This is pretty long, just warning you, I cant make a read more ffffff. *Ahem* Imagine an AU where Tim's mom had kept visiting him at the hospital. Even when the hospital kept him admitted, month after incident-marred month. Even when was confined to his room. Imagine her explaining as best as she could why she had brought him there; 'as best as she could' wasn't strictly enough but eventually Tim just accepted it, or at least, he stopped asking. Imagine her reading stupid science fiction books with him on her visits because she wanted something to share and they were short enough to hold his attention. Imagine her hugging him and smoothing his hair down before she left each time and telling him to be brave. (They had shouting matches about that later, because Tim /being brave/ would not have actually helped anything that had happened to him and he wanted her to know that; and Janet wanted her son to know that she'd been basically powerless outside of the hospital and even in the hospital but she'd needed to give him something and what did he expect her to say? What else /could she have said/? Tim would have wanted to hear that she would come back; of she'd come back, you're here now; I know.) Imagine that once he was stable enough on his meds she took him home. On that day Tim stood with the leaving nurse going over a checklist twice to make sure Tim had everything, while the doctors had told Janet in a separate room that it wouldn't be easy. They said Tim would be unstable for a very long time; he would likely try to hurt other people if he relapsed; she must be careful. She'd listened to some things and ignored others out of hand, smiling understandingly the whole time. Imagine her taking twelve-year-old Tim, with his issues and his medication prescriptions and ill-fitting clothes and old dollar store nightlight, home.

Imagine it certainly not being easy, not for a long time. Tim skipped school and skipped his therapy appointments and ignored other kids his age and fought with his mom. Once or twice he ran away--- only for the afternoon, and with shame written in bold just behind his eyes when he slunk back into the house and saw how frantic his mother had become, but still long enough to /have her become frantic/. (There would be yelling matches, /are you *trying* to get them to take you away again?! No! Then why did you run without telling me?!/) A teenagers' moodiness and mercurial temperment was magnified in him, even at the best of times. It'd certainly not been easy.

But imagine there being good times, too. Janet worked pretty long days but she made sure to bring home curry or Taco Bell at least once a week, because Tim liked them. They'd eat together in the living room on the sofa watching soap operas since that was what was on (and because Janet thought the crime dramas struck a little too close a lot of the time). She bought Tim an acoustic guitar for his fourteenth birthday, and she learned when to give him space. Tim liked the guitar; he practiced some songs to show her on the guitar and tried to listened to his therapist about not isolating himself. Janet liked the songs. Imagine her digging her old guitar out of storage and them playing together sometimes, when she wasn't too tired and he felt alright with other people around.

Imagine Tim recognizing the other kids were basically telling the truth when they call him a “mama's boy” but also not giving a fuck because the other kids got to see their mom's every day their whole lives. Imagine Tim badly wanting to make her proud of him. Imagine Tim taking his prescribed medication on time and going to therapy and trying, but still seeing the faceless suited spectre among the branches outside of his room's window at night, every night. But he didn't say anything to anyone because they would tell his mom and she'd think he wasn't trying and he wanted her to be proud of him. And it wasn't like anything bad happened; the man-shaped thing just stayed there, staring without eyes, it didn't do anything except make him cough sometimes (he took his medication and the coughing stopped before the shakes began). It was always gone by morning. Tim can be brave.

Imagine Tim thinking that, and believing it, until one day he comes home after school and smelling something cooking-- noodles, his mom was home early--- and walking into the kitchen to see his mom on the floor, coughing so hard dribbles of red leak out the sides of her mouth.

The thing in the suit, it's there. It's outside the window. Tim's head started to pound and his vision blurred, but he couldn't, he /couldn't/ have an attack, his mom /needed him/. He dropped his backpack on the floor, lurched to the kitchen sink, grabbing pills out of his pocket with a trembling hand and downing two of them. He guzzled straight from the sink tap until he could swallow his medication without choking. When the pills had slid down his throat he threw himself down at his mother's side and grabbed her shoulders, ask-yelling as much if she was okay, what was going /on/?! His head kept pounding and his mother didn't say anything back. He grabbed for the house phone on the counter above him. He had to dial 911 three times before he hit all the correct numbers.

Imagine the paramedics arriving at the house ten minutes later and Tim had left the door unlocked so thy come straight in, and Tim was still sitting by his mom on the floor because he didn't want to leave her. When he looked up it's one of the people from the hospital, one of the one's who had to come find him when he ran away into Rosswood, and he physically leaned away from them. They know him too, he can tell from the look on their face, but then they and the others were pushing Tim away into the living room so they could deal with his mom. He could only ask over and over what was happening to her, if she'd be okay. The paramedics don't say anything to him as they load her up onto a stretcher and strap a terrifying mask over her nose and mouth and /wheel her out the door/ away from him. The one who'd been at the hospital where he'd stayed looked over at him as they go out the door and tell him, firmly, to stay where he was until another adult came home.

Imagine Tim not being able to form words to explain that there /wasn't/ anyone else. Imagine the paramedic leaving the door open so Tim had to close it and lock it himself. Imagine Tim sinking to the floor with his head against his knees and shaking, not because of a seizure but because he was crying; everything was his fault. His fault, again.

HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME

MY HEART