The memory begins with a startle, a clicking noise that whirls one's thoughts to attention. There isn't much time for pause: there's danger that beats through the veins -- perhaps not yours, but the owner of the memory, whose focus leads yours to the singular bright source of light: an open doorway, a shadowy figure standing in its way.
'Stuff-- let's get out of here,' you hear the person say, their voice male.
You're in an apartment. It's dark, early morning by the blinds that show bars of light peeping through their gaps, but not bright enough to be what wakes the teen on the red couch near them. He's turned quietly to the scene he sees, kneeling by the seat to watch what's happening.
It might take a second to recognise him with his longer hair - or not at all - as Robby Keene.
What is immediate obvious, regardless, is his emotions at that moment: fear, and an increasing anticipation with the decision being calculated -- the one leading him slowly forward with crouched steps. You know - because Robby knows - that whoever's over there (two people? one by the door, one ransacking his kitchen; he can hear them rummaging) has probably found his mom's drug stash if they're lucky. Maybe they haven't been; but that's all that's in that area, and they won't find cash or anything useful. There's jewellery in his mom's room, with no mom occupying said room.
It might be dangerous. But Robby's making his choice, a confidence in his action as he moves in faster. The one by the door speaks again ('C'mon, we don't have all day,') but mere seconds after, Robby's running forward, lifting himself off the ground with a help of the kitchen counter and slamming a kick into the trespasser's chest. The person crashes into a kitchen rack, and a light flashes on before Robby can do anything more.
'Oh my god--Rick, are you okay?'
--It's his mom there in the kitchen, brown hair curled, pill bottles in her hand and rushing over to check on the man already up on his feet again. Robby stands stunned, confused, as much at the sight of his mother as he is the stranger. All the confidence has drained from him, but there's something left in its place, a restless energy.
'Robby!' The boy's mother looks at him, upset. 'What is wrong with you?'
'What's wrong with me?' Robby snaps back, that restlessness turning indignant. 'You haven't been here in days, I thought someone broke in!'
His mother concedes with okays, showing her hands, the orange pill bottles shaking. 'I'm sorry, I just came to grab a few things, 'cause um, Rick is--flying me to Cabo,' she shares cheerily. ('Cabo adjacent,' the man--Robby doesn't care what his name is--affixes.)
'Wait,' Robby speaks up, 'You're going to Mexico?' Uh-huh. 'With this guy? How long? I mean, we have rent to pay, and I don't have--' (money, a job, a way to pay, no means of getting money anymore--)
His mother stops him, tells him not to worry as she gestures to the man. Rick is going to pay, who flashes him a fingergun, a I got you, pal as his mother puts away in her bag more bottles. The earlier indignation has left Robby, not burning as hot as it had before. His brain is still swarming over Mexico, his mother's plans, her standing in the kitchen at all; how she's obviously giddy to get going, to leave him, and was she going to say goodbye? She didn't even say hello--and now she's just going away. He hasn't seen her in days.
'When are you coming back?' Robby asks, tentatively. A few days, his mother says; a week and a half, says the guy. Robby watches him, the new man who his mom's going off with, this time. There's always a new man; there's been men before, some of them Robby knows he doesn't get to see. None of them make his mother happy, and Robby doesn't know what this guy's deal is, what he plans to do--what good intentions can a guy have to take someone he just met a couple of days ago have, and with his mother?
Everything about how he looks is suspicious, fake, this memory tells you. He looks like a con artist. But Robby's thoughts are pulled away from him as his mother comes over to him, playfully poking him on the chest.
'You have the place to yourself, don't party too hard,' she teases sweetly, and his emotions--there's a desperation that's starting to build in his chest, hate dropped, a longing there before she's even left, even as she holds his face and leans in to kiss him on the forehead. 'I'll call you tomorrow, okay, sweetie?
I love you.'
It only makes the longing grow, a fervent scrambling in his chest, but Robby can't do anything but watch her leave--he never can. Except to tell the guy who's about to leave with her -- 'Hey, you hurt her, next time you won't get up.'
The man mocks fear, and then walks out -- and Robby is left, looking at the mess of his apartment, the door out still open. It's emptier than it'd been before, sleeping the nights on the couch, waiting on a phonecall or his mother to come back home.
But she never really comes back home, these days. And it's in the void of where that longing love had been that anger stews, and Robby goes to the door to slam it close. His hand gripped tight and lingering on the door handle, forehead pressing against the wood.
He already knows his mom won't call, he doubts that man will pay for an apartment that's none of his concern, and there's that ugly part of him that knows his mother won't think about him at all.
Ugly, because it consumes him more than the worry of what could happen to her out there.
