't like coming home as much as I used to, though. I like being someone new, someone without too much of a history. I work hard here, and a lot of people respect me. I rarely sleep anymore, but I love what I do. That means God has blessed me with something wonderful. And I hope you can say the same about where you are. I hope winter hasn't been so tough. It's almost over, you know. I really miss you, by the way. Next month is Neal's birthday. I understand if you still don't want to talk to me about it. I'm not upset. But attached is a photo I found of the three of us, a photo that I couldn't dare keep to myself. I thought you would like to see it. I believe it was one of his favorite pictures. I'm pretty sure he said you looked "like a drowned rodent in labor" when he saw the photograph. If you ask me, you look like Tiffany with wet pool hair and a nice smile. I bet you look super different now, but you had this way about you that never changed, even when we grew up. I'm pretty sure you were ten times more photogenic than he could ever be. In all honesty, Tiff, I feel pretty damn foolish for writing this letter. I know how stupid it is. I'm twenty-five years old, sitting in some shitty laundromat with a pink gel pen I had to borrow from the lady here. She keeps on staring at me from across the place. I guess she really wants her pen back? She probably won't get it back from me for a while, considering this fucking pen won't dry and I have smudge marks all over the place. Anyway... I keep on thinking of something that happened nearly a decade ago. Feels like we were having ice cream and accidentally holding hands at the movie theatre just yesterday. I was always so scared that Neal would think something of those strange moments when we were little. Awkward, fun times. Did we go see the Pokémon movie together? I can't exactly remember, but it matters because I'm missing my limited edition card from the premiere. If you have it, send it here! In all seriousness, Tiff, if you want to meet up soon, let me know. I'll be at our spot at the park on the twenty-fourth, the day before his birthday. I'll wait and we can meet up and talk. And, you know, we can even visit his grave together. I haven't been able to return every year for his birthday. I figured I'd run into you at some point, but I haven't. And I'd like to see you. I don't think I can talk to anyone else about what happened. And I think it'd be nice to see your face again. We can reminisce and talk like we used to. I can take you back to that little soda parlor we used to hang out in. We can talk. If you want. I'll be waiting at 7 on that day. And I hope you get this message, considering I had to wrestle the information out of my mom, who had to ask your parents... But yeah. I hope I see you there. Hayden[/style]

[STYLE=font: normal 10px courier new; margin-top: -16px;]created by the lion of BTN and OTE[/style]

Hayden looked up at the machine that had just beeped and moved the crumpled sheet of paper to the space on the bench beside him. The gel had to dry, of course, and now that he was done with the letter, he could return the pen to its owner. She still had her eyes glued to Hayden.

"Here you go. Thanks," he nodded. He couldn't explain the impulse he had experienced to mail a letter to Tiffany, but considering he had obtained her contact information a month ago, it was a lasting feeling.

The man moved across the room again to get to the dryer. He pulled his clothes out carefully, making sure that none of it would hit the floor. He had learned about microbes. They disgusted him now.

"Hay?" a female voice rang. He turned around to see Melissa, a girl from class. She had bags under her eyes. Her hands clung to her scrubs. Hayden smiled lightly at her. The two had hooked up at a party.

"Hey, Liss," he nodded at her. He was legitimately glad to see her outside of class.

The two ignited a conversation as Hayden zipped his clothes into a portable bag. Once Hayden found out that Liss had been volunteering at the ER at the local hospital outside of school, he told her he had to head out. He had homework to finish and a phone call to his mom to make. "Hey," he said, touching Melissa's arm softly before he left, "Get some sleep. You work way too hard." He smiled brightly before slinging the bag over his shoulder and walking out smoothly. The letter lay on the bench. The only person who would ever read it would end up being Priscilla Grady, a two-year employee at the laundromat.

