Work Text:
In the middle of the night, a woman stands alone in a phone stand, waiting for something to happen. The dial tone repeats over and over, grating on her nerves with each repetition.
She wants to scream. Never in her life did she think she'd have to make a call like this ever again, and yet here she is, clutching the receiver with a white-knuckled grip.
Ring…
Ring…
She hates this fucking dial tone.
Then abruptly, it cuts out.
"Hello? Who is this?"
The voice is from someone she hasn't seen in a long, long time. She almost doesn't want to continue — they hadn't parted on the best terms — but she knows he at least deserves to hear what she's going to tell him.
She chokes the words out. "It's me. Sunny's dead."
Silence from the other end. Then, a single word, inflected with a strained sort of disbelief.
"…What?"
"Sunny. Our son, John."
A long pause. Then a response, terse and shaky. "How?"
For a moment, she hesitates. But he has to know. "He killed himself. Stabbed himself with a knife."
From the other end is a strangled half-gasp, half-sob, conveying a mix of emotions too complicated to decipher.
Tensing herself, she prepares for the worst. She expects a barrage of yelling, blaming her for failing to take care of their son, or crying for the only child they had left, grief, anything.
It makes it hurt all the more when he simply hangs up, leaving her all alone with her thoughts.
She thinks about it over and over. How she could've prevented this from happening, how she could've noticed something, anything about whatever Sunny was going through.
Against her will, she thinks back to how things were.
Sunny had never been the same after his sister's death. None of them had been, but he seemed to be hit the hardest. He began eating less, he stopped visiting his friends, he hardly talked at all. Sunny had always needed a little help day to day, but after the incident, she had found herself having to help him with his daily life more and more.
Eventually, when Sunny started to refuse to even go to school, she tried her best to homeschool him. She was never academically gifted, but she did what she could with the resources she had. While work took up most of her time, she put aside the time that she could to support her son.
At one point, she had considered getting Sunny professional help. She couldn't do everything on her own, and balancing her duties at work and home was starting to weigh down on her. Sunny was always averse to the idea, though, and she never wanted to force him to do anything. She was wary of pushing too hard, of breaking her fragile son who was already falling apart. She couldn't repeat past mistakes again, so all she could do was help where she could.
That's the way it was for four long years. How it was until…
Until…
She still can't believe it. The way Sunny left the world. One of the movers had been the first to see him, both hands gripping the knife plunged into his own chest. She never saw the scene of death herself, didn't ever want to. She only saw Sunny after the paramedics moved him, not bothering to resuscitate because he was already dead.
The first thing that had struck her was how pale he looked. The second was the jagged wound in his chest, harsh and red. The third, what made her snap, was the peaceful expression on his face, making it look as if he was just sleeping. She had started screaming hysterically, blind to the world, recklessly running toward her son as people rushed to restrain her.
She doesn't remember what happened after that.
She does remember that the funeral was short. She remembers Sunny's old friends being present as well, having changed so much over the years. She remembers being consoled to no avail, sobbing as people no longer close to her tried to comfort her.
Finally, she remembers leaving. She remembers packing up and never coming back.
After all, there was nothing left for her in Faraway. Not anymore.
After a long day at the office job, she returns to the apartment, weary and exhausted. As she fishes in her purse for the keys, she lets out a quiet sigh.
She's thinking of quitting her job, soon. It has decent pay, she'd taken it in anticipation of the living expenses that would inevitably rack up, but now that she's only supporting herself…
She doesn't want to think about that.
The door opens, and she enters. The apartment is spacious, decorated with a minimalistic style that's intensified by the general lack of furnishing. Boxes are still scattered along the floor; she had only unpacked what was absolutely necessary to get by. She promised herself she'd unpack the rest later, but she never did.
She had rented this apartment just for him. There was an extra bedroom reserved for Sunny, larger than her own. She had made sure it had its own bathroom and that it had enough space for his things. She'd personally come over to test the mattress to see if it was comfortable enough for Sunny's oddly specific standards.
They were supposed to have a better life here.
A fresh start. A new beginning.
She sits down on a box and just stares. She stares at the apartment that was supposed to be shared between the two of them. The place had felt so full of potential when she had first come over, but now it looks desolate and empty in her eyes. Over and over, her gaze is drawn to the room she had prepared for her son, and every time she feels a fresh wave of grief wash over the numbness.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, she realizes that she can't just keep wallowing in her own misery. She hasn't even finished unpacking yet. Doing something — anything at all — could potentially take her mind off of things. Standing up, she turns around and opens the box beneath her. She really shouldn't have.
