( ◄ II ► ) TRACK FOUR
the plea

( The Weirdo on Maple Street, Part I )

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⠀⠀⠀⠀JANE HOLMAN IS DYING. At least, this is what the attending nurse at the hospital seemed to more than imply when they spoke to Thorn upon his arrival.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The nurse spoke of the progression of Jane's lung cancer, provided an update about her current condition, then gave their own condolences to Thorn in hopes of sparking some semblance of faith within him. What they thought were kind words, though, was really wasted breath on him. Thorn doesn't need reassurance.

⠀⠀⠀⠀What he needs is to get out of here.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn can't remember if he reacted to the news about Jane or not. If he had, it was subtle and not worth mentioning to his sister Regan, who can be heard from inside Jane's private hospital room behind Thorn now. Her voice is vaguely audible through the closed door and chatter along the hospital wing—each room a temporary home for other patients. Despite the wall separating him from his adoptive family, Thorn can still hear Regan well enough to know she's trying to convince her mother it's best she stay another few nights in case her condition plummets to the unthinkable.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Which everyone knows it will.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀While he waits for Regan to reappear, Thorn has taken to sitting on one of the chairs lining the walls of the hallway outside. As an ache rumbles up and along his body, he presses down further into the stiff form of the seat with his legs stretched out. Arms crossed, head leaning limp against the wall, he watches as an elderly patient shambles their way down the hall. They stare back at him with eyes like daggers as they pass, as if they're merely offended by his being there.

⠀⠀⠀⠀As soon as the patient creeps away and vanishes around a corner, Thorn moves to sit up straight. Perhaps he looked too casual for someone who just received the news that their adoptive mother could drop dead in an estimated years' time.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It hasn't hit him yet, the possibility—the reality—that someday very soon, Jane won't be around anymore. He half wishes he could tack on something about how she won't be there for him anymore, but to say as much would be a goddamn lie.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Jane has been present in his life alright. But she's never been there for him. Before she was his adoptive mother, she was his godmother—her and Thorn's mom, Laura, had been great friends back in the Big Apple before everything that happened, happened.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Besides, the hole that his parents left behind when they died is real estate impossible to fill. No one could ever replace his mom.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Leg bouncing now, Thorn anxiously resumes his wait. It isn't long before the door to Jane's hospital room opens with a soft click of the handle, followed by a pair of voices cutting out as they end their discussion. Regan then appears, pushing the door open and stepping out onto the bleached linoleum floor. She has this severe, smothered expression about her that immediately makes Thorn uneasy. She must be holding something in. A frown, maybe. A scream? Perhaps even a secret.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Good luck figuring her out if it's the latter, thinks Thorn. His sister's business never involves him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Hey," mutters Regan after a breath. She leans against the door frame in a dejected manner; polished fingernails picking at the wood's chipping white paint as her other hand takes rest against her stomach.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's wearing a polkadot dress today, which is different. Regan still looks like her usual greaser self, what with the dark leather jacket slung over her shoulder and her slicked back hair, but somehow, she looks... different. Older, maybe, like she's grown a few inches taller or a tad bit wide. Whatever the change is, she wears it well.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Regan notices Thorn's stare. In less than three seconds she has whipped that jacket off her shoulder and has started tying the stiff sleeves around her waist. She's giggling now, but the sound is light and fragile. Her eyes remain on the boy sat in front of her, whom has taken it upon himself to glare at the polished ground.

⠀⠀⠀⠀They're quiet until Regan conjures up the will to press her sibling again, and say, "You can come in now, if you want. Mom wants to talk."

