Chapter Text
He remembered how it all began. He recalled every single detail of what happened that day, the very last time he saw Oscar alive, replaying everything in his head over and over, desperately trying to figure out whether he missed something, anything that may be a clue.
He woke early that morning, as he always did, at six a.m., pouring himself his regular cup of hot chocolate and nibbling on the last of the maple donuts they had, as he browsed the morning paper absently, as he waited for Oscar to come downstairs thirty minutes later. Oscar had rolled his eyes at him, remarking that no one reads the newspaper anymore, and Oz had playfully retorted at him that there was no harm in indulging in the classics, something that Glynda agreed with. Then they’d lead Oscar down the stairs of their apartment building, halting just outside the door to embrace him, ruffle his hair, and wished him a good day.
This was their morning routine, something they were accustomed to, something they treasured.
And that was the last time he saw his son alive, because the next day he hadn’t come home, or the day after that, or after that, the police were called after that, there was a search party and soon, he and Glynda were escorted to the police station, where the detective handed him a bag full of items to identify if any belonged to Oscar, and he burst into tears when his gaze fell on the emerald green backpack in the far right corner of the table, and Oz knew this because he had made it himself.
It was all handmade, write down to every stitch, Oscar’s name embroidered in orange lines on the inner part of the strap. Oz clung to it, held it in his arms tightly and wept, he could still hear Glynda’s screams of anguish in his ears.
“Ozzy?”
The abrupt voice jolted him out of his reverie; he looked up and thought he saw Glynda standing there, luggage packed at her side, eyes dreadfully guilt-ridden but maintaining her ground all the same.
“You’re not the only one who lost him.”
Then he blinked, and Glynda’s apparition faded, to be replaced by nineteen-year-old Ginger Gorman.
He met Ginger exactly a week after Glynda left him two years ago.
He’d discovered Ginger on the stairs of a nearby coffee shop, looking just as lost and shattered as he did. And he’s never been one to turn down the opportunity to provide a helping hand to others, so he shoved his pain down his throat and asked her what was wrong. And, to his amazement, she did, a complete stranger telling him how she had recently lost her job as a dance instructor, how her boyfriend was exploiting her, sucked her bank account empty, and tossed her out when everything was gone, and now she was all alone with nowhere to go.
And what does Oz do after hearing this young girl’s story?
He helps her.
But it wasn’t for an entirely noble reason, at least as far as he was concerned.
At first, he simply decided to assist her out of pity; he reasoned that by helping her, he would be able to alleviate his guilt for not being able to be there for Oscar when he had needed him most; while he had failed Oscar as a parent, he reasoned that by helping Ginger, he would be able to atone for his failure. Over time though, Oz began to get used to her and genuinely enjoy the company she so graciously offered him, Ginger has a bright and yet very shy personality that reminded him so much of Oscar sometimes.
So much that it was difficult to look at her sometimes.
“Good morning, Miss Gorman.”
Ginger scoffed, rolling her eyes with a grin on her face. “Wow, you really are old school, no one talks like that anymore.”
“Ugh, no one reads the paper anymore, Dad.”
“I’ve realized, but that’s particularly the reason why I do so. Nothing wrong in embracing the classics.” Oz said casually as he took a sip of it from his fourth cup of coffee. “Anyway, don’t you have work? Or did you need something?”
Ginger gazed around the room, her eyes shifting to the family photos on the walls, as she normally did on the few occasions when she came to visit. “No, not really. Just checking in on you. I know this day is particularly difficult for you.”
“Difficult is…” Oz smiled sadly, his gaze shifting to the photograph next to his chair. “An understatement, I appreciate you checking in on me. But I am alright, I will manage, as I do every year.”
Ginger looked unconvinced, “Are you sure? Because I can totally call my boss and tell them to get one of our trainees to teach my class—”
With a shake of his head, Oz said, “No, no, it’s quite alright. Your job is to teach those children how to dance, build their courage. Not staying here, worrying about me, I’ll be fine, Miss Gorman. I always am.”
“Well if you’re sure—”
“I very much am.”
“Then I guess I’ll see you later?”
Oz gave her a small smile, “Good day, Miss Gorman.”
Oz paused for a time after she had left, then rose from his seat and brewed his fourth cup of coffee before returning to work. Or, at the very least, he tried; his brain wasn’t cooperating; he was running on fumes, and his mind was finally beginning to show it. He cupped his hands around his head and rubbed his eyes till they stung.
Focus
His body was practically begging him to rest, to take a break, but Oz just ignored it, arguing that he didn’t need sleep, he needed answers.
What was missing?
What was he missing?
There had to be something the investigators hadn’t thought about, something he was forgetting from that day he lost his son. But what exactly? According to the police, all bases had been covered and everyone they considered may be a suspect in a murder had been questioned, but no one fit their profile.
So why had it all gone cold?