The memory ends on the empty thought of getting ready for karate practice as Robby lets go of the door, quieter than the hurt chewing away in his gut.
[ MOTHER BAILS: child being left alone, mention of drugs but none taken ]
'Stuff-- let's get out of here,' you hear the person say, their voice male.
You're in an apartment. It's dark, early morning by the blinds that show bars of light peeping through their gaps, but not bright enough to be what wakes the teen on the red couch near them. He's turned quietly to the scene he sees, kneeling by the seat to watch what's happening.
It might take a second to recognise him with his longer hair - or not at all - as Robby Keene.
What is immediate obvious, regardless, is his emotions at that moment: fear, and an increasing anticipation with the decision being calculated -- the one leading him slowly forward with crouched steps. You know - because Robby knows - that whoever's over there (two people? one by the door, one ransacking his kitchen; he can hear them rummaging) has probably found his mom's drug stash if they're lucky. Maybe they haven't been; but that's all that's in that area, and they won't find cash or anything useful. There's jewellery in his mom's room, with no mom occupying said room.
It might be dangerous. But Robby's making his choice, a confidence in his action as he moves in faster. The one by the door speaks again ('C'mon, we don't have all day,') but mere seconds after, Robby's running forward, lifting himself off the ground with a help of the kitchen counter and slamming a kick into the trespasser's chest. The person crashes into a kitchen rack, and a light flashes on before Robby can do anything more.
'Oh my god--Rick, are you okay?'
--It's his mom there in the kitchen, brown hair curled, pill bottles in her hand and rushing over to check on the man already up on his feet again. Robby stands stunned, confused, as much at the sight of his mother as he is the stranger. All the confidence has drained from him, but there's something left in its place, a restless energy.
'Robby!' The boy's mother looks at him, upset. 'What is wrong with you?'
'What's wrong with me?' Robby snaps back, that restlessness turning indignant. 'You haven't been here in days, I thought someone broke in!'
His mother concedes with okays, showing her hands, the orange pill bottles shaking. 'I'm sorry, I just came to grab a few things, 'cause um, Rick is--flying me to Cabo,' she shares cheerily. ('Cabo adjacent,' the man--Robby doesn't care what his name is--affixes.)
'Wait,' Robby speaks up, 'You're going to Mexico?' Uh-huh. 'With this guy? How long? I mean, we have rent to pay, and I don't have--' (money, a job, a way to pay, no means of getting money anymore--)
His mother stops him, tells him not to worry as she gestures to the man. Rick is going to pay, who flashes him a fingergun, a I got you, pal as his mother puts away in her bag more bottles. The earlier indignation has left Robby, not burning as hot as it had before. His brain is still swarming over Mexico, his mother's plans, her standing in the kitchen at all; how she's obviously giddy to get going, to leave him, and was she going to say goodbye? She didn't even say hello--and now she's just going away. He hasn't seen her in days.
'When are you coming back?' Robby asks, tentatively. A few days, his mother says; a week and a half, says the guy. Robby watches him, the new man who his mom's going off with, this time. There's always a new man; there's been men before, some of them Robby knows he doesn't get to see. None of them make his mother happy, and Robby doesn't know what this guy's deal is, what he plans to do--what good intentions can a guy have to take someone he just met a couple of days ago have, and with his mother?
Everything about how he looks is suspicious, fake, this memory tells you. He looks like a con artist. But Robby's thoughts are pulled away from him as his mother comes over to him, playfully poking him on the chest.
'You have the place to yourself, don't party too hard,' she teases sweetly, and his emotions--there's a desperation that's starting to build in his chest, hate dropped, a longing there before she's even left, even as she holds his face and leans in to kiss him on the forehead. 'I'll call you tomorrow, okay, sweetie?
I love you.'
It only makes the longing grow, a fervent scrambling in his chest, but Robby can't do anything but watch her leave--he never can. Except to tell the guy who's about to leave with her -- 'Hey, you hurt her, next time you won't get up.'
The man mocks fear, and then walks out -- and Robby is left, looking at the mess of his apartment, the door out still open. It's emptier than it'd been before, sleeping the nights on the couch, waiting on a phonecall or his mother to come back home.
But she never really comes back home, these days. And it's in the void of where that longing love had been that anger stews, and Robby goes to the door to slam it close. His hand gripped tight and lingering on the door handle, forehead pressing against the wood.
He already knows his mom won't call, he doubts that man will pay for an apartment that's none of his concern, and there's that ugly part of him that knows his mother won't think about him at all.
Ugly, because it consumes him more than the worry of what could happen to her out there.
The memory ends on the empty thought of getting ready for karate practice as Robby lets go of the door, quieter than the hurt chewing away in his gut.