Entry 06, Do the Words I Say Ever Make It Through?, 6
Title: Do the Words I Say Ever Make It Through?, part 6
Entry Number: 06
Author: insaneladybug/Lucky_Ladybug
Fandom: Perry Mason
Rating: T/PG-13 (major character death? Or not?)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Supernatural
Spoiler Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,110
Cross-posted to 31_days and written with their theme for today, The sky is the road home.
By Lucky_Ladybug
The sky was such a vast thing.
Andy stood on a hill in Griffith Park, overlooking Los Angeles. The chill night wind blew through and tousled his hair as he held his hat in his hands, but he barely noticed. Down below, he could vaguely process the distant strains of a group of singers and their spirituals. He had heard their current song many times and had not been overly affected, but the old words seemed haunting to him now.
“Swing low, sweet chariot,
Coming for to carry me home . . .”
Andy shuddered. There was nothing in the sky tonight that was not usually seen, but he wondered if there was supposed to be.
“Is that where I belong?” he whispered to the stars. “Up there, somewhere? Am I a wanderer who just hasn’t made it to Heaven yet? Or . . . or am I meant to stay down here, for some reason?”
If he was supposed to be in Heaven, how would he get there? He could not seem to take flight, or even rise off the ground beyond what he could naturally jump. Maybe he was supposed to concentrate about being there and he would suddenly arrive.
The problem was, he was much too upset to be able to focus for long. He did not want to leave Earth. But if he was dead and could not communicate or touch things at all, in any sort of way, what purpose would there be in remaining? He would not even be able to protect his loved ones if they were in danger.
It was strange, that he had been able to hold a pen for any length of time, if he was dead. But some types of spirits must be able to manipulate solid objects. At least if poltergeists were real. Still . . . did they only have that power sometimes? Were they helpless at others?
Andy slumped against a tree. He had never once dreamed that he would be pondering on such subjects. But now he could not stop thinking about it.
Then again, surely . . . surely a ghost couldn’t lean on a tree.
He straightened, feeling the bark. It was solid in his hands.
An agonized cry tore from his lips. He did not understand! Why could he touch the tree and not Jimmy’s mug? Was he dead or was he alive? How would he figure out which? How would he move on to whatever fate was his?
He sank against the tree again, resting his forehead against his arm. “Dear God, please,” he begged. “Please help me. Please let me know where I belong. Take me to Heaven, if it’s there. Restore me to my loved ones if I’m alive. Please . . .”
But if God had an answer to give right then, it must be either “No” or “Wait.” Andy felt nothing.
After an eternal moment he pushed himself away from the tree and brushed his hair out of his eyes. There was nothing he could do here. He would go back to Mrs. Norden’s. Even if there were no means of communication anymore, maybe she would still sense him, at least. And maybe if Mignon had come by now, she would still have some idea of what could be done.
He started down the hill and through the park. The singers were still there, standing by the side of the road. They had gathered an audience. Others passed by, listened for a moment or two, and walked on.
Andy paused too, absorbing the scene. The tune was upbeat now; the people were swaying and clapping in time to When the Saints Go Marching In. He watched for a few minutes and then resumed his pace. The song could not brighten his mood, not right now.
The only thing that might be able to do that would be some sense, some closure to this whole horrible mess.
And maybe not even that, if he did not like the method of closure.
“Mister?”
He nearly jumped out of his mind. A kid standing at the edge of the grass was looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes.
The kid was looking at him. Andy was visible to him.
His heart beating faster, Andy bent down in front of the boy, who could not be older than four. “You can see me?” he gasped, awestruck. “You can really see me?”
The child shrugged, not understanding the significance of the feat. “Yeah, Mister,” he said. “No one else does, but I do.”
Andy shook his head, still in disbelief. “How do you know no one else sees me?” he asked.
“I asked Mommy,” the kid said, matter-of-factly pointing her out with a chubby finger. A red-haired woman clapped and sang along with the rest of the audience, oblivious to what her son was doing.
“Did she even hear you?” Andy persisted. He was still stunned and amazed. He had never been so happy to have a conversation in his life. And though he was not sure what the explanation was for this (wouldn’t kids be sensitive to spirits?), he had to admit it was rekindling his hope.
“Yup,” the boy nodded in all seriousness. “I asked why the man coming from the hill was so sad. She said there wasn’t a man. So did the other people. But you’re here! You’re real!”
“Yes,” Andy rasped, now overcome. “Yes, I’m here. I’m real.” Slowly he reached out, laying his hands on the child’s shoulders. “Can you feel this?”
“Yeah.” The boy blinked at him. “Why are you sad, Mister?”
“Because no one could see me,” Andy admitted. He straightened. “But now that’s changed. You can see me!”
“Then you’re happy now?” The kid tilted his head as he scrutinized Andy.
“Very happy,” Andy assured him. “Thank you.”
“So why can’t anyone else see you?” the boy asked. “You’re right here!”
Andy shook his head. “I don’t know why.”
“Are you the Invisible Man?” The kid’s eyes were as wide as saucers as this idea occurred to him.
A crooked, wry smile tugged on Andy’s mouth. “I’ve been feeling like it.”
“Then that’s what I’ll tell Mommy!” the innocent child declared.
“You do that,” Andy said, gently amused. “I have to be going now, Son. I’ll see you later.”
“You’ll come back?”
“I might,” Andy said. “If I can.”
He hurried down the path, a new hope ignited in his heart and his eyes. Maybe he really was alive. He was still not fully sure, but this encounter had certainly helped.