Why had Oscar—
He inhaled sharply through gritted teeth as a horrific mental image of his son’s... his baby boy’s—
A horrible taste formed in the back of his throat, and his stomach suddenly did not feel like having coffee anymore. He raised his head and pressed the tips of his fingers to his eyes. He clearly needed a break to breathe and forget about everything, but he couldn’t... He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t stop himself from doing what he was doing.
What sort of father would he be if he simply gave up?
Oscar… He thought, rubbing a hand down his face, Please leaflet… tell me what I’m missing?
Suddenly, a loud thump interrupted his thoughts, followed by the sound of breaking glass from upstairs. Oz leapt up from his chair, grabbed his cane that was laying against the wall off to the side, and walked upstairs without even a second’s hesitation. He gingerly made his way up the steps, trying to be as quiet as he could, but it was difficult because he didn’t go upstairs very frequently, so the exertion was hard on his legs, and it didn’t help that he was running on fumes and his motions were sluggish.
Regardless, he gripped his cane and continued on, his gaze fixed on the bathroom door and his bedroom door he no longer used, both doors appeared to look undisturbed, but when he turned his head and looked towards the room that had belonged to his son, he discovered that the door was open half way, just enough for him to see inside the tomb. Oz immediately relaxed, his hold on his cane lightened, and he walked up the remaining stairs and pulled the door to Oscar’s room open, “I believe I have informed you multiple times not to come in here.”
Doctor Icing, the tabby cat that they had adopted when Oscar was just eleven years old, was sitting on the ground, right next to a shattered lamp, caught in the act. Oz inspected the room and realized immediately that Doctor Icing had accidentally knocked over many belongings belonging to Oscar, which were now spread all over the floor, covered in glass from the now shattered lightbulb.
Oz sighed once more, pulling up his sleeves and placing his hands on his hips, “We talked about this, Icing. You can’t keep coming in here, otherwise this—” He gestures to the shambles that his feline companion has created. “Happens...”
Doctor Icing gave him a slow blink and a meak meow before leaping into Oscar’s bed.
Oz smiled sadly, his eyes welling up with tears as he carefully scooped the cat and cradled him in his arms, rubbing his fingertips on his chin, “I know… I miss him too.” He pressed his chin into the warm orange fur for a moment to compose himself before placing the feline on the ground, “What do you say we clean this up, hm?”
Armed with a broom and a dustpan, tying his long hair back in a ponytail, Oz got to cleaning; he picked up the shattered glass and placed the books that had been knocked out of the enormous box on the shelf. But somewhere down the line, Oz found himself on the floor, rummaging among the many items he had stored away in the boxes.
School books
Unfinished homework
Various drawings of wide open plains and forests
He always did have a deep love of nature. Oz thought to himself, the smile on his face disguised the misery he felt in his chest, as if his heart was bleeding from a wound that would never heal. He told himself he wouldn’t do this again, the last time he searched through Oscar’s belongings it... didn’t go so well.
And yet, here he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a stack of photographs in his lap, going through each and every polaroid, doing the exact thing that causes him so much grief.
He closed his eyes.
God, does he miss his son, being in Oscar’s vacant bedroom only made the pain that much worse. It’s why he refused to give up, not until the person that took Oscar away from him was caught, no one had been there for Oscar in his final moments, no one had cared to keep the case going when it went cold, no one had even bothered to try and give Oz a chance for Oscar’s story to be told.
So Oz elected himself to be that someone, the world gave up on Oscar, but Oz refused to, not until his son knew justice.
“I miss you—” Oz murmured looking around the room, Oscar’s room was like a tomb, nothing within had changed, the moment his son was taken from him, he had closed it, shut it away because looking inside it was too much for him to bare. “So much…” He’d give anything to see Oscar again, he’d swim through the deepest parts of hell, climb the highest mountain for just a chance— just one chance that he could save his son from the fate that befell him. “But, I’ll find out what happened to you. I promise, my leaflet, I just need a clue, just one clue that could give me a lead.”
Oz placed the last of the books and photos back inside the box, Doctor Icing let out a muffled mew to his left, it was then he noticed that the cat had a piece of paper in his mouth, squinting, Oz realized that it was a photo he must have missed. “Odd, I could have sworn I got them all” He said to himself, tilting his to the side, “Give that here, please.” Oz reach for the object between the cat’s teeth but Doctor Icing’s eyes dilated then and made a mad dash under the bed.
Oz let out an exasperated sigh and got down on his stomach to coax the cat out, the bed was so low to the ground, he could only see a few inches for three under it, big enough for a cat, not for someone his size.
“C’mon, Icy.” He patted the carpet, “Time to come out.” All he heard in return was a loud meep in the darkness. Oz narrowed his, pressed his lips into a thin line before reluctantly reaching underneath the bed, he was hesitant to stick his hand under there, because who knows what lay underneath this bed after five years of neglect, but he had to get that photo; it belonged with Oscar’s treasures in that box, not below this bed, gathering even more dust.
