Disclaimers: Don't own Gary Hobson, the paper, the  Cat, Marissa, Lois, Bernie, Chuck, and everyone else.
 
WARNING: This may be thought as a depressing fic. Do not continue reading if you can't handle this. 

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Leave It All Behind
by Ally McKnight

I've got to go. I've got to leave it all behind. Get  out of Chicago and  go somewhere, somewhere far away.

  I'm all ready and I'm leaving tonight. I know if I  put it off any longer  I'll lose my nerve and I can't do that. This is what  I have to do. I  can't be the hero anymore. Not when it hurts the  people I love.

  My duffel bag sits open on my bed, packed in  anything but a haste. I'd  purposely taken my time in packing; folded all my  shirts until not a  crease remained in one article of clothing. Not
one.  I spent my packing  time looking at this from all angles. I needed to  think, needed to know  if I was making the right choice. And I am. I know  it.

  This paper has brought me nothing but pain  and suffering but I could put up with that. It was  just me being hurt,  hardly ever anyone else. Then one time I realized  how much it hurt  everyone else I loved.

  I close my eyes, trying not to let the memories  encircle me like they  always do. But like always, they win and I have no  choice but to let all  the thoughts and all the pent up frustrations out  inside my mind.

  I can still see it in my head. It was a routine  save. Ordinary. Common.  Boring, compared to what I was used to. A purse  snatching, no problem.  At least it never was before. There was usually some  way to get around  it. But not this time. This purse snatcher was a  hostile man with a  knife. I feel it right now, the knife going into my  gut, once, twice,  ten times, so much until I lose count. The woman  with the purse screamed  and the blood made a puddle around me and my last  thought before  everything went black was: "This is not how I want  to die."

  I woke up in a hospital bed, not heaven or hell or  purgatory, wherever  I'll go when I die. My mother sat beside me, silent  tears streaming down  her face as she stroked my hair tenderly.

  I remember taking her hand gently and telling her it  would be okay. She  just cried and kissed me lovingly. And in her eyes I  saw how scared she  was for me. How scared they all were, Mom, Dad,  Marissa, Chuck, all of  them. They were scared that one day I'd go out on a  save and never come  back. Mom had always put up a good front about  things but she'd let her  guard down that day and I knew, just knew, she was  wishing she had a  different son. A son who she could cradle  protectively her entire life  like she did with me when I was a baby. A son she  never had to let go  of. A son she didn't have to watch walking away and  wonder just when she  was going to get the fateful call from the hospital:  "Mrs. Hobson, I'm  sorry but your son didn't make it."

  I saw it in all of them through my recovery. Even  Dad, who seemed so  happy-go-lucky, like nothing could ever get him  down. He tried to act  like nothing had changed but I knew it had. It was  obvious by the way he  talked to me. When Mom took care of a save, Marissa  was at the bar, and  Chuck was wherever, he'd sit by my side and tell me  stories about me  when I was little. And he's like Mom. He wants me to  be little again. He  wants me to crawl into his lap and let him make  things all better again.  It's obvious to me.

  There was this one story Dad told me, and I swear he  was crying when he  told it. He got this wistful kind of smile as he  started talking. I was six years old, and Mom had gone out of town to visit her sister. I  got sick a day later and he had to take care of me.  He had some buddies  over for poker the next night after he'd kissed me  on the forehead and  put me to bed. I came downstairs about an hour  later, telling him I  couldn't sleep. So, I sat in his lap while he played  poker and I  snuggled my head into his stomach. And Dad kissed me  gently and told me  I'd feel better soon, ignoring the snickers from  some of his bachelor  buddies. Dad's voice shook through the whole story.

  The story wasn't meant to make me feel guilty, not  at all. It was  something he felt nostalgic about and something to  fill the awkward  silence the room usually possessed. A nurse came in  soon afterward,  telling Dad visiting time was over. He leaned over  and kissed me,  something he hadn't done in a long time. I was  frightened. He thought he  was kissing me good-bye. It wrenched at my heart and  I wanted to scream  at him that I wasn't going to die. But I knew if I  had, he'd just look  at me with sad eyes and tell me "not yet."

  I laid there and watched all of them come and go.  Marissa who squeezed  my hand so hard I thought she'd broken it, just to  make sure I was still  there. Chuck who tried to laugh it off by making  stupid jokes, but even  he knew they weren't funny. His laugh was stiff and  hollow, like he'd  never heard what he was saying at all.  It tore me up inside to see them all like that. It  hadn't just hurt me  this time. It had hurt all of them. They must've  felt the stabbing too.  The impact of the sharp tip against their side. They  must've felt it  along with me, or maybe felt it even worse, they  seemed to be in more  pain than I was.

  That's why I have to leave. I can't handle that  anymore. Mom crying over  me, Dad turning somber, Marissa losing faith, and  Chuck forgetting how  to laugh, all because of me.  They deserve so much better than that. They deserve  someone who doesn't  have to go risking their neck all the time.

  I'm smart enough to know that I can't just stay in  Chicago and ignore  the paper. I can't. I have to get out of this city,  this state, and  leave the cat behind. Leave it all behind. Leave  behind the police  officers who think I'm crazy and the reporters who  smell a story every  time I walk by. I need to make a new name for myself  other than "Looney  Toon." I can't be Gary Hobson anymore. Gary Hobson  was a hero. I need to  be a regular red blooded American man.

  I take a quick glance around the loft, making sure  I'm not missing  everything. Life savings stuffed in the pocket of my  leather jacket,  zipped up securely. All the clothes that could fit  in a duffle bag,  packed away neatly. I had considered maybe taking a  few pictures with me  but I find I just can't do it. I'm not strong  enough.

