24 Hours

Hour Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen

“Crying doesn’t mean you’re weak, it means you’ve been strong for too long.” Anonymous

 Hour Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen

         The first time I ever rode a rollercoaster I was seven years old. I was scared out of mind: I thought I was going to die. After I got over my initial fear, I thought it was the best thing in the world. Riding a motorcycle was kind of the opposite of that. Initially, I wasn’t scared at all. After we started going, I freaked out a little. In my head, of course. There was no way that I was going to let Tristan know that I was afraid.

        Once we get a little way down the road, I calm down a little. I loosen my hold around Tristan and open my eyes. I glance around in wonder. It’s much the same as riding in a car except I can feel the air wrap around me the way a cocoon wraps around a caterpillar.

        The drive isn’t very long and soon we’re sitting outside of a gated mansion. My mouth drops open. Looking at this house is like looking at a beach in southern California. There are palm trees placed sporadically around the house and a huge pool right in the front. Most of the front of the house is made of glass and there are beautiful pillars everywhere.

        Tristan punches in a code on a keypad to the left and the iron wrought gate in front of us opens slowly. The motorcycle takes off again and we ride down the long driveway toward the house. A garage door opens of its own accord and we pull in.

        After we’ve both gotten off the motorcycle and removed our helmets, I ask, “You live here?”

        He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I own it,” he tells me sheepishly.

        My eyes become as round as saucers, “You own this place?”

        “It’s kind of a long story,” he tells me. “It goes along with the other story I was going to tell you though. Why don’t we head on inside?” He ushers me into a spacious living room. It is modernly decorated. The room is painted white and there’s a flat screen tv situated on a wall in the middle of the room. There’s a black couch situated next to a loveseat and recliner chair. He leads me over to the loveseat and I gingerly lower myself down. I’m scared to sit down because everything seems brand new and untouched.

        Tristan stays standing. “Can I get you something to drink or anything?”

        “Some water would be nice.” He nodded and disappeared behind a door off to the side.

        I glance around curiously. This does not look like a teenage boy decorated it. It was also really clean, which I guess should be expected of a mansion.

        Tristan returns a few minutes later carrying two glasses of water. He hands one to me and keeps another for himself. I take a small sip and then place the glass on the table sitting in front of me.

        Tristan stares down into his water as he starts talking to me. “My parents met each other when they were in high school. They started dating as juniors and then stayed together all through college. My dad founded a solar company a few years later and right around the same time my mom got pregnant with me.” A sad smile appears on his face. “You probably hear about all those rich parents who are too busy to ever do anything with their kids. My parents were nothing like that. Don’t get me wrong my dad was busy all the time, but whenever he had free time he was spending it with my mom and I.” I smile while listening to his happy memories.

        “Anyway, one day, when I was ten, I was walking home from school when this black car with tinted windows pulled up beside me. I got scared and I immediately started running. The car followed me and when it got close enough a guy jumped out and grabbed me.” The smile falls from my face as the story continues. “They hit me on the head and knocked me out. The next thing I knew I was waking up tied to a chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. They hit me a little but it wasn’t that bad all they wanted was money. They kept me knocked out most of the time. My dad agreed to give them the money so that they would let me go. They told him where to meet them and that he should bring the money and my mom with him. They said that they would know if he involved the police and that he shouldn’t even think about warning them. I was so afraid for my parents.” I feel tears start to fill my eyes as I think of a scared ten year old Tristan.

        “I overheard one of them say that they were probably going to have to kill my parents, and I just went crazy. I headbutted the nearest guy to me: it broke his nose. Then I swung my chair around and hit the guy behind me in his legs, he fell and hit his head. They restrained me and it turns out the guy whose nose I had broken was the leader and he was furious. They untied me from my chair and removed my shirt. Then t..they,” his voice breaks and I grab one of his hands in both of mine. He takes a couple of deep breaths and we both just sit there quietly. I see him glance over to a picture on the wall. There’s a man and a woman smiling in pure delight holding what I assume is a baby Tristan.

        I look back at Tristan and notice his eyes hard, “Then they whipped me. Would you believe it? They actually whipped me. Each lash of the whip hurt more than the last until eventually I couldn’t even feel it anymore. My parents got there a little while later and I was laying in a heap on the floor, wincing in pain. My dad was furious but he held back his anger. ‘Here’s the money. I just want my son. Please, just give me my son back.’ My dad started to walk toward me and they let him. He picked me up in his arms and cradled me to his chest, just like he did when I was a baby. It hurt because my back was still raw from the whip but I was so happy to be in his arms.” A few tears start to slip out of his eyes and I let go of his hand. I reach out and pull him into a hug while I wait for him to continue.

        “All of sudden, I heard sirens in the background. The next thing I knew there was a gunshot, my dad fell forward, and he crushed me to the floor. I heard a scream that was cut short following another gunshot and I watched as my mom fell to the floor. The building cleared pretty quickly after that. I was left laying under my dead dad as I waited for the police to arrive. My parents didn’t have any siblings and all of my grandparents had died before I was born. They left everything they had to me and I’ve spent the last eight years in foster care. As soon as I turned eighteen I moved back in here and I’ve been living here ever since. It gets pretty lonely but it reminds me of them.”

        I don’t know what to say. There is nothing that I can say. I can’t tell him that I understand how he feels, because I don’t. I can’t tell him that I know what he’s going through, because how could I? The only thing I can do is be there for him because I don’t think anyone else has. We sit there holding on to each other for who knows how long. At one point, I almost fall asleep.

        Eventually, Tristan lets out a chuckle. “Aren’t we something? I don’t think I’ve cried this much since my parents died.”

        “It’s okay to cry,” I say quietly, “Crying doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’ve been strong for too long. I think you have been strong for much too long, Tristan. Let me be your strength for a little while.”

        He pulls away from me and uses his thumb to wipe a few tears from my face that I hadn’t even known had fallen, “As long as you let me be yours.”