After getting away from his cruel father's tyranny, Randall has to learn how to live again, and accept the person he was meant to be - with a little help of a local bartender...
*****
An empty shell is all what is left of twenty-five-yea...
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-Randall-
"Do you want to watch a game? Or a movie? Or should we start with that show I talked about?"
"Hmm?" I looked up at Cole as we stopped in front of his door with the grocery bags. "Oh, the show?"
I didn't really care, but he'd talked my ears off about a TV show I'd never heard of on our way back from my place, looking really enthusiastic about it.
"Nice," he said with a smile while opening the door.
I followed him inside, but when he took his shoes off, I just stood there, looking around. Had I ever noticed all the colors before? No. After seeing my own apartment, Cole's looked like an exploded paint factory. There was so much life in it I was almost getting a headache. It wasn't a bad thing, though.
"What's wrong?" Cole asked quietly with worry in his eyes.
I shook my head and kicked my shoes off. "I'm good."
"I know you don't like to talk, but..." he trailed off, but when I looked at him, he looked away. "Sorry... I just..."
"What?"
"I wish you'd let me help... I know there's not much I can do, but I feel so powerless... So... Useless."
I watched him closely for a moment. When I didn't speak, he peered at me carefully, looking sad. Part of me wanted to say I was just fine. I didn't want to say anything more than that. Why did he have to say such awkward things? It made me uncomfortable, and he knew that. I could tell that just by the look on his face.
It was my turn to look away.
"I'm sorry I said anything..." he muttered, sounding defeated.
"You know my issues," I said quietly, hoping that he would leave it at that.
Maybe he did...
"Yeah..."
I needed some distance, so I walked into the living room, pulling my mail out of my pocket. I stopped to stare at the envelopes, my name on them. Randall Allen.
"Should we... watch the show?" Cole asked hesitantly.
I glanced at him. I couldn't understand how I could have such a huge impact on his mood. Why did he let me have such an effect on him? He was miserable because I didn't want to talk to him, and yet, he still wanted to watch the show with me.
I hated it. I hated seeing him like that.
I sighed quietly. Talking. I could do that. I'd done that a lot lately.
"When I said I'm good, I meant it. I am good," I told him.
"Okay, that's good," he said, taking a step toward me with hope in his eyes.
