Bane

January 13, 1964

Clayton stood beside the bus wreckage, a macabre monument freshly painted.

Eight years old.

...but really, for Clayton Walker, eight years new.

Eight years scarred in his heart, etched in his consciousness, burned into his restless slumber; his every waking moment the injustice of fate cast it's shadow on memory, and in sleep she came to him, her incorporeal pallor calling in mute desperation, Julie always pleading for the help he could never give.

Eight years mourning in silence that the echo of his agony never reach Emily's ears, never be known to his family, or his friends in The Order.

Every year he hiked from the falls, down the river, and into the valley of the crash site to pay homage to the lives lost in that once upon a time, that ill fated voyage when the cowardice of drunkard Francis Briar stole from him the one small joy he had.

Every year he lied to Emily; where he went, where he was, and what he was doing.

Eight years passed as a slow rolling freight train hauling his pain over the tracks that we're a creeping traverse of time. His love for Emily, and his new found purpose in Jonathan; his life, his place in the order was little more than a pale reflection of the life he imagined with Julie. If he had closure - the smallest opportunity to say goodbye - things could be different.

He was only seventeen when it happened. The pain and the regret bred a secret anger, for in the eight years passed he had plenty of time to remember.

Clayton had plenty of time to remember his warning, his pleading, his begging. He had plenty of time to disdain Julie's refusal to stay off the bus that day.

Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but his was a festering wound still fresh and infected beneath the fragile veneer of false content he wore as a mask to hide the truth from those it would hurt the most.

Clayton Walker was alone in his sorrow, and though it hurt every day, it hurt worse - it hurt most - when the anniversary of the crash came, and passed.

The sun fought a failing battle through gray, and overcast skies as thunder called down over him a threatening slow growl of impending storm. Every year Clayton came, and every year it rained, the gloom in the air as deep as the gloom that haunted his soul.

He leaned into the bus, his head resting against the dented, damaged metal just beneath the window where once she sat on that damned departure from Driftwood to Pridewater. "You died, Jules. Eight years ago to the day, and you know me. I'm not the type to say I told you so... but I really did, didn't I? These eight years now... they feel like a lifetime passed, and somehow no time at all. Knocking that Jennings kid across the stage saved my life, but I couldn't - it didn't save you."

A lazy, strong wind blew past him in response, cold in the silence of the empty yellow sepulchre.

"...well, they only come when it rains." Clayton wiped his brow as small droplets sprinkled down on him, the clouds thickening in the sky. "It's raining, Jules. Where are you?" His voice dropped to a hush. "Where are you? Do you rest in cold Earth as you did in the cold evening air when you died? Are you restless, haunting this ugly memory, or is it just me you haunt? In those dreams and memories where you ask for me to set you free, are you truly there, or is it a wishful man's hope?"

Nothing.

"I married, Jules. It took a long time to get past you, and let's be honest. I never got past you, and I'll never get past you."

Clayton's voice was tired, despite the early morning. He felt strained thin, world weary, and helpless now as much as he felt that cold Friday morning in the place he called once upon a time. "You were the one person in the world that made me feel alive, and whole. Forgive me if I am replete with this bitter enmity, but here we are again. I live, and you do not."