Stacked inside the box are various toys and books. Building blocks, stuffed animals, all of Sunny's things. On the top was a book titled Hungry Humphrey, the cutesy blue whale floating on the cover with an innocuous smile.
Sunny's favorite book.
It's the last straw. She rushes toward the door, throwing it open. She needs to be anywhere but here.
The city around her is unfamiliar as she rushes to nowhere in particular, no destination in mind as she seeks to get away from it all.
Useless, useless, useless. You can't help anyone at all. First Mari, now Sunny. You truly are a failure of a mother.
She stumbles over a curb, almost falling onto the concrete before she catches herself and keeps running.
What did you miss? What were the signs? You could've saved her, could've saved him, and yet time after time again you failed.
She runs into a crowd, bumping against shoulders and backs. She's caught in a sea of strangers, there isn't anywhere she can go.
Why didn't you try harder? Why didn't you do better? He was suffering. Why didn't you notice?
A car horn blares, brakes screeching as she rushes through a crosswalk.
He left because of you. They all left because of you.
She stops when she sees grass. She's managed to make her way to a park, a bastion of nature in a harsh, urban city. It's a good place as any to stop, and she doesn't think she can run anymore.
She takes a moment to just calm down, looking around the area while taking sharp, ragged breaths. It's similar enough to the park in Faraway to be vaguely comforting. Her breathing becomes less heavy, the lump in her stomach less pronounced, and even the ache in her legs isn't as harsh.
The few people around are looking at her strangely. She ignores them. She makes her way to a bench by the lake and collapses into it, accidentally bumping one of the rails put into place to prevent people from sleeping.
She looks out at the lake, trying to distract her mind. At some point, it's gotten dark outside, and the water has lit up with the silver sheen of moonlight. The leaves above rustle in the breeze, giving the park a serene ambience in the night.
She'll have to return home at some point. It's late out, and it's hardly safe to be here. She doesn't even know where home is anymore, though. Everything is so uncertain, and she doesn't know whether she has the strength to orient herself. She feels aimless, a wandering spirit with nothing to tie her down. There's nowhere for her to go.
But for now, she'll stay here and wait.
In the middle of the night, she dreams of a phone call. It's her, standing at the phone, putting on a fake smile as she prepares to talk to her son.
Time passes, and there's no response.
Her eyebrows furrow. Her head begins to hurt. The dial tone rings and rings, unceasing, blaring in her ears with its harsh mechanical drone. She unplugs the telephone, but it keeps going regardless. She tries to block out the noise with her hands, but it doesn't help.
She's in her old house now. The phone is still ringing in the distance. Her home is empty, bare of any furnishings or decoration. Her footsteps echo against the hardwood floor, the only other sound aside from the incessant ringing. She follows the sound, lacking anywhere else to go.
As she walks, she passes the door to the backyard. She doesn't want to look. She does. A dark figure is suspended in the air, swaying in the wind just beyond the glass. She moves on.
As she walks up the stairs, the ringing worsens. It's loud, getting louder, and it just doesn't stop. The sound has taken a sharper edge to it, piercing her ears, permeating her head. She doesn't know why it's not stopping. It has to stop. It has to end.
It's loudest when she approaches the room. Her head begins to throb as she stares at the door, trepidation filling her heart as she places a hand on the doorknob. She opens the door.
On the other side is a boy, lying on the bed, a knife buried in his chest. Life has long since left his eyes, fixed on the ceiling in a half-lidded stare. Blood pools beneath him, staining the once-pristine sheets.
Beside him, the telephone rings.
She's at his side. The knife is quickly removed and discarded. She buries her head into his side, hoping against hope that this is all just a horrible, horrible dream.
Sunny disappears from underneath her. Her head splashes against the blood pooled below. It's everywhere, now, against her face, her clothes, her hands. Her ears are filled with meaningless noise. She falls to the side of the bed and clutches the sheets, trying in vain to wipe her hands clean. When that fails, she lets out what she's been holding in for so long, and screams.
The dial tone rings into the night. It calls and calls and calls, knowing that no one will come to answer.