[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=algin,center] words: 726

[style=width:210px; background-color: #4c4143; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #000000;margin-left: -225px; margin-top: -20px; overflow:auto; height: 300px;]The stillness of the night was jarring as Hayden Scott and Neal Prescott sat on the roof of an abandoned building. Stars were indiscernible in the light-polluted town of Chantilly. Hayden took a swig of cheap beer, his swallow breaking the chirping of the crickets around them. Hayden and Neal were playing out a routine that they had established. They met up at the abandoned building, looked at the town they called home, and had many nonsensical discussions. The two were the best of friends. Other people joined them in a group, other boys creating bonds with them, but what Neal and Hayden shared was like brotherhood. It was a bromance, by definition. "I bet it's shitty to stay in a place like this." Neal crushed a cigarette under his foot, holding himself stably on the slanted roof. The wood of the structure below was sturdy. Though the building didn't look haunted, rumors were enough to scare the people of Chantilly away. From gossip about drug deals and over-the-top parties, the tales of the place never ended. Hayden and Neal were unafraid, though; they were unconcerned with such claims. They knew of the parties because they hosted many at the old place, but they enjoyed the comfort of privacy during the week. They went there after school on most days. They rarely had important topics of conversation, instead focusing on random sentences about their days or mishaps at practice. Hayden was a football player. Next month, he would be back to shooting hoops. After basketball season ended, he would be playing lacrosse again. Athletic and undeniably dedicated, Hayden had become quite a commodity at Chantilly High. "Where else could be better?" Hayden asked seriously. "You could do this for the rest of your life? You could sit around here? Just think about it, Hay. You'd end up pushing around a pick-up truck and trying to get by like them." He motioned to the view in front of them. The abandoned building was elevated to display a picture out of a suburban scrapbook. "Or worse: you could end up like your old man, missing his good old NBA days, working a shitty office job. I bet it gets old," Neal scoffed. He wasn't lost without sports as his father had been. Hayden was an intelligent student. He was a smart jock; unlike most sporty boys, he was mathematically inclined. Though he struggled with English, when it came down to Physics and Precalculus, Hayden was a natural. His spatial reasoning was impeccable, his propensity for science and mathematics astonishing. He could sleep through a math class and make high scores if he wanted to. Doors were open for a person like Hayden. He was a triple threat in sports alone. If that ever fell through, he had his smarts to fall back on. If an injury every befell him, he had something to fall back on, and he would have an open career of his choosing. He wouldn't end up as a truck driver. He would be happy here. "What's so bad about getting married and having a family?" "You sound like a sap." "I'm not. I just wouldn't mind." Hayden didn't mind the thought of staying in Chantilly for the rest of his life. He could see himself getting married to a pretty blond and raising a family in the streets of his hometown. It was comforting to think of that life. He had a choice as to what to do. He didn't have to leave; he could spend his days in his hometown. The life seemed calm, routine-like. "What are you going to do, Hay? Marry my sister and call it a day?" Neal almost cackled. His teeth glistened in the orange light of the street lamp. It had been an ongoing joke since Tiffany, Neal's little sister, had sat in the stands during a football practice to do her homework. The joke never seemed to get old with the boys, so much so that Hayden had become scathingly accustomed to her as an unattainable romantic interest. She was a year younger than him. She was friends with his own sister, so it seemed elementary to date someone of her caliber. "Like I said," Hayden jutted his chin out, the air of petulance surrounding him. The next words were said in jest. "I wouldn't mind."

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OCTOBER 2001

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TABLE BY AMETHYST @ DECIMATED DREAMS
PURPLESTRIPE93 @ CAUTION 2.0

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[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=algin,center] words: 956

