Firstly and Lastly

Some people would call him mad long after he had gone, once they found out he had come back to the place, but quite frankly Jack thought it wouldn't be the first time people had called him mad, nor would it be the last. Jack looked at the bare room for the first time in twenty years. He stared at it without comprehension, it wasn't really a great place, hadn't been fun to grow up in, not with the noise and the drunks, the screaming and fighting, it hadn't really been a great home and it never had been his. To the woman who was supposed to care for him maybe, she who had spent most her time locked away in it, locked away from the rest of the world, or drinking, drinking to drown her sorrows, her wasted life, and the responsibility that she loathed.

"I used to be care free once," were one of the many phrases of abuse which left her mouth to hit him in one of those states, "I used to be care free…then you came along…" It had not been the first nor the last time he had heard such a thing, along with many more, he had stopped listening, but he could still not retreat far enough to stop caring, and they stung more then a whip, a shoe or a fist ever could, and for some reason he could never escape that pain.

There had been a few men, there was one who he thought was his father, well the man had been the "First" anyway, but there were many others after him so it mattered little. They lavished attention on her, gifts, flattery, but they never stayed too long, after the gifts and words wore thin there was fighting and screaming, throwing and blows, then they were gone. Jack learnt to not pay much heed of them, he learnt to not pay much heed of anything, he just watched and he learnt how to cuss and he learnt how to fight, and as quick as he could he learnt how to look after himself, because there was no one else, that had been the first lesson of all.

The "First" didn't leave forever though, not like the others did, he'd come back. Jack didn't think very frequently, or that there was any pattern to his sudden visits, but they were sure to occur more then anything else in the unstable world of his, they were the one thing that was any semblance of regularity.

He smelt of a bitter smell that many of the drunks down in the tavern smelt like, but he also smelt like salt and the sea, Jack liked that smell, he didn't know why, but it seemed almost comforting, not that the man was, not particularly. He was amiable enough, bit better then the other few who came and went, there was an air about him that set him apart, but that was about it, he paid as much attention of Jack as you would a dog, grinning at him, patting him on the head sometimes and giving him a sweet, and then forgetting he was even there. Sometimes when lay on the floor, lost in the drink, he would cry and blubber and say he was sorry, or that he'd done wrong by him, but in the morning he seemed to forget the words he had ever uttered and Jack never mentioned them.

Other times when Jack would say something he would give him a peculiar look, half admiring half proud, and ruffle his hair and say, "You're a bright lad, eh, chip off the block."

Jack didn't know what block he was referring to, and he wasn't particularly interested, these moments though and the fact that this one kept coming back just gave him a sense that he was his father not that made much difference to Jack. Fathers and mothers in Jack's world were nothing more then names one gave to those people you came from, and nothing more. They didn't hold any special meaning or affection for Jack, they were just words.

Once the "First" had said something to his mother and his mother had abused him worse then ever, throwing all she could reach at him, even the chamber pot. Jack retreated under the bed, where he usually hid to ensure he didn't get hit from any flying projectile. He could catch a few discernable words such as, pig, and the occasional phrase, left me with not a penny, selfish bastard, he wasn't really listening though, he retreated into his imagination. For Jack that was the only way out of his life. He had decided long ago that there was no reason why he couldn't have a good life; he had learnt from his mother that the truth wasn't necessarily important, as long as you believed what was being said. So Jack began retreating into his imagination, telling himself stories, weaving a world where he ran off and had marvelous adventures, where he was free to do as he wished where there was no shouting, and no drink and no abuse, where he could fly.

Sometimes Jack got so caught up in these worlds, so absorbed in them that he could just lay under the bed for hours (his refuge) and dream these dreams. Sometimes he found that he found it increasingly harder to discern from these fantasies and reality, and he found it harder and harder to get away from them, he became a little scared and tried to stop retreating into them. But he had soon realized that there was no stopping, because if he did there was nothing else, and he soon learnt to not be bothered by this either, if one day he never left the fantasy and didn't come back to the cruel world it wasn't such a big loss, as long as he believed it was real it was.

"You're not taking him," the scream broke his fantasy where he was standing at the prow of a ship he had seen at one of his rare visits to the docks, letting the wind blow into his face, the spray refreshing, the sparkling water beautiful just as he had heard old sailors describe it. She suddenly grabbed his arm painfully and pulled him out, before he could retreat or even react. "He belongs to me you hear," she screamed at the First and almost brandished Jack, she was wilder then Jack had ever seen her, even when she was drunk, and it scared him a little. She held him by the collar, almost lifted him from the floor. "He's the only thing I got; he's the only thing I own." Her voice rose to a hysterical and enraged crescendo, "You may have been able to take back your charming words, your smiles and fancy manner but you can't take him you hear. He belongs to me…."