  If I take the picture of Mom, Dad, and me, I'll  never let go of my past  as Gary Hobson. I'll run to them as soon as things  get lonely and I  can't have that happening. I pick up the picture  frame hesitantly,  looking at it before I leave for wherever I'm going.

   It was taken awhile back, back when I was in  college. I'd come home for  my birthday one year and for once I'd only had a  small gathering of  friends and family. It was always a nice memory,  relaxing at home and  Hickory. But I can't take memories with me where I'm  going. They'd hurt  too much.

  The second picture is of Marissa, Chuck, and me  behind the bar at  McGinty's the day I came to own it. I remember it so  vividly. We were  partners, all of us. The Three Musketeers. As time  went by, things  changed. Chuck got bored and went to California and  it was the Two  Musketeers, but Chuck was never forgotten.  God, I can't even take the signed picture of Tony  Amonte with me. Every  time I'd look at it, I'd just get the same scene in  my head. Chuck and I  hanging out at the Blackhawks game, spilling beer  all over each other as  Amonte scored the game winning goal. Trying not to  laugh as Chuck tossed  a cheese covered nacho at some obsessed Rangers fan  who was calling the  Blackhawks a bunch of little girls. All that, I  can't remember. Those  memories will stay here, in this loft. I'll shut the  door behind me, and  behind me the memories will stay.

  Drawing in a breath, I pick up the phone, dialing a  number so familiar  it's like second nature to dial it. And it's the  answering machine, just  like I expected.

  I feel a rush of emotions course through my body. I  want to tell Mom and  Dad how much they mean to me, and tell them to never  worry, I'll be  careful. Tell them I love them and I'm sorry I have  to go, and sorry  I'll never see them again. But I can't. The silence  stretches a minute  after the beep before I can finally find my voice.

  "I love you," I whisper, my voice tight. I hang up  the phone with a  shaky breath. That's all I said. That's it. I  couldn't say anymore or  I'd start to sob. Mom and Dad probably won't even  know who's speaking  until they listen to it again and realize that the  cold, flat voice, so  full of sorrow and anguish is their own son, and  yes, something is very  wrong.

  With a heavy sigh, I pick up my duffel bag. Just one  more glance around  before I finally head to the door. All the little  things that  represented my life as Gary Hobson will be left  behind. The bowling pin,  the snowshoes, the hockey stick.

  Soon they'll seem like figments of my imagination,  like I never really  saved more than a dozen lives and scored numerous  goals with the hockey  stick. Like I never even owned a hockey stick.

  I almost trip over something. I peer down and my  throat goes dry. "Lost  Chicago." I have to wonder where the cat has gone  to. I haven't seen him  in awhile. Maybe the little rascal knows what I'm  planning and wanted to  get away before I finally left. I pick up the book  and for a second  consider shoving it in my bag, but I don't. I can't.  That's a Gary  Hobson thing. And as soon as I step foot out of  McGinty's I will not be  Gary Hobson anymore.

  I toss the book on the couch and it falls off and  lands on the floor. I  don't care. Part of me, the part of me that has been  screaming at me  ever since I started packing to unpack all my stuff,  take a sleeping  pill, and everything would turn out just peachy in  the morning, wanted  to pick up the book one last time and take one last  look at Lucius Snow.  But I don't.

  I slowly turn around and walk out the door, walking  away from Gary  Hobson, and walking towards something, somewhere  else. My heart stiffens  as I walk down the stairs, and that part of me tells  me once again that  I can go back and be Good Ol' Gary again. And I keep  walking. I have to  leave it all behind. Because I can still see it.  Mom's tears, Dad's  worried frowns, Marissa's sightless eyes desperate  to know I'm fine, and  Chuck's forced smiles. I can still see them. I keep  walking until I'm  out the door and into my Jeep, behind the wheel and  ready to leave. So I  go.

  I drive for hours, until it's almost six o'clock in  the morning but I  have no desire to either eat or sleep. I stop at a  small gas station a  few hours later. I approach a phone booth. There's  someone I have to  call.

  I dial the numbers with a heavy heart, wondering if  she already knows,  wondering if as soon as she hears my voice she'll  beg for me to come  back. I fish a quarter from out of my jean pocket  and insert it in the  proper slot, quickly dialing the correct numbers.

  "McGinty's, this is Marissa." Her voice fills my  ears and surrounds me  like home.

  "Marissa," I choke out.

  "Gary?" she asks, her voice clearly puzzled.  I clear my throat. I have to get this over with. The  last part of my  plan before I finally end this chapter of my life  and start an entirely  new one.

  "Uh, yeah, it's me." I try to keep my voice light  and cheery, but I know  I give myself away.  "Um, I just wanted to tell you that I'm out on a  save. It shouldn't take  much longer."

  I wince at the lie. I'm suddenly glad I'm wearing my  baseball cap down  over my eyes, because even though it's foolish to  think that she can see  me, somehow I think she can through the phone. And  she can see that I'm  lying.

  "You're not coming back, are you." It's not a  question. It's a desperate  plea for me to come back and she can help make  things right. I hear her  let out a shaky breath and my heart breaks in two.

  "I'll be home soon," I lie, my voice barely audible.  I hang up before I  lose my nerve and go back home.

  I hated lying to Marissa, but then again, maybe it  wasn't a lie. Maybe I  would be home soon. Not my Chicago home or my  Hickory home, but the home  where I'd be going, the place where I'd start my new  life, as someone  other than Gary Hobson.

  I drive away into the morning, wondering all the  while, if I'm hurting  my loved ones more by what I'm doing now, but I  can't think of that for  too long.

  Because I have to leave it all behind before I move  forward.   

Email the author: coventrys@yahoo.com
 

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