⠀⠀⠀⠀That sound like much of a choice.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Attention rubber-banding, Thorn again looks up. He stop bouncing his leg, and wraps his arms tighter around himself, glancing over at Regan with a glint in his eyes that seems to cause her discomfort. Although his heart wrenches at the thought of Jane's condition, Thorn shudders to think of what awaits him behind that door. He's not expecting much—maybe an angry glance or scolding for not having come to visit her sooner—but it pains him to even be here.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Still, none of this stops him from rising out of his seat. "How is she?" he asks. They're the first words to have left his mouth since stepping into the building. So far, all he's managed to respond to others with is a plethora of head nods and shrugs.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"She's okay," Regan answers. She peeks over her shoulder to make sure the spoken subject in the room isn't listening. She then turns back to Thorn with a brief, tight-lipped smile. "She's still in denial about this whole thing as if she'll wake up tomorrow and discover she's been miraculously cured, if you can believe it."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Itching to get out then?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Regan blows out a breath as she steps further out into the hallway, gently closing the door behind her. "You know she hates it here... But, she doesn't have much of a choice. I managed to convince her to stay—four more nights in, and then she's out. Any more or any less, and there'll be a cat fight in the hallway."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"She'd kick your ass."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"How so?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"She packs a pretty good punch."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I'm—" Whatever she was about to say dies on her tongue as her breath suddenly hitches in her throat. Still, the twitching of one of her eyes speaks more than words. "Thorn... I didn't—"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Let's just get this over with," he interjects, expression deceptively neutral.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It seems like an eternity before either one of them move. Once they do, Regan takes the lead and enters her mother's room. Thorn shuffles in right after her. Fingers twitching, he squeezes his hands into fists and tries with all his might to not turn and bolt straight back out that door.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Jane Holman's croaky voice may be on the way out—her lungs, deteriorating from the inside out—but nevertheless, she still looks beautiful. In her classic face, Thorn sees an older, hardened version of her daughter. With skin as clear and perfect as hers, the only telltale sign of Jane's lung cancer other than her spent voice and the permeating smell of nicotine that surrounds her is the ashtray on the bedside table housing three burnt-out cigarettes. One of them seems fresh. How that woman ever managed to convince (Likely threaten...) her nurses into letting her smoke, he may never know.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Oh, Thorn... There's my boy," the voice of Jane Holman wafts over to him. Instantly, Thorn's heartbeat kicks up in whirring of panic. "Oh, just look at you. We've only been, what... three days apart from each other? I swear, in that time, you've grown taller."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I'm... the same height as always," mutters Thorn. He shoves his twitching hands into the pockets of his jersey. Like always, before he even makes it three steps into the rectangular space that is Jane's private room, his eyes decide to hit the floor.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"What is that? Six-foot-something now?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Five eight..." mutters Thorn.

⠀⠀⠀⠀His first mistake.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Look at me when you speak to me, son," Jane snaps, the severity of which would surely be strong enough to grasp and snap his neck.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Son.

⠀⠀⠀⠀That's never sat right.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He raises his head in nervous expectation, but cannot look at her face. From where she lies under the sheets of her hospital bed, the prim and proper looking woman gives a relenting scoff of aggravation. It takes him a moment to notice Jane is holding another cigarette—this one lit—and another moment after that for the back of his neck to heat up with phantom pains. His skin still remembers the burn Jane permeated into his neck when she was last around him with a cigarette; the way it seared him, disfigured a part of him, like a brand.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn can almost feel the sting happening all over again. And when Jane finally takes the cigarette between her lips, a part of him almost expects her to jump out of bed and continuously mash it into the crook of his arm—not to be unique for once—and all to leave another mark somewhere else on his worn out body; someplace others cannot see.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But it's the way Jane called him "son" that really makes him pause. Perhaps this was the inception of his total indifference toward her. When she took him in—this orphaned, afraid twelve year-old at the time—just as she'd promised to do if anything happened to his parents, Thorn was imminently reduced to a title that he felt no longer belonged to him anymore; a title that wasn't Jane's to give. He isn't her son, nor will he ever be, despite what those damned adoption papers hidden away to never be found say.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Even though it kills Thorn to think about, it also pushes him over the edge. Fear has taken control of him. In a moment of dizziness and wary disgust, Thorn finally shoots his dilated pupils up to meet those of the woman who stole what little he had left of his life away.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's already grinning at him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"There you go," the woman jeers, amused by his obedience. "No need to go making things so difficult." She breaks eye contact for only a moment, and only so she can flick off ash from that lit cigarette into the ash tray. "Now, then,"—back to glaring at him—"show me that lovely smile of yours. And an apology too, maybe?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Only now does Regan, who has been standing off to the side like a mute with one hell of an awkward frown, decide to speak up. "Mom, you don't have to—"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Let the boy speak for himself," Jane interjects, her dark eyes hot like embers. "I want to hear it. An apology, Thorn. Now."

