[For Effy]
He doesn't know how to go back.
That's the worst part about all of this. The film reel proved as indelible as the accident upon it, and no matter how much Tony Stonem might wish that he could rewind his life like so much celluloid, he remains impossibly, undeniably changed.
He does not know how to be the boy he was, anymore. He does not know how to be himself.
For days he's gone about his business but barely spoken to anyone. Up at dawn, work out, run, shower, dress, breakfast, class, homework, laundry, reading, bed. Every moment of the day meticulously planned out, ticked off a list. It doesn't help.
More than he has for months, he finds his mind drawn back home. To Sid and Michelle, to an Effy who doesn't look at him with sad, knowing eyes, to a Maxxie who rebuffs him and a Billy Kaplan who doesn't exist outside of comic books. He wants his bed, he wants his home, for the first time in eight months he wants his mother.
He wants, desperately, to be that boy again. But he isn't, and as he watches himself move robotically through his day, he thinks that's what's going to drive him mad: Not losing Billy, but losing everything.
The sun is touching the horizon when he steps outside of the hut he shares with Effy and settles upon the front steps. Beneath the canopy it's already dark and cool, and when he flips open his cellphone, he squints briefly against the sudden onslaught of pale light. He'd thought to look through his pictures again but navigates instead to his contacts, pages down and stops on a name:
MICHELLE
There's no signal, Tony knows there's no signal, but he presses the call button anyway, only to have the phone beep mournfully at him a moment later. He tries again. And again. And again.
He never got to say it, not properly, not the way she wanted. He has to fix it, he has to tell her.
"I love you," he whispers on an unsteady breath, and presses the button again, bright blue eyes fixed on the tiny screen. "I love you." Beep. "I love you." Beep. "I love you."
That's the worst part about all of this. The film reel proved as indelible as the accident upon it, and no matter how much Tony Stonem might wish that he could rewind his life like so much celluloid, he remains impossibly, undeniably changed.
He does not know how to be the boy he was, anymore. He does not know how to be himself.
For days he's gone about his business but barely spoken to anyone. Up at dawn, work out, run, shower, dress, breakfast, class, homework, laundry, reading, bed. Every moment of the day meticulously planned out, ticked off a list. It doesn't help.
More than he has for months, he finds his mind drawn back home. To Sid and Michelle, to an Effy who doesn't look at him with sad, knowing eyes, to a Maxxie who rebuffs him and a Billy Kaplan who doesn't exist outside of comic books. He wants his bed, he wants his home, for the first time in eight months he wants his mother.
He wants, desperately, to be that boy again. But he isn't, and as he watches himself move robotically through his day, he thinks that's what's going to drive him mad: Not losing Billy, but losing everything.
The sun is touching the horizon when he steps outside of the hut he shares with Effy and settles upon the front steps. Beneath the canopy it's already dark and cool, and when he flips open his cellphone, he squints briefly against the sudden onslaught of pale light. He'd thought to look through his pictures again but navigates instead to his contacts, pages down and stops on a name:
MICHELLE
There's no signal, Tony knows there's no signal, but he presses the call button anyway, only to have the phone beep mournfully at him a moment later. He tries again. And again. And again.
He never got to say it, not properly, not the way she wanted. He has to fix it, he has to tell her.
"I love you," he whispers on an unsteady breath, and presses the button again, bright blue eyes fixed on the tiny screen. "I love you." Beep. "I love you." Beep. "I love you."