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lifesver · 5 months

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@meatriarch said: [ FIVE CALLS ] send for five times the receiver nearly calls the sender and the one time they do. | ( could be post-house calling mama ginny maybe c: )

one. the last time leland remembers them all being together was at jesse's funeral. even though most of them were still numbed out from maria’s service — only a couple days ago — everyone had come out to support mrs. jones today. it was only right. he'd only been to one funeral, before. in the span of a week, they had buried a close friend.

today, it's a boy that couldn't be much older than he was.

at least the rain was polite enough to hold off.

it's difficult to be still. his tie felt too tight. he hated this vaguely cigarette-smelling coat he'd borrowed from his dad's closet. only half-listening to the pastor speak, leland couldn’t help but stare into the flower-framed photo of a smiling boy with bright blonde hair, and wonder if it was strange, and sad, getting all dressed up like this, for an empty casket. while a bitter little voice in the back of his mind whispers; if any of these strangers around him had really cared, someone would have helped mrs. jones bring her son home. someone would have helped them find maria.

after it was said and done, leland had pulled away from the dispersing mourners. out on the too-green cemetery lawn, mrs. jones had met him, and stood next to him quietly, for a while. she took his hands in hers, giving them a comforting squeeze. and then she handed him a little slip of paper. folded his fingers over it with a look only a mother is capable of. it made him feel a little less cold, as the sky opened up, and began spitting rain down.

she would only be a call away, she said, if he, or any of them needed someone to talk to. don’t hesitate, baby. he felt shellshocked by the gesture. on probably the worst day of her life, she was still thinking of them — some college kids she hardly knew. today, she didn't even have the body of her son to bury, and she was checking in on him. because she was a good mother. he wanted to say that jesse was lucky, at least, to have had someone who cared so much for him. who fought so hard to find him. but he couldn't get any of those words out, in the end. he dragged in a shaky breath, and tried to smile back at her.

❝ … thank you, mrs. jones, ❞ he managed, voice raw, and small. she wordlessly pulls him into an embrace, and he hugs her back twice as tight.

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two. he's had some bad nights, since then. the types of dreams that'll tear you from sleep screaming — waking up the whole damn house, dad complained. running hot and cold, and swearing to god he never left that fucking basement cell. that freezer. feeling a hand crushing down on his throat. hearing screaming, always the screaming of his name, down a pitch-black tunnel.

every night was the same. he's getting better at managing, though.

just now, he has mrs. jones’ little slip of paper, laid out on the kitchen counter under his hands. truthfully, he had almost forgotten it, tucked safely in his wallet most days. didn't ever intend to bother her, after everything. but sometimes he thought about it.

if you ever need someone to talk to, he can still hear her saying.

maybe he does, but that was a tough pill to swallow, wasn't it? he's staring at himself in the kitchen window, and taking in the dark under his eyes. the healed, jagged scores across his face, that will never go away. not ever. it's still hard to reconcile with that unfamiliar reflection, and suddenly — it felt a bit harder to breathe.

the yellowy overhead light tries to warm the space, but to leland, the quiet of a sleeping house no longer felt comforting. instead, he only became more aware of the creak of floorboards, and the the tap of a tree branch on the windows.

right now, he felt claustrophobic. tap, tap, tap, drag. taunting laughter, sound of knife striking, striking — the wall of the slaughter house. drip, drip. blood slipping down his temple, landing on the freezing concrete —

eyes squeeze shut, dizzied. hand drags through hair. one, two, three, four, five — nails dig into palms hard, and he paces the length of the kitchen. six, seven, eight, nine — remember the breathing part. he stops in front of the phone, clutching the receiver, only to freeze. ten. he remembers to breathe.

he reminds himself of a couple things; not to call mrs. jones, because she'd been through enough. not to call ana, because she needed time alone. not to call connie, because she doesn't want to know him, anymore.

no one needs your shit.

leland takes his hand off the receiver, and he swallows down the sick feeling. he walks himself back into the empty living room, and falls asleep in front of the tv instead.

