Clayton stood beside the bus wreckage, a macabre monument freshly painted.
Eight years old.
...but really, for Clayton Walker, eight years new.
Eight years scarred in his heart, etched in his consciousness, burned into his restless slumber; his every waking moment the injustice of fate cast it's shadow on memory, and in sleep she came to him, her incorporeal pallor calling in mute desperation, Julie always pleading for the help he could never give.
Eight years mourning in silence that the echo of his agony never reach Emily's ears, never be known to his family, or his friends in The Order.
Every year he hiked from the falls, down the river, and into the valley of the crash site to pay homage to the lives lost in that once upon a time, that ill fated voyage when the cowardice of drunkard Francis Briar stole from him the one small joy he had.
Every year he lied to Emily; where he went, where he was, and what he was doing.
Eight years passed as a slow rolling freight train hauling his pain over the tracks that we're a creeping traverse of time. His love for Emily, and his new found purpose in Jonathan; his life, his place in the order was little more than a pale reflection of the life he imagined with Julie. If he had closure - the smallest opportunity to say goodbye - things could be different.
He was only seventeen when it happened. The pain and the regret bred a secret anger, for in the eight years passed he had plenty of time to remember.
Clayton had plenty of time to remember his warning, his pleading, his begging. He had plenty of time to disdain Julie's refusal to stay off the bus that day.
Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but his was a festering wound still fresh and infected beneath the fragile veneer of false content he wore as a mask to hide the truth from those it would hurt the most.
Clayton Walker was alone in his sorrow, and though it hurt every day, it hurt worse - it hurt most - when the anniversary of the crash came, and passed.
The sun fought a failing battle through gray, and overcast skies as thunder called down over him a threatening slow growl of impending storm. Every year Clayton came, and every year it rained, the gloom in the air as deep as the gloom that haunted his soul.
He leaned into the bus, his head resting against the dented, damaged metal just beneath the window where once she sat on that damned departure from Driftwood to Pridewater. "You died, Jules. Eight years ago to the day, and you know me. I'm not the type to say I told you so... but I really did, didn't I? These eight years now... they feel like a lifetime passed, and somehow no time at all. Knocking that Jennings kid across the stage saved my life, but I couldn't - it didn't save you."
A lazy, strong wind blew past him in response, cold in the silence of the empty yellow sepulchre.
"...well, they only come when it rains." Clayton wiped his brow as small droplets sprinkled down on him, the clouds thickening in the sky. "It's raining, Jules. Where are you?" His voice dropped to a hush. "Where are you? Do you rest in cold Earth as you did in the cold evening air when you died? Are you restless, haunting this ugly memory, or is it just me you haunt? In those dreams and memories where you ask for me to set you free, are you truly there, or is it a wishful man's hope?"
Nothing.
"I married, Jules. It took a long time to get past you, and let's be honest. I never got past you, and I'll never get past you."
Clayton's voice was tired, despite the early morning. He felt strained thin, world weary, and helpless now as much as he felt that cold Friday morning in the place he called once upon a time. "You were the one person in the world that made me feel alive, and whole. Forgive me if I am replete with this bitter enmity, but here we are again. I live, and you do not."
Clayton felt a cold, wet droplet rolling down his cheek, uncertain if it was the lurking storm, or tears of his own making. He wiped his cheek with his sleeve, and stared at the wetted sleeve.
Not the rain, then.
For a moment on the wind he imagined he could smell Julie's perfume. It was a vibrant, clean smell somewhere between citrus and peonies.
It was only his imagination, or at least that was what he told himself. It was only guilt, arising in the memory of scent; it was only memory... the one thing memory alone was so attuned.
Thunder rumbled again, and the rain began to fall harder as the sky choked on angry, black cumulus clouds overhead.
That proverbial freight train hauling his sorrow kept right on up the tracks of time, towing its endless cars of his haunted memory into Clayton's despair.
✟ ☧ ✟
Clayton arrived home to see the soft, flickering glow of the fireplace through the downstairs window of the drawing room.
He parked his black Bentley S3 in the circular driveway and sat in it, staring into the drawing room window as rain pelted the windshield. Clayton turned the car off, and opened the driver side door without a sound. He stepped out, his heavy black leather boots sloshing on the wet concrete.
Clayton sighed.
Emily was still awake, waiting up for him. There would be a lot of questions he was unwilling to answer, then there would be an argument, and Jonathan would start crying. Emily would gather the Jonathan up in her arms, and in her callous way - only as she could do it - she would go to bed, and he would end up sleeping in a guest room.
Clayton shut the car door quietly, and stood beside his car. He lifted his face to the sky, and let the rain pour down over his red face, the cold January rain washing the salty tear stains off his cheeks. He was seldom a man of tears, but for the comfort of privacy, and isolation in the way it was every year. Monday was finished though, and there in the downpour cold on his face, and in his saturated clothes, it was a new day.
The front door opened and he could see the silhouette of Emily backlit by the hall light, standing in the doorway with Jonathan in her arm. Jonathan was big, especially for a baby only two months, and a handful of days. The silhouette of Emily stood there patiently, no malice in the way she stood.
Her voice carried through the rain. "Clayton, baby. It's raining. Come inside and sit with me by the fireplace."
Clayton tilted his head, narrowing his eyes to focus on her and Jonathan. "I'll be there in a moment, Em. Just enjoying the morning moonlight with the rain."
"Besides the clouds, it's a new moon, Clay. You're going to catch your death out there. Come inside."
Clayton nodded, and took wet heavy steps for the house. At least he was wrong.
At least Emily seemed happy enough.
As Clayton hurried up the stairs to the porch, he saw Emily's smiling face. She moved to the side, and with a skillful maneuver, helped him out of his long coat. "I didn't mean to be home so late, Em."
"Let's not, tonight." Emily took his long coat, and carried it over her shoulder as she followed Clayton to the drawing room. Clayton sat in a black Chesterfield armchair near the hearth. "You're not angry?"
"You missed Judge Grifford by about twenty minutes. He wants to see you tomorrow. Stand up, you oaf. Take those clothes off."
"I'm soaking wet, Em."
"All the better reason. You're going to ruin that chair, Clayton Walker. Off with the clothes. I'm going to put Jonathan to bed, and I'll be back to help you warm up."
Clayton nodded, and began removing the his boots, and then his waterlogged socks. He rose up, and out of the chair, unbuttoning first his shirt, and then his pants.
Emily watched as a small puddle formed beneath the dripping clothes, sighed and left the room as Clayton stripped down to his underwear. Clayton heard her stop by the washroom. He heard the sound of his wet, heavy long coat slapping against the wall, and then he could hear Emily ascending the stairs.
Clayton stood by the hearth, his wet clothes draped neatly over his arm. Emily was gone a long while as Clayton stared into the dying flames in the fireplace. He heard her return, and turned to face her.
"You have to stop staying out late when you're not out on assignment. I'm not going to ask you where you were, because you wouldn't tell me if I did. Give me your clothes."
Clayton obeyed, handing her his heavy black canvas pants, heavier still because of their saturation.
Emily lugged his clothes over her arm, and hurried out of the drawing room. Clayton heard her open the washer, and within moments the washing machine was on.
The house was quiet a while, except for the random pop of burning firewood as it's excess gases escaped from ashy burning logs.
Emily returned to Clayton in a white cotton nightgown. "Let's warm you up, Clayton Walker."