It has often been said that one's future depends on the home they were raised in. In many cases, however, this judgement is often false. In Jackson Rippner's, it was true.
Were his parents somewhat of a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, fixated with a life of crime and a passion for misdemeanors, simply finding it amusing to name their son after a sociopathic murderer? No.
Drunks, maybe, with a habit for drugs and steroids, what some might conform to calling "trailer park trash"? A father, an alcoholic coming home late at night to beat his wife and son? No.
And last, maybe they were the preppy, upper-classmen who settled for nothing less than perfection from their children? Again, the answer is anything but yes.
Jackson Rippner didn't have parents.
Some people, adults, mostly, justified him as an angel sent from heaven. Not the kids, though. He was on the opposite end of that spectrum, closer to satanic, a view he much rather chose to see from. They never saw him coming, the adults, they never could anticipate that he was misbehaving unlike any normal child was. Stabbing a child in the arm with a plastic knife was translated to bullying of Jackson for his name.
"Christina, we need to get that cleaned up."
"Christina, a child was sick in the third quarter."
"Christina..."
"Christina..."
"Just shut up for a few minutes," she said, garbage bag in hand as she stepped onto the New York city sidewalk. "I'm busy."
The young woman, aged only by the thin lines of tension on her face and her internal dilemmas worked as a janitor, or a custodian, whatever it may be translated to, at the Blessed Keep orphanage in Manhattan. She was often stressed, being one of the only two cleaners at the large house for children. Often she was mocked for her subordinate position but she took the insults graciously. After all, she could take advantage of the free staff lodging at the orphanage or she could find someway to make a cardboard box more welcoming.
Christina cursed as she stepped into a puddle. She hadn't seen it, the streetlight clicking out overhead as she tripped.
"Damn," she cursed quietly as she pulled herself back up, the seat of her pants soaked. Just more ridicule, especially from some of the teenaged residents. The orangish light of the streetlight flickered slightly back for a minute and she saw something directly in front of her. A steady drizzle began to fall again.
Curiosity killed the cat. A phrase she'd always thought highly of...until something told her to further inspect the bundle.
Looking back, it probably would have been better if she'd left it for dead.
A baby, no more than several weeks old, was fast asleep, surprisingly, inside the bundle. Parts of the blanket was soaked but the tiny infant was completely dry. She should've taken that as a sign something fishy was occurring, too, but she didn't.
Something in her heart twinged as she lifted the light child and pressed him against her. A small, wrinkled and damp note was tucked inside the blanket. She pulled it out and read it, the words slightly blurred.
Couldn't afford to keep him. Raise him. Name him Jackson. Jackson Rippner. Like his dad.
The baby awoke and began to cry.
"Shh," she consoled him. "Sh, Jack. It's okay. I'm here."
