Red Balloons...

Silently, dragging along a brooding temperment, Tor makes his way to the refridgerator. He opens the door and begins searching the contents, extracting a few necessities: yeast, milk, eggs, and butter. He flicks on a few lights, pulls out a bunch of pans - frying and baking - and random whisks, spatulas, bowls, cups, and other culinary essentials.

Sighing heavily, he ties on a brightly colored apron, one of flourescent blues, oranges, and yellows and littered with spanish words and phrases that clashes terribly with his coloring, but he doesn't rightly care. He brushes imagined hair out of his face and grabs the kettle off the stove, skulking about the kitchen with definite aloofness and, paradoxically, firmness of purpose. Meticulously, he fills the kettle with water, sets it on the range, and grabs a wide mug and saucer out of the cabinets above the counter. From a tin on another counter, he extracts tea leaves and puts them in a tea pot (which he had forgotten to grab when he first went into the cupboard for the mug). He tosses a bunch of leaves in the pot and waits for the kettle to boil.

Meanwhile, he pulls out a huge recipe book and pulls from the inside cover the recipe for sugar cookies before turning to a page on bread. Every little detail of everything he has done up until this point has spun through his mind, and now, he simply stares at the book blankly as he comes across a photograph of Sandy and him after an attempt to teach the old guy how to cook. It wound up with a flour fight and not getting passed step two.

He notices how slack and emotionless his face feels, and he tears the picture in half with a satisfying 'sssshhhhht!' sound. "Bastard," he mutters, grabbing an egg and preparing to crack it on the edge of on of the big mixing bowls he has on the counter.

"Salvatore," his father says from the other end of the kitchen, causing Tor to jump and crush the egg in his hand, breaking the yolk so yellow liquid starts running down his arm.

"Dad..." Tor breathes irritably through gritted teeth as his eyes flick sideways and he throws the shattered egg into a spare grocery bag in the sink before washing off his hands and drying them on his apron.

"What happened?" his father asks with uncharacteristic abruptness.

"Nothing happened," Tor replies testily.

"Don't lie to me, Salvatore. You don't start baking unless something really terrible happened. You haven't been in here, really, since last March when you commemorated Rosina's--"

"--Don't say it--"

"--death."

Tor says nothing, but rather, he whips the steaming kettle off the stove and pours the water into the teapot, which he sets on a cork potholder to absorb the heat before turning off the stovetop and letting the kettle cool on it. He then searches a cabinet and extracts a bag of flour. He sort of begins zoning his father out, but his father says nothing anyway.

Meticulously he mixes together five cups of flour, two cups of sugar, and a teaspoon of baking soda in a large bowl. After he deems it mixed, he adds three eggs, a teaspoon of vanilla, and six teaspoons of milk - which he quickly ups to eight. Not wanting to bother with mixing spatulas and spoons, he rolls up his sleeves before thrusting his hands up to his wrists into this concoction.

His father moves slightly and Tor continues mixing, never once looking up. "Would you go away, please?" Tor asks monotonously.

"Salvatore, you know I can't do that."

Silently, Tor continues to mix the dough.

"What happened?" he persists.

"I don't want to talk about it," Tor reitterates, as if his tone had not been enough to convince anyone else of that exact thought. With renewed vigor, he tosses the gradually-mixing dough around in the bowl. "Too wet..." he sighs and grabs a handful of flour, drops it in the bowl, and works it into the mix.

"But there's something, isn't there?"

"Gee, Dad? What tipped you off?" His tone is gradually becoming louder, and he stares with more concentration at the bowl and batter, not his father.

"Don't cop an attitude with me, Salvatore," his father warns.

Tor doesn't answer. He finishes mixing the dough and throws down a carpet of flour on the countertop before pulling the dough out of the bowl and plopping it down on top. He places the bowl gingerly in the sink and rinses off his hands, drying them again on his apron, before pulling out plastic wrap, coating the dough in flour, and wrapping it tightly. He opens the freezer door beside the refridgerator and tosses the dough in, letting it sit in there with about five or so other half-batches from a while ago, at least seven months, some even more so.

"Salva--"

"I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT! And you can't change my mind." Methodically, Tor sets about combining ingridiants again, this time for bread. He rinses some stray clumps of cookie dough off his hands and begins mixing the ingrediants together.

"Excuse me, then, won't you, Salvatore?" his father asks as he opens the cabinet above Tor's head.

"You don't have to say my name after everything. I know what it is," Tor grumbles, ducking to avoid being whapped by the door.

"Yes," his father replies enigmatically as he grabs a mug before closing the doors so Tor can stand up again. Tor listens as he pours cold coffee into his mug and pops it in the microwave. By the time the mug is finished being heated, Tor's bread dough is finished being mixed. He tosses a dusting of flour over it and covers it firmly with a clean towel, double checks to see that the oven is heating up to 350º, and sets the bowl of dough on top of it so it can rise with the heat from the top of the oven.

