Date: Thu, 22 Jun 2000 23:06:11 EDT
From: FishofHappiness@aol.com
Subject: Remebering Petticoat Lane, part 8

Hey everyone! Gonna keep it short and sweet. I know nothing, absolutely
nothing about anyone's life anywhere. The title is from the Buffy: The
Vampire Slayer episode "Hush". It starts with a dream sequence. In it,
a little blond girl does a real sing-songy warning. It's like.. a kid's
song, only dark and twisted. Eerie.

I totally BSed the Bass homelife. I know, I know. It's fiction, people.
Think of it as a sad, sad alternate universe. Like "Sliders" only
infinately more twisted.

Special warning, even for you loyal readers. This section gets dark. It
features a wonderful little self-destructive habit that I once had. All the
description is from my own personal experience. I hope the use of it doesn't
offend anyone. If it does, I'm sorry, but, it's how I see this kind of thing
going. Anger needs release, and it rarely takes a healthy path.


Remembering Petticoat Lane
Part 8: "Can't call to mom, can't say a word, you're gonna die
                  screaming but you won't be heard."

	Lance was in shock for a few moments, before softly asking again.
"Mommy?"

	Diane Bass set her coffee down on the table and nodded. "Yes, honey.
It's me." She looked almost as nervous as Lance felt. "I was so worried about
you that I just couldn't get to sleep. Your father got tired of seeing me
pace the house, and well.. Here I am." There was a small, saddened smile
then.

	"Where's dad?"

	"He stayed home for this trip." Lance had the sneaking suspiscion
that there was something she wasn't telling him. Maybe it was in the way
that sentence was cut short, the way she didn't let it roll off her tongue,
rather, she just flung it out there. Maybe it was the way that her fingers
had flown back to the coffee cup, seeking refuge. Maybe he just inherently
sensed, through the sensitivity of the hurt little boy that Lou had fostered
inside him, that there was something she wasn't telling him about Dad, and
his reaction. Lance had another suspiscion, one that he left unspoken, in
fear that it might not be false. Lance suspected that his father had
rejected him. "He's very busy this time of year, with the community.
Church, and all. Why don't you come on over here and sit down so that I can
get a good look at you? You, too, JC, it's been a long while since I've seen
either of you."

	Lance obeyed, like the good little boy he had been raised to be, and
JC followed him. They had both just barely sat down when his mother started
in with the normal 'motherly, caring' nagging. "Goodness, James, don't you
sleep anymore? I've never seen you look this pale.Have you been eating
correctly?"

	Lance knew his mom loved him, but she had always been the type of
person that desired and lived for perfection. Since nothing was ever perfect,
 nothing was ever good enough for her. There were always things he did that
needed improving, things that weren't -right-. Lance always had the hardest
time trying to figure out whether or not she was actually proud of him, or
just trying to soothe him when she said that. A lot of times, he was just
relieved when her attention was tuned to something else, some destraction.
That was one of the things he loved about JC -- he always seemed to know
just -when- Lance's mother needed to be destracted.

	"So, Diane, how long do you plan on staying?"

	"Oh, just a couple of days, Josh. I just wanted to see how my boy
was doing."

	And, of course he seemed perfect, didn't he? He seemed just like he
had always seemed, completely her perfect child. Never clumsy, never
quitting anything, he was the -perfect- child. He was everything his mother
could ever want, and more. She was the perfect mother, always so attentive.
Always so in tuine with her children. So in tune that she ignored their
every cry for help, sometimes hushing them in the bitter hope that they
wouldn't ruin their oh-so-precious image. God, it ticked him off sometimes,
and he just couldn't control the fire that flamed up again. "Mom, I have a
question for you."

	"Yes, sugar?"

	JC seemed to sense the growing anger, a hand on Lance's thigh made
him pause, but didn't halt the angry inquery. "Why did you always send me
back, Mom?"

