Maybe It’s Not So Cliche

     It had to be the eight millionth time they’d played the damn song, and Tyler was beginning to loathe the very radio itself. As if the black plastic and hidden wires had personally offended him, he rolled onto his stomach and glared at the cheap boombox sitting on the floor. While he’d liked "Get Stoned," Hinder was swiftly losing their place in the redcap’s CD case. He had to have heard "Lips of an Angel" thirty times in one day, and while the song had been appealing when it first came out, now…it was beginning to wear on him. Leaning over, he flung a shoe at the boombox, smirking when it hit the intended target and the volume dropped considerably.

     This…this room he resided in now was nothing compared to what he had once occupied. Tyler frowned as he thumped his head against his grey, shapeless pillow. The memory of warm pine walls, soft carpet underfoot, a large, firm bed and sparkling windows always seemed to push itself to the forefront of his mind when he regarded the waterstained, cracking plaster that surrounded him now. The army cot beneath him, sagging and worn, was a poor replacement for the firm mattress, cool sheets and soft comforters that had been his. A dripping, rust-stained sink in the corner, the mildewed shower curtain and the yellowing toilet were a poignant reminder of his old, clean seafoam green (he’d hated that colour) and white bathroom. The freehold, Hearth Home, seemed a thousand miles away, for all that it was merely two districts over. The redcap sighed heavily as he turned his eyes back to the object resting atop the sagging orange crate holding the contents of his pockets. It was incongruous, an ornate silver picture frame, twined with masterful vines and roses, in this room of poverty. The face gazing coldly out was utterly and enrapturingly beautiful, with cool, sky-blue eyes (more the colour of glacial ice in person,) and pale gold hair falling in a smooth wave around her lovely face. Her chin was tilted up, and there was no smile on her pale pink lips. Lips, Tyler recalled almost wistfully, that were softer than the petals of the roses he used to give her every morning. Without quite meaning to, the young man rolled onto his side to gaze into the photo’s eyes, and sighed heavily.

     One thing the picture did was make her appear softer than she really was. Amelia Lavinia Neally was as cold in person as the glass covering her picture. Theirs had been a long relationship, beginning when Tyler had first come to this place known as Freak Central, and it had been the best…and worst…time of his life. He grumbled to himself, drawing his eyes away from the photo…and then looked back at the orange crate as his cell phone began ringing. Not just ringing, but playing Buckcherry’s "Crazy Bitch." The redcap groaned heavily and for a moment, seriously entertained the idea of just eating the damn phone. With a resigned sigh, he picked it up and flipped it open.

     "What is it, Amelia?"

     "I couldn’t sleep." Her voice was subdued, something he had not often heard, something that no one else ever had, and although the phone distorted her voice slightly, he could hear the tone when she spoke.

     "Yeah, so?" Tyler couldn’t keep the snap out of his own voice when he replied to her, his eyes drawn inexorably back to her picture. It was all too easy to envision her sitting on the edge of her bed, staring out the window.

     "You know why."

     "Iris," he sighed, rolling onto his back. "You’re worried about her."

     "Of course I’m worried about her!" Amelia’s voice held that icy snap that always made his temper writhe in protest at not being allowed to rip her pointy ears off. "She’s…damn it, Tyler…she’s all alone out there, and I don’t know where she is."

     "You know, calling your ex-boyfriend to complain about how worried you are over your current girlfriend’s disappearance isn’t the way to make friends, Amy."

     "Don’t call me that," she snapped.

     "Sure, Amy. Whatever you say."

     There was silence on the other end for a few long moments, but Tyler could hear her breathing. Ah…that was why. She felt like crying. He could tell by the depth of her breath, the slow exhalations. After all, rulers didn’t cry, and one thing Amelia had always been was a ruler.

     "…I’m scared, Tyler."

     He found himself feeling bad for her, his heart taking that downward plunge that Amelia had always managed to put him into, and he sighed. "I know, babydoll."

     It was perhaps a measure of just how bad she was feeling that she didn’t yell at him over the pet name. Instead, he could hear the rustle of her bedclothes as she curled up. "I just keep thinking of her out there, all alone, maybe hurt…maybe even worse, and I…I…" She stopped speaking, and Tyler listened to her count her own heartbeat- her way of holding back the tears.

     "Jonas would know if she was dead, baby." It was an odd link, Jonas Foster had with his adopted daugh

ter, but something that no one really questioned. He because he’d learned long ago to question nothing in Freak Central; others…well, they knew more of the story than he did.

     "I know that, but even Jonas can’t find her and that scares me even more. If he can’t find her, who’s to say that she isn’t dead and we just don’t know?" Amelia sighed softly. "I miss her, Tyler."

     I miss you…It was on the tip of his tongue to say, but pride…and the knowledge that it was futile, held Tyler’s tongue silent for a moment until he could swallow the urge to blurt out his heartache. "I know you do, babydoll. She’ll come back, I promise. Stuff like this…hell, it happens all the time. We always come out on top."

     "…but sometimes, just barely," she whispered, and the redcap had to fight the desire to be there, to hold her, stroke her golden hair and let her cry on his shoulder. He was one of the few who had seen Amelia’s tears, and the sight never failed to make his heart ache for her.

     "Amy, baby…she’ll be okay. She’s the Gift of the Dreaming, she’s got more going for her than most people do. She’ll be fine, I promise." It was an old trick of his, to promise her the moon…and somehow, every promise Tyler had ever made he’d kept, just for her.

     "Even silver flowers?" Her question made him laugh, and want to cry all in one breath. It had been a request of hers when she’d turned seven: that he bring her silver flowers. Tyler had manfully sworn to do so, and had spent a frantic week trying to find growing silver flowers. Joshua Ogniali had finally given him a helping hand and made a beautiful silver rose pendant for him to bring to his sidhe love. She still wore it, sometimes.

     "Even silver flowers," he said huskily.

     "…good night, Tyler." It wasn’t her way to say ‘thank you,’ and he never expected it. She merely hung up the phone, and he remained there, staring at the moldy ceiling and swallowing the pain that was clawing its way up his throat. The music filtered into his mind, and as he listened, Tyler began to laugh harshly…laugh even as the tears streaked his face, and he rolled onto his stomach, wadding the stained pillow over his ears.

          "…I guess we never really moved on…It’s really good to hear your voice saying my name. It sounds so sweet coming from the lips of an angel… Hearing those words it makes me weak, and I never wanna say goodbye…"