“Thank You,” he said, not even bothering to whisper. “Thank You!”
Entry Number: 06
Author: insaneladybug/Lucky_Ladybug
Fandom: Perry Mason
Rating: T/PG-13 (major character death? Or not?)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Supernatural
Spoiler Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,110
Cross-posted to 31_days and written with their theme for today, The sky is the road home.
By Lucky_Ladybug
The sky was such a vast thing.
Andy stood on a hill in Griffith Park, overlooking Los Angeles. The chill night wind blew through and tousled his hair as he held his hat in his hands, but he barely noticed. Down below, he could vaguely process the distant strains of a group of singers and their spirituals. He had heard their current song many times and had not been overly affected, but the old words seemed haunting to him now.
“Swing low, sweet chariot,
Coming for to carry me home . . .”
Andy shuddered. There was nothing in the sky tonight that was not usually seen, but he wondered if there was supposed to be.
“Is that where I belong?” he whispered to the stars. “Up there, somewhere? Am I a wanderer who just hasn’t made it to Heaven yet? Or . . . or am I meant to stay down here, for some reason?”
If he was supposed to be in Heaven, how would he get there? He could not seem to take flight, or even rise off the ground beyond what he could naturally jump. Maybe he was supposed to concentrate about being there and he would suddenly arrive.
The problem was, he was much too upset to be able to focus for long. He did not want to leave Earth. But if he was dead and could not communicate or touch things at all, in any sort of way, what purpose would there be in remaining? He would not even be able to protect his loved ones if they were in danger.
It was strange, that he had been able to hold a pen for any length of time, if he was dead. But some types of spirits must be able to manipulate solid objects. At least if poltergeists were real. Still . . . did they only have that power sometimes? Were they helpless at others?
Andy slumped against a tree. He had never once dreamed that he would be pondering on such subjects. But now he could not stop thinking about it.
Then again, surely . . . surely a ghost couldn’t lean on a tree.
He straightened, feeling the bark. It was solid in his hands.
An agonized cry tore from his lips. He did not understand! Why could he touch the tree and not Jimmy’s mug? Was he dead or was he alive? How would he figure out which? How would he move on to whatever fate was his?
He sank against the tree again, resting his forehead against his arm. “Dear God, please,” he begged. “Please help me. Please let me know where I belong. Take me to Heaven, if it’s there. Restore me to my loved ones if I’m alive. Please . . .”
But if God had an answer to give right then, it must be either “No” or “Wait.” Andy felt nothing.
After an eternal moment he pushed himself away from the tree and brushed his hair out of his eyes. There was nothing he could do here. He would go back to Mrs. Norden’s. Even if there were no means of communication anymore, maybe she would still sense him, at least. And maybe if Mignon had come by now, she would still have some idea of what could be done.
He started down the hill and through the park. The singers were still there, standing by the side of the road. They had gathered an audience. Others passed by, listened for a moment or two, and walked on.
Andy paused too, absorbing the scene. The tune was upbeat now; the people were swaying and clapping in time to When the Saints Go Marching In. He watched for a few minutes and then resumed his pace. The song could not brighten his mood, not right now.
The only thing that might be able to do that would be some sense, some closure to this whole horrible mess.
And maybe not even that, if he did not like the method of closure.
“Mister?”
He nearly jumped out of his mind. A kid standing at the edge of the grass was looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes.
The kid was looking at him. Andy was visible to him.
His heart beating faster, Andy bent down in front of the boy, who could not be older than four. “You can see me?” he gasped, awestruck. “You can really see me?”
The child shrugged, not understanding the significance of the feat. “Yeah, Mister,” he said. “No one else does, but I do.”
Andy shook his head, still in disbelief. “How do you know no one else sees me?” he asked.
“I asked Mommy,” the kid said, matter-of-factly pointing her out with a chubby finger. A red-haired woman clapped and sang along with the rest of the audience, oblivious to what her son was doing.
“Did she even hear you?” Andy persisted. He was still stunned and amazed. He had never been so happy to have a conversation in his life. And though he was not sure what the explanation was for this (wouldn’t kids be sensitive to spirits?), he had to admit it was rekindling his hope.
“Yup,” the boy nodded in all seriousness. “I asked why the man coming from the hill was so sad. She said there wasn’t a man. So did the other people. But you’re here! You’re real!”
“Yes,” Andy rasped, now overcome. “Yes, I’m here. I’m real.” Slowly he reached out, laying his hands on the child’s shoulders. “Can you feel this?”
“Yeah.” The boy blinked at him. “Why are you sad, Mister?”
“Because no one could see me,” Andy admitted. He straightened. “But now that’s changed. You can see me!”
“Then you’re happy now?” The kid tilted his head as he scrutinized Andy.
“Very happy,” Andy assured him. “Thank you.”
“So why can’t anyone else see you?” the boy asked. “You’re right here!”
Andy shook his head. “I don’t know why.”
“Are you the Invisible Man?” The kid’s eyes were as wide as saucers as this idea occurred to him.
A crooked, wry smile tugged on Andy’s mouth. “I’ve been feeling like it.”
“Then that’s what I’ll tell Mommy!” the innocent child declared.
“You do that,” Andy said, gently amused. “I have to be going now, Son. I’ll see you later.”
“You’ll come back?”
“I might,” Andy said. “If I can.”
He hurried down the path, a new hope ignited in his heart and his eyes. Maybe he really was alive. He was still not fully sure, but this encounter had certainly helped.
“Thank You,” he said, not even bothering to whisper. “Thank You!”