	Diane blinked, she hadn't been expecting that. "What do you mean,
James?" Back to formality. It had always been her retreat, to become cold
with him, to block him out. He didn't know if it was just a product of him
being the 'baby' of the family, or if it was just special consideration for
her little boy. Whatever it was, he was tired of it, it grated on him like
sandpaper on pine.

	"I mean when I would be at home, in tears, because I didn't want to
go back to Lou, why did you always make me go back. I was a teenager, mom,
not a fricking five year-old. I would think that you would know something
was wrong when your son would brek down in the car everytime you drove him
to the airport. Forgive me if I don't see that as normal behavior."

	"How was I supposed to know something was wrong? You never talked to
me..."

	"I stopped talking to you the first time you made me go back because
you made me go back mom. I kind of figured it wouldn't make a whole lot of
difference."

	"Of course it would have made a difference, you're my -son-."

	"Your son that you kept loading on a plane despite his excuses, and
his weird moods. You can't even -tell- me that you didn't notice an extra
bruise once and awhile, too."

	"Of course I noticed! But what was I supposed to do, James?!?"

	"Ask me what the hell was wrong! Keep me -home-! Anything but ignore
it, mom!"

	"We needed the money!" That loud declaration stilled the room.
Lance's mouth clicked shut and he slumped back in the chair.  JC's hand fell
off of Lance's leg as his mouth fell open in shock. "Yes, I said it! We
needed the money, James. Two kids and a mortgage, and only one of us worked.
We couldn't afford to ask questions, we could -afford- to not send you back,
knowing that it could be our only way out of debt. I'm sorry if it hurt your
feelings, -son-, but we had no choice. And that is exactly what I told your
father four years ago when he asked me the exact same question. Now if you
don't -mind- I am going back to my hotel."

	Even after she had left, it took a long time for Lance to react. He
didn't cry, wouldn't cry again. The hurt fueled the anger, which bubbled and
boiled underneath his skin, untempered. He couldn't yell, he couldn't
scream, it was like he was gagged. He felt trapped, horribly, inexplicably
trapped with no way to explain what he was feeling to anyone.

	"Lance, baby, did you hear me?"

	"Huh? What, Josh?"

	"I asked if I could take a shower. I'm.. I feel dirty, Lance."

	"Go ahead, JC. You know where everything is, if therte's anything
you need, just yell."

	His voice was surprisingly monotone for how he had meant it to be,
but he couldn't seem to rustle up any emotion other then the anger that
seemed to burn just under his skin, searching for a way out. JC seemed
oblivious to the growing darkness in his love, and why shouldn't he? After
all, Lance wasn't acting angry, or upset, even. He was acting perfectly
normal, maybe a bit morose, but normal. He couldn't possibly know that Lance
was beginning to walk a thin, dark, highwire that could only lead to a
shattering fall.

	Later, when asked, Lance wouldn't know what had possessed him to
pick up the letter opener that he kept on the desk. He wouldn't even
remember walking to the desk, it just sort of happened. One minute, he was
at the kitchen table, softly kissing JC before he left to take a shower,
the next, he was over in his office, the knife-like letter opener in hand,
his hand just barely shaking. He had met other people, other bands that cut
themselves to release anger, pain. He had always thought it was stupid,
pointless, but now, as the feelings raced through him.. there was nothing
else left. He knew no other way to ease the pain, so he stuck the knife to
his already-scarred shoulderblade, and cut. His skin was thick there, with
tan and scartissue, and it took a few trials before he realized how much
more effective it was to just lightly scrape the tip of the knife against
the skin. Little blood-red cuts started to appear on his shoulder, and the
pain never really hit him. Instead, a warm, tingly sensation began to flow
through him. It was the first warmth, the first truly -alive- feeling he had
felt since his confession, and he wasn't about to write off this habit now.
But, enough was enough for now. He put the letter opener back where he had
found it, and rolled his sleeve back to where it should have been. The
spring was almost back in his step as he walked over to the telephone, and
dialed.

	"Hello."

	"Hey Joey, this is Lance. I was wondering... do you want to go
clubbing tonight?"^