Author's Note: Surprise?
The scrambling from inside the dark house calmed Mitch's nerves by a few degrees, oddly enough-- it appeared that perhaps Scott was just as anxious as he was. At least we're in the same boat, Mitch thought.
He must have hesitated by the door for a moment, because the shuffling around stopped and there was a brief pause before Mitch saw the knob turn and the door open up about four inches.
Scott looked him dead in the eyes. His face was red and his hair was shaken out of its prior neat style.
"Can I h--"
"No, we're not doing this again, Scott," he interjected in a burst of confidence. Scott's mouth immediately closed in shock. "You said your mother passed away-- no, Scott, I'm talking right now, this is important. You said your mother passed away. I want to help you. Can you please tell me what happened?" Mitch huffed at the end, less in irritation than just plain relief that he got out what he needed to ask. It crossed his mind only a second later that this may have been extremely out of line.
But this was Scott, and he was Mitch.
Scott's eyes misted over again, and it seemed as if he was looking just past Mitch, or right through him. Mitch couldn't tell which.
Scott suddenly and swiftly swung open the door into the house. A breeze from the change in pressure blew past Mitch's legs as Scott invited him in.
Mitch looked over his shoulder at the taxi. He waved, held up one finger to tell him to wait, and paused until he was sure the taxi driver saw his gesture. With that, he turned back and followed Scott as he backed into the house.
They made their way to the couch in the living room in the front of the house. Mitch took a second to look around, to see what he could glean from his surroundings. There wasn't much. Scott had a few pieces of basic furniture, pretty minimalist but still homey. Mitch took a seat on the sectional. The floor had a tan carpet that didn't seem very new, and the walls were off-white. The furniture was all grey. The shelves seemed too empty.
If Scott had ever lived with anyone, they weren't living here now. This was only a home for one person and his ghosts.
"Accident," Scott croaked out at last. Mitch was pulled from his thoughts.
"Hmm?"
"My mother died in an accident. I was... I was driving on the interstate with her, and the weather was so bad... it was raining so hard and..." Scott gasped out.
Mitch inched towards Scott, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. Scott audibly exhaled at the contact, but kept going.
"I lost control-- of the car," he bit out, eyes pained and throat constricting, "We crashed into oncoming traffic. Mom, she, she died instantly. On impact, they said." He looked down. "I smashed my head on the dash. No one else was hurt," he was shaking, "but it doesn't matter, she's gone and I lost her, I lost my-- mom and I lost my mind too," he sobbed. His head was on Mitch's shoulder now.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you saying, Scott?"
He sat up a little, still sniffing, the most heartbreaking sight Mitch had ever seen. He wouldn't be surprised if he was crying now, too, but he didn't care to check.
"The trauma from the crash, it makes me space all the time. I have these awful lapses in memory-- sometimes I just can't--" he gritted his teeth, "can't get my words out."
Mitch had heard of this before. Physical trauma and emotional trauma could both lead to profound effects on memory and language skills, and Scott was sure suffering from damage to both. In that moment, Scott loomed over him, but somehow looked so small.
"Scotty, I'm so sorry," Mitch finally responded. "I had no idea. You are so, so strong." It was clear that Scott did not believe him.
"Scotty," he repeated. "Look at me." He grasped Scott's hands they way he should have earlier that night, the way he should have back in school. "You are not your loss. You experienced it, and you are grieving, but this sadness makes you a fuller person, not an emptier one. You didn't lose a mom, you gained a guardian angel."
Mitch wasn't sure where this borderline cliché encouragement was coming from, but Scott's breaths had slowed considerably and his expression had relaxed, so he figured he might as well keep going.
Mitch pulled Scott into a hug and rubbed his back for a moment, the way he always liked when he couldn't fall asleep. "Scott, listen to me." He pulled back and held Scott's head between both hands so he could look him in the eye. They had matching tear-stained cheeks. As he began to speak, he found himself addressing not only Scott, but himself. "You are strong, you are capable, and you can take as long as you need with this. You aren't weak for being vulnerable. Hell, my whole job is about being vulnerable."
"I know," Scott replied quickly. "You're 'see through', and we get to 'take a look inside."
"You've listened to that one?"
"I've mem--" he took a breath, "memorized it."
Mitch was taken aback. The fact that someone could know his words, his voice, and his soul, but not his face after all these years-- it was jarring, to say the least.
But Scott was right. Part of being a poet meant being an open book, so to speak. Forehead pressed against Scott's, he responded at last, voice pale in the darkening room. "Okay, Scotty, you're absolutely right. I'm an open book, but I need you to be one, too. Can you do that?"
For Mitch, he would try.