He washes his hands and pours himself his tea. Then, plopping down in a chair near the kitchen, he stares out the window, drinking from his warm mug.

"He really hurt you, didn't he?"

Tor says nothing. He simply takes another sip and stares out the window. Winter is coming along nicely, and soon the leaves from the trees will be gone. The green leaves that have turned brown, he reminds himself.

"Look. I know you don't want to talk about it, but you can't keep it bottled up. It's not good for you."

"Watch me," Tor replies monotonously, taking a deep breath of the heady peperminty fumes of the tea.

"Not caring what your preferences are and not caring about you are two different things. Tell me what happened."

"There's nothing to tell."

"You don't start baking for no reason."

Tor again becomes silent. "Or do I?"

"You get this way every year on the day Ros--"

"STOP TALKING ABOUT HER!" Tor demands forcefully. He stares at his reflection in the window, allowing his deep brown eyes to bore into their ghosted and mirrored images.

"Don't raise your voice to me, Salvatore," his father replies, more calmly but equally as forcefully. "Tell me what happened. Maybe I can help."

You always seem to think you have all the answers, Dad, Tor sighs in his mind. I'll bet you don't have this one.

"Please, Tor," his father says, pulling a chair up beside his son.

Tor looks up and over at his father. For the first time since Tor adopted his nickname, his father has used it. He stares with bewildered eyes at him.

"Don't just sit there gawking. What happened?"

Tor looks down at his mug of tea and the little leaves suspended in it. "Sandy's not going to get better."

"What?" His father sounds shocked. "Why not?"

"He... has the Stigmata."

He hears his father gasp. "No! Why him?"

Tor takes another sip of his tea, unable to answer because who is he to know the workings of Providence? "He doesn't want to see me."

"Oh, Tor..." His father reaches out and rubs Tor's back.

"To Hell with him," Tor remarks with spite and venom seething in his tone.

"That's no way to talk."

"If he wants nothing to do with me, I want nothing to do with him. The priests can kill him for all I care."

"But you do care, because it still hurts."

"Considering I've known for less than three hours, of course it does. Soon I'll be over it, though. Just wait and see."

Tor's father sighs. "Whatever you think is best, Tor."

"I do think it's best."

"Well then that's what I wish you. The best."

Tor hears his father rise and feels him clap him on the shoulder firmly before wandering away, seemingly in a daze himself, leaving Tor alone with his tea and his bread. Tor sits there for a long time before finally taking the last swallow of his tea, leaving just enough in the mug and all the leaves.

Carefully, he switches the hands he is using to hold the mug, allowing his left hand to hold the mug. He moves it in a counter-clockwise motion three times before slowly turning it upside down on the saucer, which he holds with both hands to keep it from shaking.

After sitting there for what seems like an eternity, Tor takes the cup by the handle in his right hand and sets the saucer aside. He stares into the cup and notes a number of unlucky signs, as well as a few definite good ones. Near the rim of the cup, though on the totally opposite side than his handle, is a large and definite rabbit, a sign that mentions cowardice and timidity. Also near the rim, but nearer to the handle than the rabbit, is a razor and a heart, representing the fight he had with Sandy. Also near the handle, oddly, is a pair of parallel lines that lead from the handle to the rabbit. Will he be leaving in a fit of cowardice, then?

Curious, Tor continues with the cup, which is fairly busy, it seems. Down in the bottom is a harp, a perfect ring, and the letter 'V'. These note a long way from love, a happy marriage, and a person - though Tor distinctly sees a man - whose surname begins with a V. Everything else that may be in the cup, Tor ignores. Contemplatively, he sets the cup on the saucer and looks up in time to see his bread dough rising madly. Had be been pondering on the cup for that long?

He rises, sets the cup in the sink, and crosses to the bowl. He pulls the dough from the bowl and sets it on the flour-dusted countertop where he begins to kneed it violently, working out all his excessive stresses while pondering over the cup. A pathway to timidity, and love a long way from now. A broken heart, yet a happy marriage later. And a man - Tor sees a man very clearly now - a man with a V. Could Sandy not be the one?

Puzzled, Tor kneeds the dough harder, forcing it to fall. He needs to speak with Sandy. But how?

Sandy stares blankly out his window in the hospital, staring out over the cityscape below. He is trying his best to ignore the stabbing pains in his wrists, forehead, and ankles, but it is in vain. Suddenly, a bright red helium-filled balloon floats up in the distance. A small flock follows afterwards of similar balloons. Finally, a large mass float up through the atmosphere, catching Sandy's attention at last.

