One Day Too Late

House Of Wolves

Echo's P.O.V.-

"Jordan?" I ask the next day. 

"Yeah?" he looks away from the horizon he's been staring at for 15 minutes. 

"Do you think. . ." I start, but my voice falters,"Never mind." 

"No," I have his full attention now, "What is it?" 

"Do you think," I begin again, "That the people who. . . That my parents deserve to forgiveness?  Do they just get off scotch-free?" 

"Of course they walk away with no collateral damage. This world's screwed up," he spits, his voice with a bitterness that I've never seen before, "And they definitely don't deserve your forgiveness." 

"That's what I thought," I sigh, resigned. 

"But that doesn't mean we can't do anything about it," his eyes light up.

"What?" I question. I'd be scared if I wasn't already liking where this was going. 

"Just because no one alive is going to do anything doesn't mean we can't," his voice carries a lilt that borders on insanity. I love it.

"Tell me more," I plead. 

"Dreams. I didn't tell you at first, because it's unhealthy for the living to get dreams from the dead. But unhealthy is just what we're going for isn't it?" 

"You know what they say, Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge."  

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Because Jordan's been dead longer, we stop at his dead beat dad's first. It's 2 a.m. and clearly he's just gone to sleep. I'm disgusted at the mere sight of him. 

Jordan grabs my hand, and demonstrates putting his hand to his father's temple. He presses his fingers on the vein, and gestures for me to do the same. 

I expect to enter some dreamworld, but we're still standing in the room. Now, though Jordan's dad is awake, or so it seems. He's standing up, but his body's still in the bed. I look over at Jordan in panic, but he reassures me this is part of it. 

"We can make him see whatever we want," he whispers intensely. 

Testing this theory I call up ambulances, and body bags. A car wreck. The man who claims to be Jordan's father takes in the scenery, scared at first, but as soon as he sees his son, his eyes go an angry red. 

"You," he sputters, "Do you know how hard it was on everyone when you died? We all missed you so much. We waited for this to be a dream, but it wasn't! How could you do this to us?" 

Jordan, taken aback, is speechless. 

"You, m-missed me?" he stammers, incredulous. 

"Of course," all the anger is gone now, replaced by dejection, "I've been blaming myself all this time for being a horrible father, and I've wanted so bad to apologize. I guess I'm more mad at myself than you. So, I'm sorry. Sorry for everything really. I've stopped drinking, by the way. I thought it a good way to honor your memory."

"Th-thanks," Jordan manages to get out. I've long since forgotten about the dreamscape, and even in this tiny bedroom, his dad manages to step around all the junk to hug his son.  I want to cry, and to throw away this futile hope that my dad will be the same way. 

"I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm begging," Jordan accepts this apology after just a moment of hesitation. His dad immediately begins to cry. 

"But Dad," Jordan offers a weak attempt at humor, "I thought real men didn't cry." 

His dad laughs weakly, "There were a lot of things I was wrong about." 

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The breath I've long since lost gets inexplicably lodged in my throat as soon as I step through the doorway into what I once called home. 

My mum is, as always, sleeping on the couch. It's been years since she and my "father" shared a bed. The rage I thought I had lost at the touching scene we just came from is back full force. I was stupid to hope that anything in my house would change.  

Jordan mirrors my cold hatred and together we step across the living room to the freak's bedroom. 

I see him, sleeping peacefully, unaffected, and I want to strangle him. Jordan lays a hand on my arm to stop me. 

"Wait," he mouths.  I nod, and we touch two fingers to the side of his head. He jumps up from the bed, at first surprised. A flash of fear crosses his face before he buries under condescension. 

"What do you want?" he drawls, "I thought I was finally rid of you."

I proceed to say every swear word I can think of, ending with, "I don't know how anyone can stand to stay alive in a world with you in it." 

"Why you little," He raises his hand to slap me, but I catch his hand.

"You forget," A sadistic smile slips across my face, "This is my playing field, not yours." 

He's shocked to see me fight back, and I take advantage of it, calling up a dreamscape of hell. 

"Oh look, a fiery inferno?" I mock surprise, "Isn't this where you said I'd go? Nope, you're the one going to end up here eventually. Just have a little taste why don't you?" 

I force the flames to lap at this monster and he screams, the grits his teeth, "You know, I couldn't care less. I know that what I'm doing is right, and if it hadn't been for the funeral costs, I'd be glad you were dead. No I take it back, the funeral costs were worth getting rid of you. It's done wonders for my career. Your death? Ruled as accidental. I have friends everywhere. And now I have a perfect sob story that earns me loads of cash. So really thanks for being dead." 

Enraged, I push him down where he grovels in the flame. I create little characters of ash and smoke, which whisper in his ear until fear takes over his senses. He's pleading, crying. Eventually, out of fear, he wets himself. I'm revolted by the pathetic mass of writhing limbs. I send it all away, and take my hand from his temple. 

I'm disturbed to find a trickle of blood running from his nose.  

"Get me out of here," I cry, suddenly overwhelmed, "I can't trust myself anymore." 

We go to the only place we can anymore, the cemetery. Jordan holds me as I cry myself to sleep on a grave with no flowers. 

My own.