"He's got it in his blood Mary," the "First" didn't yell, but his fists were clenched and his eyes were hard, Jack felt even more frightened, this was a man to be reckoned with, a man who had seen and done. "He's got me in his blood, and you can't get rid of that, hell he's the spitting image of me almost. One day he's gonna get curious, one day he's gonna want to know, how long do you think he'll stay in a hell hole like this?" he gestured at the bare room, the bottles on the floor, the filth and smell. "And then he'll leave you, and bloody good for him, then he'll come to me. He's mine too Mary, and I ain't giving him up just as you won't. He's mine too!" With that he turned and stormed out, his mother slammed the door shut behind him and threw Jack to the floor. Jack just watched, as she threw herself onto the old broken bed and cried bitterly cursing between racking sobs. Jack quickly retreated into a corner watching her with wide eyes, this was one time the fantasies wouldn't help him. He sat there, curled up, hugging his knees, just watching her as she cried a woman who had allowed bitterness and hate to rule her for so long, and was governed by self pity with no time to spare a thought to her son.

The sobs finally subsided and she sat up, wiping her wet face on her tattered and dirty sleeve, she got up and made her shaky way to the door, suddenly she spotted him, her blurry eyes turned suddenly sharper and focused, they were filled with bitterness and rage and resentment. Jack just sat there, staring.

"What are you looking at you worthless whelp," she yelled in a temper and grabbing one of the bottles chucked it at him, it missed shattering on the other wall, Jack continued to stare at her. In a frenzy she sprang to the door, pulling it open she slammed it violently behind her, he knew she had gone down to the tavern to drown her sorrows. Jack didn't want to be like that, consumed by rage and hate, self pitty and loathing. He promised himself he would never let anything affect him like that, he would be indifferent, laugh at horrible things, and smile at the impossible, he could always invent a fancy anyway, and believe it, that was all it took to make what he wanted true. He had an idea from the "First's" speech he would be back, but he wasn't much concerned with that. He was more concerned with that which they had both seemed to think, that he belonged to them, like a possession, or a thing. Jack didn't know about a lot of things, he didn't know why he was different, he didn't know why his mother resented him and he didn't know why he was said to be unlucky, but there was one thing he was sure of.

"I don't belong to anyone," he said hotly to the room, but silence just answered him, there was no one there to hear him, there never was.

The "First" may have been planning to come back, he may have not, Jack wasn't exactly sure. Anyway there wasn't much chance of him finding Jack and there was no chance of him ever seeing his mother again. She passed away, that was what some of the kinder ladies who worked in the taverns said, her mothers friends, some unkind ones just plainly stated that she keeled over, or the blunter ones stone cold dead. Jack didn't really care, he didn't care what they called it, he didn't really care that it had happened. He could look after himself, that was all that mattered, he had his fancies and that was it, that was all his life was made of, eat, drink, sleep and the stories, with breaks of reality in between.

Jack went up to the room after they told him, he didn't know why, maybe planning to take something, but there was nothing to take, it was clear empty. They'd carted her body off, and the many 'friends' she had, took anything of use, not that there was much. It had all gone on the drink, his mother had relied on the men who fell for her to support her with the basic necessities such as food. Jack had looked around the room and he'd known he could not stay there, he'd heard his mother's friends talking, they were planning on carting him to the poor house or worse, setting him to work in the tavern. Jack knew poor houses and 'work' were not the sorts of things people survived and Jack was a survivor. He looked around the room for the last time and he left with the thought that he would never be back again. That moment, walking away from the tavern, having slipped by its patrons, was the most freeing experience he had ever felt. For the first time in his life the world seemed open to him, he was no longer confined to four walls and a dark crammed room, there were wonders out there. Jack even at that age had ambition.