[style=width:210px; background-color: #4c4143; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #000000;margin-left: -225px; margin-top: -20px; overflow:auto; height: 300px;]Shards of glass and blood remained suspended in the air. Screams surrounded him, the smell of metal flooded his olfactory senses, and nothing was still and stable. He felt nothing and wanted nothing more than to make sure not a fleck of his own reflection could ever haunt him again. "HAYDEN! HAYDEN!" the muffled sound of his mother's voice cried. She tried to hold him back, but he persisted, his strength overpowering hers easily. She found herself holding onto the torso of a madman who simply would not relent. His mission was to destroy himself, to make sure every spectrum of Hayden would be abolished. Without this accomplishment, nothing would be worth a damn. Neal was gone. In the large house in the Chantilly suburbs, everything had seemed just fine. Even after the funeral, Hayden had endured great pain without snapping. No one could get him to say a word. Intensely learned psychologists had met with his parents, an intervention had been organized for months now to stop the drinking, and even Peyton found that she couldn't get through to him. Even his sister couldn't see who he was anymore. He was an empty shell who practiced sports and read medical books until he fell asleep next to a cup of black coffee and the studies of medical professors across the nation. To them, it seemed vengeful, actions driven by his need to understand what caused his death and to make sure it never happened again. To Hayden, it was his way of seeing just how agonizing the fall had been. He would understand every fracture, every crack, every torn muscle that had caused the last scream out of Neal's lips. Peyton cried in the doorway; her hands over her mouth were poor fences for her unconcealed emotions. Her fear, her distress, and her discomfort were clear in his crystalline eyes, the same ones that Hayden was trying to eradicate from the surface of the body mirror he once used to make sure he could impress girls and look adequate for some party. These things seemed trivial in comparison to a huge loss, and none of it made sense to him. He no longer thought in words as he continued to make the small shards smaller, only cutting deeper gashes into the side of his hand. Mrs. Scott could only attempt to hold him up, to stop him from kneeling to the ground and crushing the glass into his knees. Even his long jeans couldn't protect him from the self-inflicted wounds he was determined to cause. "Let me go!" he cried, moving his body from the left to the right to throw his mother off of the flesh he called his body. Peyton's sobs only became more profuse and useless. He heard the cries of a small animal by the doorway, only enraging him worse. Why couldn't he just go back? Why couldn't he fix it? Why couldn't Neal be alive? "Hayden, stop!" Mrs. Scott exclaimed, finally breaking under pressure. "You have to stop!" The fist that was in mid-swing stopped as Hayden registered what was happening. A cut was evident on his mother's cheek, only collateral damage of what he had just done to their home. He turned to see the small animal that was his baby sister. She was only trying to understand. "I killed him," he choked. "I killed him." And he'd find a way to kill everything else he loved. Anyone could see it. He was a monster. The mirror was destroyed, the shards crunching under Hayden's feet as he shifted to see his mother's face again. Her hair was ruffled, her eyes were wild, and her lips were quivering. He dropped the hand still suspended in their air with the very last flying shards of a mirror. "I'm calling your father," the woman finally sobbed. "He'll know what to do." She rushed from the room, leaving Peyton to deal with what was left of Hayden Scott. He turned from her, inspecting the damage and the wounds on his hands. The cuts got smaller as they climbed up his arms. "You can't keep doing this," a small voice told him. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his back to the blond girl. What did his little sister know? "I can," he nodded. "I can do this for the rest of my life." "What? Break your family's hearts?" He could almost see her just shaking her head, red eyes glaring at him. He turned around to see the sight in full. She hadn't expected a shove, but that was what she got. "Stop," she whispered as he reached out to shove her again, harder this time. She fell to the ground, feeling feebler than she already had after watching her older brother attempt to mutilate himself through a mirror. "Leave me alone," he muttered. His blood stained her white blouse, the one she had received from Tiffany Prescott at a birthday party. The stains spread out over the pure and colorless cloth, but Peyton kept her eyes locked on her older brother. She had her lips pursed, trying to keep the sobs from making her look weak again. "You won't do this for the rest of your life, Hayden. I don't know --" She covered her mouth to stifle the trembling. "I don't know why you keep on blaming yourself, but it has to stop. Don't just do it for you. Do it for the people who would have wanted you to be happy." With that, she walked away. Maybe it was cryptic to some, but Hayden knew who wanted him to be happy. There were only two names. One was dead, and the other was clearer than day. Tiffany Prescott.

