Sokeefe AU: The Farmer's Daughter

Part Ten

Keefe couldn't sleep.

It was no wonder, really, considering all the terrible things that had happened that day, but it bothered him all the same.

He had spent the past how ever many hours tossing and turning, turning and tossing, begging for the sweet relief of sleep to overtake his exhausted, grief stricken body.

The room Sophie had led him to was nice. Warm. Safe. The crystal walls overlooked the whole valley, the animals in their pens, the ocean, everything. It was peaceful, comforting, and he had spent a long while staring out at the world before he finally crawled into bed. . .

. . . and didn't find sleep.

The room was frustratingly quiet, the bed soft, his eyes tired, but he just couldn't sleep.

Everytime he tried to close his eyes, he heard his father, telling him the news.

. . . matchmaking. . .

. . . don't come home tonight . . .

You knew this was coming!

That one . . . that one hurt the most.

Because he had known.

But that didn't make mean it pained him any less.

He remembered being younger, hearing his parents scream at each other while he was supposed to be asleep. Thier voices drifting up the stairs and to his room, right to his ears, and staying there for days.

"I hate you!"

"I hate you more!"

"You're so insufferable! I wish I never married you!"

"You're not the only one! If I hadn't married you, then I wouldn't have such a screw up of a son!"

And there it was.

The cause of all their problems.

Keefe.

If he wasn't there . . .

If he hadn't been born. . .

If he was better . . .

A lot of 'ifs.' A lot of mistakes, a lot of second chances he didn't deserve.

He wasn't going to sleep tonight, was he?

Sighing, Keefe sat up, rubbing his red eyes. He had felt so pathetic, sitting there, crying on the floor of the guest room, but sometimes emotions have to be felt, and sometimes clouds have to rain.

And rain they did.

By the time he had calmed down, it was well past dinner.

He only knew that, of course, because Sophie had gently knocked on the door, the tiny taps of her knuckles echoing in his head.

"You missed dinner," she had told him through the door. Her voice was soft. Gentle.

Keefe had been sitting on the floor, his back to the wall. "I know."

Quiet. Then, shyly, "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

Yes.

"No."

He hadn't meant for his voice to sound so . . . bitter.

"Sorry," he relented, laying his head back on the crystal behind him.

"No, it's fine. It's . . . been a rough day me for, too."

Her voice didn't hint at her lying, and her emotions were so filled with sorrow and grief that Keefe knew she was telling the truth.