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three. leland mckinney wasn't the type of boy that was supposed to get in fights. he wasn’t raised like that — is what his mother had said, as she fussed over his bloody nose.

what he'd learned, though, was that even after a year, he was still the type that heard his heartbeat like gunshots in his ears, whenever someone sounded a little too close to that low, taunting drawl from his nightmares. that his anger was a hairpin trigger, every time someone tried to start in with a hey — ain't you that kid from the paper?

he should have minded his business, in that bar. should have known better. now he has to listen to his parents arguing over his head. until he felt like he just wasn't there, anymore.

head still pounding badly, leland abruptly gets up, catching them both off guard. pulling away from his mother's touch, and worried tone. he sidesteps cecil mckinney in the kitchen doorway. can barely hear him start up again, talking to him — at him. raising his voice, when that doesn't work, he gets stopped by a strong hand around his forearm, as cecil turns him back around.

— well. didn't matter, what happened, really. his dad ripped a stripe off him, like he always did. because it was easy;

what the hell's the matter with you, lately? doing nothing with yourself, sulking around the house all day. now you’re getting into fights?

and a lot of bullshit, about god, second chances. you could have died, but you didn’t. that most people would be a little more grateful to be alive, after something like that.

— wasting your damn life, leland.

he's heard this speech before. usually lets it roll off his shoulders. only this time, it strikes the last frayed nerve.

leland says something he shouldn't have, right back. that he didn’t ask for this. that sometimes, he sure as hell wished he was dead, too. didn't really know if he meant it. just knew it'd shut everyone up.

it does. the backhand lands sharp across his cheek, and stuns out any other thought process. and then it’s just white noise pitch in his ears after that. numbly, his hand comes up, to hover over the bright sting of where he’d been struck. leland’s eyes flutter with a tell-tale burn. which makes it worse.

( you gotta toughen up, lee. quit crying at every little thing. that's why those boys picked on you, you know that? )

you don't ever, let them know you're hurting.

leland's head pulses. he drops his gaze, and he shuts his mouth. his old man doesn’t stop him from leaving, this time. out the door. getting in his car and just driving, mindlessly out in the dark. well out of georgetown.

for maybe an hour, before he finally stops, at a dimly lit gas station on the edge of town.

what did he think he was going to do, now? he couldn’t go home. but maybe he should call dan, or ana. they'd probably pick up.

he leaves his car by the pump, slipping into the phonebooth outside the gas station building. brain on autopilot, he shuffles in his pocket to retrieve his wallet, rooting for change and feeding it to the payphone.

absently, leland thumbs at the transparent pocket of his wallet, until a little over-folded paper slips free. when he opens it, mrs. jones' looping, clean cursive greets him again.

leland wonders what she would be doing, at this time of night. if she was much like his mother, probably watching johnny carson, or getting ready for bed. if he would be bothering her too terribly, and if her offer to talk still stood. if she remembered him at all.

he lets it ring twice. and wonders what he should say. maybe sorry? leland closes his eyes, forehead pressing to the glass. he lets it ring a third time, before he loses his nerve, all at once. leland drops the receiver down hard, like it had burnt him. shoulders shake with something choked out and quiet.

fuck. fuck this. you're fine. you're okay.

he sinks down to the floor of the booth, and he buries the sob in his hands.

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four. on holidays, he thought about mrs. jones. and hoped she had other family to spend them with. he couldn't imagine facing days like that alone — like thanksgiving, or christmas, when a spot at the table was always going to be empty.

in the spin-cycle of his thoughts, he imagined a bedroom similar to his own, left untouched, with the door left firmly shut. a museum of someone's life in photos, and baseball cards, and high school yearbooks. leland wondered, if it was just easier to leave some things in their boxes.

he never did unpack the moving boxes, from his dorm. they stared at him in their little corner, by his closet. most days he forgot about them. the idea of going through that shit set off something visceral in him. an unfair bitterness, or shame that would climb up out of him, every time he tried to face his old letterman. or one of sonny's books he'd forgotten to return. or a teddy bear, from connie, from his birthday. or maria's photo album. the one she would have given him personally, if she were still here.

— but it's been a few years, now, since he'd thought about the little handwritten note in his wallet. a few christmases. but it's easy to remember virginia's phone number — for how many times he's folded, and unfolded that little slip of paper.

leland can hear the hum of his mother's relentless shirley temple christmas album, from the other room. he shoulders the phone to his ear, and leans against the wall. casting a smile to willa, as she crosses the hall showing off the new jacket she got as a gift, before disappearing. he hears sadie and april’s enthusiasm in ooh’s and ah’s from the dining room.

against his ear, the line rings, rings, rings. and it's almost a relief, when only her voicemail answers.

there's a few seconds of silence, and then leland remembers to speak.