In order to even reach where Doctor Icing was located, Oz had to stretch his arm so far that he had the side of his face pressed up against the bed. Finally, though, he felt the tip of the photograph poke the edge of his finger, he reached a little more, grasping it between his index and middle finger and yanked it free from his furry friend’s mouth. Doctor Icing gave an annoyed growl before dashing from underneath the bed and out of the room.
Oz rolled his eyes, and pulled his arm out from underneath the bed, he maneuvered himself back onto his knees so he could give the photo a proper look. Huh. how odd, He thought to himself, the photo had twice the amount of dust on it compared to the others, almost like this one had been kept some place else rather then in Oscar’s treasure box, he flipped it over and froze.
His heart ceased in his chest.
His body felt numb, his mind instantly became like static in his ears, he could hardly think, hardly comprehend between what he was seeing and the excitement he felt, his body moved before he knew what was happening, he sprints down the hallway, grabs the landline phone hanging on the wall and quickly dials the police station. He taps impatiently on the back of the phone waiting for someone to answer. Pick up, He thought desperately, Please pick up this one last time.
His heart skipped a beat when someone answer with a gruff, “This is the Vale Police Department—”
“James! It's Oz!”
“Oz…” James gave a sad but exasperated sigh on the other end, “I believe I informed you that my superior had instructed you to discard this number?”
“I know, but I—”
“I truly am sorry about what happened to Oscar, my friend. He was a wonderful boy, but this? You are obsessing over this is not good for your mental health, Glynda told you that before she left.” Oz opened his mouth to speak but James simply cut him off, “He’s been dead for five years now, you need to move on—”
Oz’s eye twitched and he was caught between feeling angry that James would even suggest such a thing, and still feeling the adrenaline of what he had found, “James, please! I know that I have flooded this number more times than anyone in Vale has, but please I actually do have something. I just recently found it. Please at least let me come give it to you.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end.
“You’re sure this is a lead? A good one?”
Oz ran a hand through his ponytail and over the hair on his chin, feeling hopeful for the first time in years, “James, I believe this is the evidence to finally solve this case after five years.”
Oz listened as James inhaled a deep breath, “Alright, come down to the station.”
Oz smiled, grateful. “Thank you, James.”
The call ended and Oz grabbed everything he could think of that he needed to make the trip to the police station; coat, scarf, shoes, he hurriedly put everything on whilst stuff the evidence in his coat pocket and was out the door before the wind had a chance to send the papers on his desk scattering in a ray of confetti.
Oz paid no mind to the people he walked past, he didn’t care that he was bumping into bystanders, he was a man on a mission and that was getting James to see the evidence he had finally managed to find after five long years of searching. He barely even had the patience to look for oncoming traffic as he stood by the crosswalk, tapping his fingers against his cane impatiently.
But as he stood there waiting, something happened, something unforeseen, something he wasn’t expecting. The crowd behind him and suddenly bundled up, tightened around him and pinned his arms to his side, then felt someone's back collide with his hard, hard enough to send him suddenly stumbling forward, he lost the grip on his cane, and he fell forward, out onto the street, Oz reached his hands out in front of him, catching himself before he completely face planted.
Screeching tires
Shrill screaming
A sudden pain that seemed to envelope his entire body
Nothing
There was simply nothing but darkness.
It was strange, he couldn’t feel his body any longer and yet his mind was conscious, or at least to a certain point, knew something happened, something bad and he knew that he had to do something, but what? Then he heard something in the darkness, it seemed to cut through the darkness around his mind, his heart skipped a beat because he knew what it was, laughter.
Laughter that he knew that he cherished.
Suddenly, he realized.
He reached out, stretched out his hand that no longer existed out towards the light that shined so bright in this pitch-black abyss, “Please.” Oz begged, pleading to whomever was listening, “Just a chance, please.”
Just one chance
Oz reached, desperately.
He could feel the light warm him, felt the rays brush against him, filling him with hope, determination and—
Oz’s body jolted, scorching, as if he’d been burned, pushing him back into his chair, forcing him to tumble backward, landing hard on the ground. His breath seized deep in his throat, there’s a liquid in his eyes, as perspiration had pooled there and saturated him from head to toe, mixing in with the tears that flowed freely down his face. Oz winced, the back of his head throbbing, and he could already feel the formation of a knot where he had banged his head.
Oz slid out of his chair and onto his feet, his vision blackening for half a second before he caught himself on the edge of his bookshelf with his palm. He gasped, swallowing hard, his throat scratchy and bone dry. He waited for it to pass, before opening his eyes again. It was then that he saw that everything in the living room had changed; the clutter that he’d gotten accustomed to seeing strewn about was suddenly nice and tidy.
His brain was still in a fog, he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing, it was like his mind was equivalent of a flower scattering seeds in a strong wind, hoping that they would find soil and grow well.
What in the world?
“Dad?”
Oz’s brain stutters for a moment upon hearing the voice coming from the doorway to the kitchen, his body felt like it was moving in slow motion as he turned around—
His heart ceased beating for a moment
“Oscar?”