Turning Out the Lights
by Kyra Dilston
e-mail: Kytt126@aol.com

Description: A short story in which Jane and Trent deal with a painful loss.

	Jane fell back against her bed, the warm tears sliding from her face onto
the blanket below.

	Why? Why, Dad? Why did you have to do this?

	She rolled onto her side. The tears fell harder, but she wasn't sobbing.
Her face was emotionless, but her eyes showed the fury that was engulfing
her. Her soul, her body, her being. Fury. And hatred.

	"Janey."

	Jane didn't move.

	"Janey, you can't keep doing this to yourself," a thick male voice came
from the doorway.

	Still no answer.

	Trent walked towards the bed and sat beside her. A little more disheveled
than usual, his eyes were bloodshot and his voice, strained.

	"I hate him, Trent," Jane's voice was surprisingly calm, "I hate him."

	Trent looked down at her. He couldn't answer that. He hated him too. And
by God, they most certainly had the right to.

	"I'm glad he's dead," It was a harsh statement, but again Jane delivered
it in a cool, even voice.

	Trent stayed silent. His eyes wandered around the room, landing on Jane's
easel where a half finished painting sat. He looked closer at it. It was of
the three of them; Jane, their father, and himself. Trent winced and his face
turned to a grimace.

	Their father had called two days ago. He was on his way home, to visit for
a while. Two weeks, he had said. If he had been telling the truth than that
would have been the longest he would have stayed at home in years.

	Jane had been happy. No, not happy. Elated. All the feelings of anger she
had towards him seemed to melt away when she found out. That must have been
when she had begun the painting. Before...

	Trent turned his face away from Jane, so she wouldn't see his hurt
expression. He was her big brother. He had to be strong. For her.

	Jane didn't notice, she had her eyes fixed on a small spot on the wall.

	They got the call yesterday. Jane had answered the phone, poor thing. It
was the police. Calling to say that their father was dead.

	Trent drew in his breath as the scene replayed in his mind.

	He had come up from the basement to find out who was calling. He stood in
the doorway and watched Jane pick it up. Her expression went from shock, to
anger, to one void of emotion.

	She dropped the phone and walked towards the front door, slamming it as
she left.

	He picked it up, apologized for his sister, then asked the police sergeant
to tell him exactly what the hell was going on. The sergeant told him that his
father had died of a drug overdose a few towns over. His lover had found him
and called 911, but it was too late. He was long since dead.

	Trent raked his fingers through his hair, then dropped his face into his
hands, his elbows balanced on his knees to support the weight.

	His lover found him. He had a lover?

	How dare he.

	His father was still married to his mother after all. Even if they never
saw each other, they were still married for God's sake.

	And drugs? When had that started?

	He looked back down at his little sister, she had cried herself to sleep.
He stood, then covered her with a blanket.

	It didn't matter now. He would never be coming home again. The pain of not
knowing where he was or what he was doing would never afflict them again. His
death had freed them of that worry. Was it better that he was dead? Trent
dropped that thought and walked towards the door to Jane's room. He took one
last look at his sleeping little sister and turned out the lights.

~End~

Notes:

	I was inspired by an Alanis Morissette song and the rest is history. This
is my first fanfic...well, my first published fanfic anyway..and I'd love
feedback! Please feel free to send comments, questions or suggestions to me
at: Kytt126@aol.com