He opens the window just a little and sees, down on the lawn, a large banner covering the lawn out front that reads 'Something's Out There' in huge script, colored bright green on a black background. On the ground, he notices someone being chased around the grounds of the lawn out front by a pair of security guards. A slight smile touches his lips, and he shouts, "NURSE!" before wheeling over to the door.

"It's about time you decided to notice what was going on outside your win... dow... Sandy?" Tor walks into Sandy's hospital room, looking around for his lover.

Suddenly, the door closes behind him, and he turns to see Sandy, seated in a wheelchair. He looks so much worse from the last time Tor saw him. His eyes are heavy and baggy, his hair is disheveled, his skin is pale and blotchy, and he does not look too content at all. "Good to see you, too, Tor," Sandy remarks crisply, wheeling away so Tor can enter the room fully. He motions to a chair in the corner. "Won't you sit down?"

Tor offers a sympathetic smile as he spins the chair around so he can sit backwards on it. He leans his arms on its high back and his chin on his arms. "I missed you," he admits. "And I'm sorry I yelled. I brought flowers, but the guards confiscated them - and the cookies I baked you." He looks down, half-way embarrassed.

"Where's Cecilia?" Sandy asks, almost amazed to see Tor separated from his guitar.

"At home." Tor rocks forwards momentarily on his chair before setting its feet on the ground again. "I did miss you, though."

"I believe you. You don't have to tell me every three seconds."

Tor nods absently, watching Sandy carefully. He waits patiently for Sandy to say something, but nothing is said. So, he fills the blanks. "When do you think they'll let you out?"

Sandy scoffs. "Don't kid yourself. We both know they'll keep me here until I die. What good would it do anyone to have an atheist with the Stigmata? And an immortal atheist at that?"

Tor sighs heavily. "Have the priests come yet?"

"No. The Nurses say they're still debating over what to do with me. They don't know whether testing or death is better. Or both." He looks away, disgust and distraction painted over his face.

"You're distracted," Tor observes. "You don't want me here. I'll leave." He rises and runs his hand through his hair. "It was wrong of me to come here. You just want to be left alone."

Sandy looks over to him with large brown eyes. "That's not it," he replies.

"Then what?"

A smile touches Sandy's face. "You're loosing your visions?" he asks, a playful spark in his otherwise-dead eyes.

"Hardly. I just haven't been around you for - what is it now? - about a month and a half. I can't pick up the vibes as easily."

"You sound like a Hippie."

"I am a Hippie."

"Ah. Yes. I forgot. How's your collection of antiques coming?"

"If you mean my vinyls, the same ol' same ol'. Otherwise... I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

Sandy chuckles. "Yes, that's exactly what I was talking about. So... You've got some foreign music, too, eh?"

"What's that?"

"The banner. It's a line from '99 Red Balloons,' isn't it?"

Tor nods slowly. "Yeah." He grins. "I didn't know you were into that kind of music. You seem pretty much anti-antiquated music, exception granted to the masters of the organ and symphonic workings."

"I do like my Bach," Sandy replies, chuckling.

"Crazy weird baroque nut," Tor half-mutters, jokingly.

"Oi! I heard that!"

"Of course you did. It would've been wasted if you hadn't." Tor tips his comrade a wink, causing Sandy to laugh freely.

The two pass the time in the hospital relatively comfortable with one another, not once raising their voices or anything. The nurses let Tor stay there longer than normal visiting hours, considering most had been there the Sunday the two had had a falling out. Now, nearly seven-thirty at night and already dark out, one knocks gently on the door.

"Mister Mathers? Mister Pulvinus? I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's time to go."

Tor nods and rises, throwing on his coat and bending down to give Sandy a kiss on the cheek. "Take care, Love," he says, brushing his hand against Sandy's face. Sandy looks up at him, and a smallish smile plays on his face.

"You, too," he replies gently.

Shooting pain suddenly floods through Tor's wrists, and tears form in his eyes. He blinks, and twin beads of saltwater race down his face to splatter on the room's tiled floor. "I'm sorry."

"Why's that? You have nothing to be sorry about."

"I'm sorry I didn't come see you sooner."

"Oh?"

"Sandy..." Tor whispers, his voice failing him. "They're coming tonight."

"Mister Pulvinus," the nurse calls.

He bends down again and kisses Sandy lovingly, taking his hands in his and squeezing them before breaking off and backing out the door. "I'll always love you," he whispers.

"And I, you, Tor," Sandy replies, a much sadder expression on his face.

"Farewell, Sandy. I'll miss you."

"Don't dwell on me too long, Tor. Good-bye..."

Tor allows the nurse to escort him from the floor, and he does not hear the door close at all. Silently, he walks beside the young and vibrant hospital worker. Thankfully, he does not once try to make small talk.

