I'm Not Complaining That It's Raining (sequel to Aventures)

16- Mama, We All Go To Hell

I carefully sat at the edge of the armchair and took the teacup my mother was handing me. "How is Juliette?"

"She and her husband are just great. They spent Christmas Eve here, I think I told you earlier. I see you're wearing a ring. You finally got married?"

I nodded, staring at my feet. I was hoping she wouldn't ask about my wedding, hoping she wouldn't ask who I married, hoping she wouldn't-

"What's her name?"

I wondered if she knew. If she just wanted me to say it. "His name is Brendon. We got married in June."

She held her glare, not showing a hint of weakness. She knew all too well I was scared to face her, to walk in this house. She knew, and a small part of me thought she enjoyed it.

"A boy, heh. Sin. One-way ticket to Hell. Your father knew you-"

"Please. Don't."

She stared at me. I kept looking at my shoes, the hand holding the cup shaking more and more as the conversation got along. "Very well, then. What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know."

We both remained silent, and seconds passed by, turning into dark, heavy minutes. I felt her gaze still on me, as I nervously played with the cup of tea in my shaking hands.

"You changed a lot," she finally said, breaking the silence.

"You didn't."

Her bittersweet look landed on me, and, not knowing what else to say, I added a small, "I brought you a, uh, I brought you something. For Christmas."

She raised an eyebrow, never failing to make me feel like i was a teenager all over again. I unzipped my jacket, searching in my pocket for the small velvet box. "It's not much, but I thought you might like it."

Formalities. I knew all too well it would end up in the bottom of a drawer, dusty and forgotten within the years.

She opened the small box, revealing a silver chain, with delicate red ornaments. If I wasn't mistaken, red was her favourite colour.

"Thank you."

I nodded, not bothering to give her any further answer. My mom was the kind of mother who went to church every sunday, prayed every morning when she woke up, and every night before going to sleep, and enjoyed the company of the other women from church. Not that I was against it, just that, after these years, I found myself avoiding that kind of people alot. So far, I had done a pretty good job at it.

Having given her the necklace, some people could have thought that I was expecting a gift from her. I really wasn't. See, my mom was a woman who gave alot, but in her own way. She would take care of my sisters, cherish them and their children if any of them ever happened to get pregnant. And then she'd coldly look at me, avoiding contact with me as much as possible, never giving a sign of life. I had stopped waiting for news from her long ago, and I knew it was the same for her. I liked to believe it was her own way of showing her love for her first born and only son.

Sometimes, I wondered if it was because of George. The man wasn't the most patient guy, and did enjoy a beer or two. Or twelve. I knew he lost control when he was drunk, and that his fag son was a decent punching bag, but I never knew if he ever raised a hand to my mom. If he had, I could understand she was so... distant. Being his biological descendant, I unfortunately had his traits, and genetics is something you can't get rid of. One thing I knew though, is that blood isn't family. I loved him, but I'm not sure he did. I paid for his medical care, and for the funerals. I went to those funerals, years and years ago. But, if he did love me, he had a particular way of showing it. I loved my mom and George like every kid loves their parents, but this man never was my dad. And I never was George III either.

The armchair was uncomfortable, old, and dusty. I wondered why she kept it. She probably never even sat in it. Maybe she liked it, having something left of him. Nothing that I could understand, of course. Ever since I left this place, I had done my best to erase everything about him in my life, and I like to believe this was what kept me off the road he was on. I'm the descendant of an alcoholic, I had the blood of an alcoholic, but, as I said, blood isn't family. I wondered, sometimes, what family was, if not blood. I thought... Maybe family was what you wanted it to be. Maybe you can make your own family, without having any blood-related descendants. Brendon was my family. The band was my family. My mom was family, sometimes.

"I think... I'm going to go. I have to start packing for tour, we're flying out on Monday."

"You know I don't like you doing this job, George. Your father always said that-"

"Ryan. My name is Ryan. And George wasn't my father."

She kept looking at me coldly, her serious gaze never weakening. "George was and always will be your father, George Ryan."

I sighed. "Whatever. Goodbye, mom. Love you," I said, standing up. I took a step in her direction, expecting her to hug me, but nothing. I motioned the to necklace, "I hope you'll wear it."

She didn't answer, she just held my gaze, serious and cold. I walked to the front door and, hand on the doorknob, without turning to face her, I said, "I'm not coming back, mom."

It was a promise I made myself. A promise I made Brendon, a promise I made my mom. A promise I made George.

"I know."

If eyes could stab, I would probably have had hundreds of knives in my back by now. "Goodbye mom. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, George."

I pushed the second door open, and hurried down the porch. I got to the car and, before I opened the door, emptied my stomach on the deserted street.

...

(A.N.: my heart is breaking. Sorry about this heavy chapter, but I felt like this was necessairy. Anyway, I hope you guys will like the ending of the story. It's half written already, and it's turning out pretty cool. Love you all) ((by the way, picture is Brendon and Ryan at George Ross II's funerals.))