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JULY 2002

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TABLE BY AMETHYST @ DECIMATED DREAMS
PURPLESTRIPE93 @ CAUTION 2.0

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[Deleted]

[style=font-family:courier new; font-size: 30px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: -2px; line-height: 100%; color: #2e8f9b]FEBRUARY 2010

[/style][style=width: 285px; height: 250px; border-right: 15px solid #458188; background: #CCC][style=width: 280px; padding-right: 5px; overflow: auto; height: 250px; font-family:georgia; font-size: 9px; text-align:justify; color: #222]"Hayden, don't you know what day it is?" the librarian asked with a grin as she shut down the next computer.

It was nearly seven o'clock at the local library in Gwynn Oak. Hayden had entered at four o'clock in a rush to study for the biggest test since the semester began. Of course, for the entire three hours, no focus had been lost. His head snapped up to respond to the third person to speak to him that day (the first spoke to him to apologize for hitting the corner of his desk and the other for hitting his elbow while typing on the computer beside him).

"Hey, Mrs. Wheedleton," he smiled charmingly. He looked exhausted, regardless of his handsome grin, and she could see it. "Don't you have a valentine today?" he asked her.

She laughed melodically. She looked like the typical librarian past fifty years with her laugh lines and reading glasses. Her personality, however, made up for any aging evident on her skin. Hayden had grown to love her in the past few years of his education. "My husband isn't exactly a romantic. But we will be celebrating tomorrow. It's also our anniversary. Now, Hayden, whose picture is that?" she asked suddenly, pointing at a photo open on his Facebook page.

He had no idea that the picture had been pulled up. In a tired daze, he had been looking to message a classmate whom he had asked for help. A photo of him, however, was tagged, and he had hastily clicked the link to make sure Peyton was no longer posting embarrassing photos of their trips to the beach or the movies.

It wasn't. It was a picture of him, Peyton, and Tiffany Prescott.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly like they would if he were thinking long and hard about any one subject. It more closely related to the expression that anyone would have on his face while trying to summon up a distant memory.

"My sister. And that's Tiffany," he told her. He pointed at Tiffany. Her blue eyes stood out against the sunset behind the three of them. Of course, trips to the beach were rare, especially when the three of them were so busy with their lives. With Neal dead and gone, coming back home had become like wrestling a bear.

"She's beautiful, Hayden! Your sister, too," Mrs. Wheedleton blushed. Hayden looked back at the photo with a frown on his face. "Now, don't tell me she's not your valentine." The older woman put her aged hands on her hips before looking down her nose at the medical student.

He laughed heartily. "Of course not. She's.. different. Complicated." He thought about that day at the beach. She was no longer a bubbly teenager; that girl was now cynical, cold, complex beyond comprehension. He remembered thinking she was beautiful when water rolled down her bare arms. When the waves hit her, she was steadfast, and the black of her bathing suit that day contrasted with the tan of her skin and the minuscule blond hairs on her arms. Yes, she was beautiful.

"You can't be alone forever, Hayden Scott."

He looked down and smiled once again. "I'm not alone." He began packing his belongings, pulling his books together and putting them into the book bag he carried around with him. "I prefer to be single, that's all. No commitments. It hurts too much when people walk out." It made him a coward. Losing Neal had made him a coward.

He closed the window and said goodbye to Tiffany's blue eyes, the ones that had been poorly replicated by a thousand pixels on the computer screen. Nothing could recreate the mischievous glint in her eye when she teased him or the final goodbye he remembered from the night of the funeral.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he said to the sweet librarian once he shut down his computer. It was closing time, and on this day, the whole place was empty.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Hayden," she replied warmly. His frequent visits made their bond something real and sustainable. She knew she would miss him when he had to go. "And don't be afraid to call her." A wink on her part made Hayden chuckle before heading to the car parked in the predominantly vacant lot.

And he spent the night alone.

[/style][/style]ty sophia
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