NOTE: Thomas "Beak" Jauncer is my character in the Hempstead Lodging House. {is profile is here: give a quick summary of him, he's from Canada, is obsessed with hockey, and has just recently come to the United States by himself.
In the LH world, there was a death in the House, Molly Corcoran. She was the elderly woman who ran the House and took care of all its tenents. There was a funeral, and in true Beak fashion, he ends up missing the whole thing. Cats is the leader of the girls' House and a friend of Beak's.
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Beak Jauncer breathed heavily as he rounded the final corner before the graveyard. The flowers in his hand were dying, having been whisked back and forth violently in his run for the funeral. He skidded to a stop right outside the gates, gulping down air and grasping the cold iron with his free hand.
Damn it. He let his forehead bang painfully against the gate, watching the funeral-goers come closer. He had missed it.
He turned, shoving a hand in the pocket of his borrowed black pants, propping his foot against the bars and letting the bouquet of flowers hang loose at his side.
The mourners filed out slowly, and when he spotted Cats in the crowd, he headed over slowly, apologetically holding the flowers halfway extended in front of him.
"Could I . . . pay my respects?" His voice came out harsh and dry, as if he hadn't used it in a while.
Cats nodded, not even lifting her eyes, and retreated with Cards, a handful of Ravenswood lodgers milling about nearby.
Beak waited for the last group to leave, then trudged up the hill.
Two filthy men were piling on the dirt with crooked shovels.
He cleared his throat and the shorter of the two looked up.
"May I . . . " He made a motion, unsure of what to say.
The two men shared a look, then the shorter grunted. "But make it fast." He said in a voice filled with a surprising amount of compassion.
The men traveled a few feet away to give Beak his privacy.
Wind blowing gently, Beak crouched down at the foot of the grave. "Hey Molly." Words escaped him then, his throat only bringing tears when he tried to speak. He gently placed the flowers as far down as he could reach. They fell the last few inches, making a soft thud as they landed on the dirt-sprinkled coffin. He said what was on his mind, praying that – somehow – she could here him. His throat allowed him one more word before it closed up entirely.
"Goodbye," he croaked.
Almost running down the hill and past the gravediggers, Beak staggered into the street, trying in vain to clear his vision so as not to get run over.
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Beak made it back to the Lodging House rumpled and tired, his hands and shoes covered with dirt.
Ignoring any words or looks from his fellow lodgers, he dragged himself to the boy's bunkroom. He fell onto his bed face-first onto his pillow. Pulling his hockey stick from its hidden location between the wall and the bunk bed, he gripped it tightly.
Molly was gone, and things were going to be weird now. Everyone was going to be on edge for a while, even his even-tempered self. He silently wondered who would come to take her place, then hoped no one would try.
Depressed and thinking about all of the people who had taken care of him and then parted from him during his lifetime, his thoughts crossed the border and went to Canada. He had gone, but his friends were still there, of course, and his parents. He wondered if they thought about him.
The tears fell freely onto his blankets now, and he realized with slight annoyance that this was the first time he had ever missed his mother.