A Promise Fulfilled [WattyAwards#2012]

Chapter VIII: Revelations

Chapter VIII: Revelations

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"The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should be treated with caution." 

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter And The Sorceror's Stone.

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It was the first time Dex really saw Timmy cry.

He did, with sobs that ripped up his throat and chest and tore through the air, jagged and rough and real. He clutched the blanket so tight around himself that his fingers turned white, and he keeled over, gasping and choking and stumbling a bit on his feet. It was so sudden, and so violent, and Dex didn't know what he can do. Timmy had never seemed like someone to cry, but now it was as if he had stored it all up over the years, and he had exploded, fallen apart.

That's what happened when someone didn't allow themselves to feel, Dex realized. It didn't fade over time, or leaked away through fingernails and hair follicles. The feeling stayed, and simmered, deep in your body, until it swelled too big to stay hidden any longer. Sadness, rage, loneliness. Love.

It never really goes away.

He stepped forward and grabbed Timmy's shoulders before he could actually fall, pulling him up and pressing Timmy into his chest. Timmy's hands fisted in his pajama shirt and he buried his face into the crook of Dex's neck, breath hot and wet on Dex's skin. He was shaking so hard that the blanket began to slip, and Dex quickly tugged it tighter, arms wrapping around Timmy and holding him, one hand on his side and the other on the back of his head, softly stroking.

"Shh..." He whispered, "Shhh..." He wanted to say more, wanted to promise Timmy that it would be okay, that he would be okay, but he couldn't. Not when...not if it was a lie.

Timmy's dying.

His body was so solid and strong and real, but suddenly Dex might as well be clutching at ash, ready to be blown away with the next storm. Timmy's skin jumped beneath his fingertips, and it was almost like he was actually cracking apart, like he was made of eggshells that were being slowly crushed in Dex's hands.

Timmy's dying. And he never told.

What would it be like, to carry that secret around with you, every day? To have it there, heavy and dark in the cavern of your heart? Would you feel it, Dex wondered. Could you feel it when you were dying? Or was it just the knowledge there, waiting and eating at your insides? Could you feel yourself hollowing out? Hollow men, stuffed men...

Was that what Timmy felt, everyday? Did he cover it over with smiles and joking and layers of paint, every morning? Did he force it all further inside, batten it down with laughter, and present a face to the world that held no trace of shadow?

Dex held Timmy tight as he sank down to the floor, repositioning him into his lap and rocking slowly back and forth, back and forth, as Timmy cried and shook and died. Timmy's dying, he's dying, he's dying.

It seemed impossible. He was Timmy—so opinionated and strong and passionate and alive. How could someone like that be dying? Death was for other people, people far away. Not Timmy. He didn't deserve it.

But it was real, and it was happening, and there was nothing Dex could do to stop it, so he just held Timmy and let him crumble apart, walls falling down, like the Roman Empire, strong and real and alive until it wasn't, until it was just ruins and a forgotten religion. The god Hephaestus, torn and crippled on the island of Lemnos, because even Gods can fall.