⠀⠀⠀⠀He doesn't know how she does it; doesn't now how she manages to best him, even when he convinces himself he might finally have the upper hand on her. He doesn't know how she can easily, without flaw, break him down to nothing more than a measly child who cowers under the strike of her palm—how she does this, still, with no more than her words and a leering eye.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn Dillon-Holman has no idea why he even agreed to pin Jane's surname onto his own. a needle to thread, sewn into his very being like a permanent stitch. It's a reminder of how he's under her control now—not Regan's, not anyone else's, and certainly not his own.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Hers.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Jane Holman used to be nice—after all, his real parents hadn't entrusted her as his godmother first for no reason. Before the cancer, before the big move to Nowheresville Hawkins, before her ex-husband—Regan's father—filed for divorce and ran away with a girl half his age, Jane used to be goddamn... nice!

⠀⠀⠀⠀The demand for an apology still hangs in the air, smothering Thorn as if from afar. He's unsure just how long it takes him to say something. When he does, it's devoid of strength and very, very hollow.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I'm... I–I'm sorry."

⠀⠀⠀⠀From a drawer in the bedside cabinet, Jane has pulled out a box of matches. She strikes one and lights the cigarette in her mouth before inhaling the toxins like oxygen, unfazed that the drug now pumping through her system is the very thing slowly killing her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her face, devoid of all sympathy, remains watchful of him with every drag she smokes. "Sorry?" She raises her eyebrows. Everything is a game to her. "And who is it exactly you're sorry to?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn doesn't want to say it, but refusing never is worth the punishment that always comes after. With a mental kick of self-loathing to his brain that sends the same message to his heart, he manages to say, between gritted teeth, "I'm sorry... Mom."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Jane inhales yet another drag of smoke. "You've got some nerve, boy."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Too much, if you ask him. But who would he be without that nerve? Would he be the quiet, obedient kid who merely takes all the punches?—who doesn't at least try to fight back against the people who wrong him?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Like hell.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Between boisterous laughter and a volley of unhealthy coughs, the woman rolls her eyes at him. "Ugh, smile for once, will you? Have you forgotten to take your meds again?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀When Thorn only clenches his jaw, saying nothing, a sickening grin pulls up the corners of Jane's mouth, clearly enjoying seeing him suffer under her authority.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"God. No wonder you're depressed."

⠀⠀⠀⠀He tenses.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Almost explodes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀...But someone beats him to it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Oh for fuck's sake, Mom!" Regan, who has been nothing short of quiet the whole time, suddenly snaps back at her. "Would you just shut up?" She scowls hard, steps in front of Thorn like a wall, and diverts all her rage to her bed-bound sick mother. "You're a fucking coward. If you can't even give your own son a chance to defend himself, then what kind of mother are you?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Jane merely shrugs, grimacing through the smoke plumes of her cigarette. "Yours."

⠀⠀⠀⠀With that and nothing more, Regan laughs in disbelief, and gently grabs the hand of a paralysed and shellshocked Thorn. Quick on her sisterly instincts, she escorts him out of the room and away from the muted noise of the ward.

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( ミ☆ ) A/N.
burn the bitch!! or whatever radiohead said

— Liv

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Publishing Dates:
[ Original: Dec 12th, 2016 ]
[ Rewrite: September, 2023 ]