❝ hi, mrs. jones. it's... leland — um, mckinney. i don't know if you remember... ❞ a long beat. what did he think he was going to say, exactly? hey, i know you haven't heard from me properly in years, but i've been having a lot of nightmares, again. i guess i feel scared, in my house, outside, in the dark. and i've been missing everyone i've ever lost. so i was wondering, you know, if you ever find a way to get through it? like, how do you move past it? how do i stop feeling like there's a hole in the middle of me that everyone can see? how do you keep going? how —

— leland sucks in a sharp breath, gives a soft, vaguely unsteady laugh. his voice feels incredibly small. ❝ sorry i — don't know why i called this late. you're probably with your family. i'm. doing okay. i just wanted to say, merry christmas. and, i... hope you're well. that’s all. ❞

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five. the others — his old friends that had showed up already, were fast asleep. jules and dan were flying in in the morning, they said. sonny would try to take a couple days from his job. said it would be nice to see everyone, at least.

leland hadn’t realized how quiet his house was, before he had people in it, again. or how small his life had become, over the years.

connie's on the couch, covered in a few quilts, with the dog resting by her. ana was in the armchair with another blanket.

the movie they'd been watching is rolling credits to a jaunty cowboy tune, and he's the last one up, now — sitting in the dull light of his kitchen, surrounded by the reason for all of this, and balancing his phone against his ear. news articles and old missing posters are scattered on a circular table.

it looked fucking crazy. he sounded fucking crazy. keeping tabs on a town he should have left behind a long damn time ago.

maybe some part of him didn’t think any of them would agree to this, to begin with. to something so stupid. maybe he sort of hoped they wouldn't. maybe he thought someone would tell him no, convince him to stop reliving the awful shit that happened to them, all those years ago.

but they had all picked up, every single one of them, when he called. twenty. twenty fucking years, and they all still think of, dream of, that fucking farmhouse, too. but jesus — twenty years. twenty years to have a real conversation with some of them, again. he ought to be ashamed.

anyway — this was the phonecall he was dreading most, somehow. he hadn’t wanted to let mrs. jones know what they were doing. what he was planning to do, until dan chewed him out for the very idea of leaving her in the dark.

❝ hi, mrs. jones? ❞ his fingers clutch in the curling wire. self-soothing. until a soft voice greets him on the other end. there's a pause, and then a gentle warmth as she says his name. age more apparent in both their voices, now.

she speaks to him like no time had passed at all, though. tells him she thinks just virginia is alright, now.

it was kind of funny, how some part of him still felt like a kid, talking to her.

they talk about how things have been, for a little while. it's nice — even if it's the kind of small talk you have to struggle with, when you don't really know someone, anymore. it didn't feel much different, than sitting across from his mother at the kitchen table, as a kid. talking about his day, or how practice had been.

until eventually, a comfortable silence falls between them.

and she asks him kindly, then, why he had really called.

for leland, there’s the ever-familiar tug toward lying. but what the hell was the point of that, now? he’d been lying for years. hadn't done him any favours.

❝ … i think — i think, i'm going to do something i shouldn't. ❞ leland begins, evenly. he stares at the newspaper clippings. the faded picture of maria flores. the old headlines, over the years — unexplained incidents around the town of newt, texas.

he couldn't ever get away from it. and now he's insisted on dragging his old friends down with him into this mess, too.

his eyes land across the sleeping bodies in his living room. there’s something, then — that feels like the closest thing to clarity he’s had in years. ❝ i guess... i was looking for advice. how do you know if — if something is right — if you’re doing something, for the right reasons? ❞

#anyway sorry remember when i said i'd keep these short. lol lmao. idk we just get Into It here #( ☆ ) ⸻ THE FILM WHICH YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE... / ic.#meatriarch #cw abuse mention mr mckinney once again kind of sucks #same night he drives to visit ana? yeah maybe so #cw death #cw funerals #cw post trauma things i donno he's a mess #i'm going to ask u to suspend ur disbelief about voicemail for a minute ik it wasn't super popularized until like the 80s

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