C'mere

Ray's POV

The sun had started to disappear behind the downtown skyline and a cold breeze had set in. I wasn't quite sure how long I was out of it, but the darkening day was a good indication that it must have been several hours. I rubbed my temples and sighed. It was time to head home...

Home.

Just the word alone caused a pang in my stomach. For the first time I'd be going home with the overwhelming knowledge today had given me: that Brian really was dead, and he was not coming back.

Without warning the tears I had fought back so hard came rushing out. I couldn't stop them, and I didn't want to. I needed these tears to escape. I wanted them to be my proof to the world, to Brian, that I really did miss him. I wanted him to look down at me and see what he had caused....

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Bob's POV

He was crying. The man that had walked down into the Creek and then sat staring at the cars for hours was crying. He had been so calm before, sitting there. He didn't move and he didn't fidget. If it wasn't for the occasional blinking of his eyes, one would have thought him to be a statue, one left by an artist here for some form of self-expression.

The want to help others my mother had instilled in me, which survived having to live in Los Angeles, tugged at me to go talk to him. But living in L.A. did teach me something: to stay out of other peoples' business.

"Brian!" he started screaming. His yells tore at me, like they were pleas for me to help him instead of just someone's name. I wonder who Brian is, and what he had done to this poor guy to make him cry like that.

I sighed. I knew myself, and I knew I would not be comfortable tonight if I walked away without trying to help him. I got up and dusted off my pants. I dug my hands into my pockets and walked over to him, being careful to not startle him by approaching too fast but not look like a creepy rapist by approaching to slow, either.

I wasn't sure how to go about this, I mean how do you approach a crying man in Los Angeles under a freeway? Surely there was no guidebook for this. I got closer and he still didn't seem to notice me; boy, he was really upset!

"Uhm, excuse me?" I said, tapping him on the shoulder. He didn't look up at first. It took him a couple minutes of him crying and of me wondering what the hell I was thinking coming over here before he looked up.

"What?" he asked in an annoyed tone. I knew this was a bad idea, but I had gone too far already.

"I-I just heard you crying, and uhm, was wondering if you needed some help...or something..." My voice trailed off towards the end and I realized I really didn't know what the fuck I was doing. Who do I think I am? Dr. Phil?

"I'm fine," he said, angrily wiping his face with his hands.

"Sure. You should probably head home. Los Angeles isn't safe around this time, you could get killed." My words were meant to be reassuring, but they sparked something in him. He immediately snapped his head up and looked at me.

At lightning speed and without warning, he was on his feet and I was on my back, my cheek burning from his punch. I knew I should have just left him alone.

"Maybe that's a good thing!" he yelled. I backed away from him, afraid he would hit me again, but he just glared at me and walked away.

I threw myself back on the ground and took in a deep breath. The sudden movement of my jaw flared the pain in my face, and I figured it was time to head home. So much for helping people. I did it, and look where it got me!

"Fuck Los Angeles," I muttered as I got up off the ground...