Ch. 1 Clark

Genevieve woke up at 7am every morning to make him lunch when they were kids, and his 7-year-old brother would get a kiss every time he stepped out the door to walk to school. She would hand a lunch bag to the 10-year-old Jameson, and give him a look that said, "will you let me touch you today?" like it was some sort of gift from God. He would give her a look right back that said, "not today."

Every day was like this back then, ex cept for the days after dad died. When he was gone, there was a sort of darkness in her eyes, something he couldn't quite understand. Grief was the hardest emotion to understand, and the hardest to fake. He would plop himself down on a seat at the kitchen counter for breakfast and examine her face, trying to guess how what she felt affected the way she moved, the way she talked, the way she made breakfast. Maybe it was just a slight change in the way she conducted her facial movements, or a slightly indistinct manner in the way she walked that was different. It almost made her look like she'd been carrying a large weight around all night, and it was a miracle that she'd gotten out of bed that day.

When he got that look from her those mornings, he decided it wouldn't hurt to let her touch him just once. After a good squeeze and a kiss on the cheek, the darkness started to disappear a little bit. But only a little.

But that was a long time ago now, almost ten years, and there was a new darkness that filled the Denmark mansion. With Dad gone, Clark had tried to fill the space, but it was like the mansion couldn't exist without an empty place at the dinner table, so providence had taken Genevieve as further retribution against Jameson. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why a make-believe omnipotence in the sky should hate him so much to leave him with such a cold and callous step-father.
Jameson scooted his mashed potatoes around on his plate out of boredom.
"How was your day today?"
Jameson looked up from his plate with an empty face and looked into those stony eyes, grinning a bit at the grimace on his face.
"Fine."
He looked back down again to continue the music he was making with ceramic screeches.
Clark cleared his throat at an attempt to silence it.
"No really, how was it?"
Jameson looked up again and gave a little half-smile.
"I said it was fine."
Jameson focused on his food for a moment or two, determined to make Clark give up.
"Well what about you, Brett?"
"Oh, it was good."

Silence.

The presence of an empty chair in the room pressed upon everyone's mind and prevented anyone from communicating. After a while, Brett excused himself, mentioning something about homework.

"You know Jameson, I think you're taking this all a bit too hard. Maybe if you start putting on a smile, you'll start to feel like smiling."
Jameson continued to shove his potatoes around as if nothing had been said.
"Really, Jameson, you need help..."
"It's only been a month."
"I know, I know, but son..."
"I am NOT your son."

Clark stared at Jameson with those stony eyes.
"Your grades are suffering, Jameson. Maybe you need help putting on a smile. Maybe you should see a grief counselor. I know an expert that could help you get over her."
At the words 'get over her,' Jameson stood up quickly, scraping the chair on the floor with an obnoxious noise, and began to leave.

If there was anyone in the world for whom Jameson would have felt affection if he could, it would be his mother, Genevieve. He owed her his life, but more than that, his safety. She raised him as a functional member of society, one who obeys the rules and does not get himself into trouble. She was the one who told Brett to stop crying when Jameson killed the cat. She was the one who sent him to his room so that she could have a chat with Jameson to teach him how to be normal , to teach him how to pretend. Don't let anyone know you're bored. Don't tell anyone about your daydreams. Don't let them know you don't care. Pretend like you care. Pretend like you love. Pretend.

That's why he couldn't believe she could just be... gone. She had a purpose to serve, and if people could simply be swept up off the earth like that, the universe doesn't make sense. There wouldn't be any rules. And there had to be rules. There have to be rules, because well, rules keep us alive. Jameson's rules keep him alive. His mother gave him everything, anything, just so that he could be alive. It must have been love, but Jameson never knew how a person could just feel things like that... like, inside themselves. The only explanation was Clark. Clark had to have been the one to disrupt the universe, the one who broke the rules. He had to have taken her somehow.

"322 Copper Street, Jameson. Be there at 3pm tomorrow, because you don't have a choice."

Jameson looked back over his shoulder and watched his stony gaze turn to harsh anger for a moment before they switched right back to concern.