Outside, in the cool and crisp darkness, Tor begins his walk home. All around, cars and buses, pedestrians and cyclists, fill the city with noise of all kinds. On the corners, musicians display their guts and, in a few rare cases, talent. He passes the church, stares up at its huge and daunting design, and keeps right on walking. God has no place with him. Not tonight.

Sandy is still awake come two in the morning. A light knock on the door announces the entrance of someone, as the door closes quietly behind soon after. He does not turn away from the window where he watched Tor walk away in the darkness.

"It's about time you came," he announces to the unseen arrival.

"You knew I was coming?" a wizened old male voice asks. "How?"

"Do you know the Seer?"

"Many claim to be Seers, Mathers. None of them are for real."

"This one's for real all right. But that's not why you're here. Just end this."

"You don't want a prayer before you go?"

"Look, Father, Cardinal, whatever you are. I'm not religious. This happening to me hasn't made me religious. It just made an end for me so he could have a new begining, and I mean the Seer, not your stupid Christ."

"All right then. Your condemnation is on your soul. As you wish." He pulls out a syringe and stabs it into Sandy's arm.

Sandy watches in morbid fascination as a pale blue liquid is injected into his system as the man pushes the plunger. "Nice knowing you," he whispers.

"The pleasure was all mine," the man replies as he crosses himself and exits, leaving Sandy to die.

I wasn't talking to you, Sandy thinks to himself, but already he is too weak to reply. His wounds no longer bleed, but each pore over his body bursts open with a capillary, covering his body in a thick glaze of blood. It's painful, but nothing compared to the Stigmata. Quietly, he resigns to death, his thoughts on Tor. He is glad Tor came to visit today. He can die free of regrets now.

Wordlessly, Tor pulls himself from the vision of Sandy's death. He had seemed so calm, so confident. Not once did a doubt seem to touch him, and yet Sandy had spoken directly to him. Had he known he was in the room through his vision? He couldn't have.

Tears still stream down Tor's face. "Here's looking at you, kid," he whispers, his voice not once cracking, as he wraps his small scrying mirror in its black velvet and places it in one of his drawers.

He rises and opens the windows, staring out into the night at the city, ignoring the icy chill that bites at his skin. He breathes in heavily, filling his senses with the intoxicatingly cold air. So Sandy is dead. What now?

Tor feels a total lack of feeling, if that's not too paradoxical to be possible. He flips on his stereo just in time to catch the tale end of one of the re-re-re-re-re-remakes of the English version of '99 Red Balloons'. He whispers the words along with the singer, still staring into the night, his thoughts on Sandy.

"Ninety-nine dreams I have had
In every one a red balloon
It's all over and I'm standin' pretty
In the dust that was a city
If I could find a souvenier
Just to prove the world was here...
And here it is, a red balloon
I think of you and let it go..."

He blocks out the next song, which is one of the more modern tunes, and finds himself amazingly shaking all over. He clenches his teeth and pulls on a warmer shirt as well as a pair of pants and his Birkinstocks. On sheer compulsion, he grabs Cecilia from where she lays, his tarot deck, and his scrying mirror. He places his deck in his pocket of his coat, and he places his mirror with his deck. Then, shrugging on his coat, he exits the house, stopping just in time to blow kisses to his mother's and father's bedroom.

Then, he leaves.

Silently, Tor walks the streets, ignoring the drug dealers, the prostitutes, and the rest of the late-night crowds that stalk the city streets. Calmly, he chooses a building at random and walks up its fire escape to the roof, where he perches, Cecilia in his lap. He tickles her strings gently in a random, rambling score of music from off the top of his head.

As he goes, he stares down at the streets below. He could so easily jump and everything. Simply make it all stop. Make nothing need to matter anymore. It would be less painful than slit wrists, bullets through the head, self-hanging. And all he would need to know before nothing is a sudden sense of flight, flying not downwards towards the earth, but up and away, to go wherever he chooses upon death - provided it works like that.

He continues with his song, pulling chords and notes out of the air in an eerie melody. He looks up and away at the stars and the city - the very city Sandy observed before his death. His thoughts drift to his teacup from a month ago, and nothing has begun to appear except this: the pathway to cowardice.

Casually, he stops playing Cecilia. He straps her to his back and sets both his feet on the edge of the building solidly. A gust of wind seems to test his perseverence, trying to push him nearer to the edge. His thoughts drift over everything he has known, from his loving parents, his now-dead lover, and his long-ago-lost sister.

Rosina.

Tor begins a new set of tears as he recalls. He had been seven when she died mysteriously. They had been so close, and she had been so charming. He could not, for anything, tell anyone exactly where he was the night she died, because he himself did not know exactly. Still, her memory had caused him to seek happiness, and with this source of happiness gone, and the visions not ceasing, a new voice in his head, and this feeling of dispair and loss flooding his soul like never before...