When They Were Lost . . . (Sequel to That Time In 1987. . . .)

27: A Mother's Love

Freddy's POV

The walk home was awkward for Freddy. 

Not only was it the fact that he didn't have a shirt, or the fact he had excruciating scars sliced into his back, it was the fact he always thought his wings were stretched out behind him. They weren't, but he always had that tingling, lingering feeling that they were there.

All he wanted to do was to fly free. He had in a simulation, but he couldn't think of any real instance he had flown. Maybe he could touch the clouds.

But people could be watching . . . would they take Freddy away if they saw he had wings? 

That was when he realized. His self-consciousness was something he had adapted from school. If only he could let that go and be free . . .

Maybe that was just what Freddy would do. 

Looking behind him, he watched as his wings grew out from his back. A grin spread on his face as fast as the wings did. If he wanted to go high, he needed his wings to be larger.

Summoning the spirit inside of him, he let the wings grow larger and larger before they were so large they dragged behind him. Looking up toward the heavens, Freddy pushed off of the ground, forcing his massive wings downward. The acceleration at which he launched into the air was absolutely breathtaking.

Over and over, he pounded the wings downward. Each time he would look down, he got butterflies just thinking about what would happen if he fell.

As he looked up, he laughed and hooted. He would touch the clouds. Freddy would touch the clouds. 

Freddy was a balloon. He soared on his own. He was free. Free from pain. Free from the cares of the world. When he was in the air, he was free. Freddy was free. He would soar into the air higher and higher until he couldn't do it anymore. Freddy would fall once he reached the clouds. 

They seemed so far away, but he knew he was getting closer. Freddy looked down at the city. Each house was just a small square far below. The cloud was so massive, looking at it from the elevation he was at. Just a few more flaps and he could touch it.

Freddy always imagined that he would be exhausted after flying so high, after flapping these massive wings. But he wasn't exhausted in any sense of the word. Freddy was exhilarated.

The cloud got more and more detailed as Freddy approached it. He gazed with wonder at its tufty structure. As a child, he always dreamed that one day, he would touch a cloud. Only a year ago, Freddy knew it was impossible. But now, he was actually going to do it. He was about to touch a cloud. He reached out, his fingertips aching to swipe the massive white cloud. He flapped, getting closer and closer before--

His fingers suddenly felt misty. By the second, more and more mist gathered on his hand, eventually dripping down his entire arm. The sensation felt nice, but it was also slightly unpleasant.

Now . . . time to fall.

Freddy closed his eyes as he stopped spreading his wings, letting them go loose and allowing himself to plunge toward the earth back first. His stomach got butterflies, exhilaration pounding through every nerve in Freddy's body.

He twisted around to make sure he didn't slam into the ground. He was already so close to the ground. Slowly, he inclined his position from horizontal to vertical, squinting from the immense wind that pounded against his face. The ground got larger at a more rapid speed, bulging and warping to stretch wider and wider to fit his eyesight.

Soon, it seemed dangerously close. Freddy spread his wings and glided across the land, searching below for his house. It was easy to recognize, as behind his house there was a trampoline and a shed. He found Chica's house, and from there he etched his way back to his own.

There it was.

Freddy descended down, lower and lower to the ground. Soon, he was using his own street as a runway, slowing down to the point he could run on the blurry asphalt. Then, he slowed to a stop, pulling his wings back into his body.

Great, I'm still shirtless. Luckily I'm next to my house. I can get a shirt there.

Freddy walked up to the door, looking in. No lights were turned on. It would be hard to tell, anyway, as it seemed to be midday. He had the rights to his own home. Silently, he grasped the knob and twisted the door open.

The first thing to greet him was a stench. It was unfamiliar to him, but it wasn't good. His house now smelled bitter. He couldn't grasp what it was, though.

The house was considerably dark compared to outside. Freddy's eyes widened, as his eyes didn't need to adjust to the darkness. 

He slowly walked forward, wondering if anyone was home. They would freak out if they saw him alive and okay with scars etched into his back. What would he tell them? Maybe he just needed to do it in silence.

As he stepped forward, his toes knocked against something, like a glass bottle. Curiously, Freddy grabbed whatever was on the ground and examined it. It was definitely a glass bottle, but . . .

His heart sank when he saw what was scripted across the front.

XXX.

Freddy's breath stopped. 

His mother . . . was reduced to being an alcoholic? Just because of Freddy's death? He dropped the bottle and put his fingers through his hair. How much had changed while Freddy was gone?

A tear ran down his face as instinct took over, as though he had come home from a long day of school.

"Mom . . . I'm home."