Credit goes to Charles Dickens for his novella and also to Billy Joel for John the bartender and wanting Jack to sing. Oh, and my brain, which has a mind of its own (heh heh, Crutchy), for coming up with this while drying my hair. Other than my brain and hair, I don't own anything really.
Jack placed his empty glass down on the dingy-looking counter and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. John, the owner of the pub and bartender, watched him closely.
"Say, Jack, if you still have enough sense, why don't you sing us a melody." He motioned towards the empty piano. "It is the season to be jolly."
Following his gesture, Jack scoffed. "Me, play." He laughed darkly. "No. And I'm not going to sing either."
John sighed, running a hand through his chocolate-colored hair. He had many customers like Jack, but something about him set Jack apart. "Jack, I'm not going to sell you another drink. Listen to me. Go home and shave—you need it. Have a nice dinner for once, then call your parents. It's Christmas Eve. I'm not going to let you get drunk tonight."
Jack looked into the bartender's face carefully and saw that he wasn't lying. He quickly felt his chin, realizing that if he did need to shave, or else people would think he was growing a beard. He fished around in his pocket. "How much?"
"Since its Christmas, I'll let it slide. Happy holidays."
Not questioning it, Jack pulled on his coat, wrapping it even tighter around him when he stepped outside. His flat wasn't far, and it didn't take him long to get there. Once inside, however, he soon forgot all John had told him. He poured himself a glass of brandy before getting ready for bed.
Jack had just closed his eyes when it seemed he was being shaken. He startled awake and looked around for the cause.
He almost screamed, but he clapped a hand over his mouth and stifled it. In the past, he'd had dreams like this. That was it. It was just another dream.
Standing over him was a heavy boy with thick glasses. Even though he had decided it was a dream, the boy was so life-like that Jack still couldn't help that his blood ran cold.
"What are you doing here, Piggy?" Jack clutched the covers to his chest as he sat up in bed, trying to control his breathing.
"Helping you. Tonight you're going to see your past, present, and future. Just a warning," Piggy said, getting up from the bed and walking toward the door. Just as he reached it, he turned around and looked back at Jack. "Your past has a way with catching up with you, eh Jack?"
With that, Piggy turned back around and walked straight through the door.
Jack, realizing that he was sweating, wiped at his forehead and tried to go back to sleep. No sooner had he done that, however, than he felt himself being shaken again.
"Wake up, Jack, wake up."
Jack opened one eye. As scared as he had been earlier, Jack couldn't help feel his heart beat faster. He hadn't heard that voice in almost nine years. He knew what his eyes were going to meet, but he couldn't bring himself to look into those eyes, to see the shock of black hair that had last been seen long and matted with blood.
"Jack!" Jack felt himself being thrown from the bed. He sat straight up and forced himself to look at Simon.
"What!" he spat, squaring his jaw.
"We haven't much time, Jack. We have to go." Simon pulled him up and tugged at his hand to move towards the window. "We have to go," he repeated.
"No! This is all just a dream!" Jack tried to get back in bed, but Simon pulled hard on his hand and he found himself flying out the window. Jack screamed, but the world was asleep and ignored his cry.