The years that passed were hard, he had to learn knew things such as stealing, and fighting and ruthlessness. Children around him were dieing in droves, of disease and the cold, but Jack somehow managed to evade the masses, and keep alive. Maybe it was because he learnt to escape the reality of his plight through his imaginings, when he didn't like a situation he simply imagined it away, thought of fabrications, and he realized that sometimes he could make other people believe them too. He often managed to squirm his way out of many attempts to drag him to the poor house through this, making others believe he belonged to a loving ma and a pa that were waiting at home, he even named an exact address, and could describe them in exact detail, even to the scar on his Pa's right hand from a knife fight, and his ma's tendency to twirl her hair. It was not lying to him, because he almost believed it to be true, somewhere else he was almost sure there would be a Jack who had a wonderful Pa and Ma and who belonged to this world.

Jack found a kip, a little abandoned cellar near the docks, and managed to find some sort of rest and shelter there, though he did not stay there often as it was dirty and he knew he risked sickness from it. Usually he rested up on someone's roof, being apt at climbing, or upon the beach, burrowing his way into the sand at dark so he just merely looked like rags. Most of the days Jack starved, and he stole whatever he could to survive.

He grew a little, undernourished as he was, he didn't spend very much time with people and had no one to talk to so he took to keeping himself company within his own mind, amusing himself. Sometimes he would stand at the docks and watch the beautiful ships sailing in and out, being loaded and repaired. The sun would beat upon him but he hardly noticed, his whole soul taken by those ships and he imagined how free it would be to be on one, and sailing away from this cursed place. Some of the sailors who noticed him used to call him mad Jack, as he swayed slightly as he stood, trying to imitate the rock of the waves as he imagined being on a ship and sometimes swaying from exhaustion. He attempted to get a job once, but he just got kicked and was forced to run, they didn't' want little runt thieves aboard fine vessels.

Then the year turned and it became harder. It was winter when Jack, desperate and starving, went back to the tavern. He did no know what it was he seeked there, but his aching feet just seemed to lead him and he followed them in desperation, half mad with hunger and an aching in his heart for more which would not leave him. He was desperate and needed something familiar, and he reasoned that at least he could catch a decent sleep in the cellar, as he could slip through its bars and sneak in, as well as be able to pinch food from the overflowing tavern. His kip was destroyed, they'd taken to tearing it down planning to build something else.

He kept to the shadows as he entered the tavern, it looked about the same. He crept around, but apparently he wasn't as inconspicuous as he thought, he felt rough hands on his collar and then he was lifted up. It was the bar tender, he had not changed one bit save for a few grey hairs. He was yelling to the ladies, then they came over and they were all excitable like. Jack just played dead for the moment, unsure of the situation he retreated into himself and kept silent. The bar tender put him down upon a chair, then quickly was yelling at his son to go fetch old Tom who could write and get his hands on a quill and parchment. "We gots to write to that there sharp gentlemen that came here that day, you remember don't you." The bartender was gabbling to the others, "Told you I did, told you the little rat would come back ere one of these days and we could get that here reward the gentleman promised if we told im." The ladies at the moment began cooing over Jack, asking him if he remembered them. Jack assessed that it was safe to come out and charm.

"I'm dreadfully hungry," he said in his most poor and sweet voice, "My tummies rumbling like nothing." They quickly ran and got him some bread and a drink that was strong but tasted quite nice. He stuffed the food down and nodded and smiled as they tried to catch his attention. He gulped the drink in one go, then felt all light headed. Finally he nodded off, at least he thought he did because his memory became extremely fuzzy after that point.

When he awoke his head throbbed horribly, he vomited up all the bread and then felt sicker for it. He was in the room again, the old one, he went to the door but it wouldn't open and he began panicking dreadfully. Going to the old window he attempted to open it but it was rusty and was stuck fast, not being opened in years. Finally he just lay down and slept once more.

When he woke up once more the bar tender was there, "This was Mary's old room sir, this was," he was saying. An older man with whiskers and dressed all rich like was standing there, a handkerchief over his nose. He looked down at Jack, who quickly scrambled up and backed away a little.

"Is this the boy?" the old man asked, looking down at what appeared to be a letter in his hand, then back up at Jack.

"Yes sir," the bar tender nodded eagerly.

"What's your name boy?" he asked. Jack swayed slightly in one spot, still feeling light headed, he looked up at the man in confusion, why would he care what Jack's name was?

"Jack," he finally answered after a long pause in which the man had asked the bar tender in a loud whisper if he was a mute or dumb.

"Jack what?" the old man asked impatiently.

"Just Jack," he realized for the first time that his name sounded uncommonly plain and short, nothing like him at all.

The man looked down at the letter searching for something, then folding it and putting it into his breast pocket he sighed heavily and looked up at Jack.

"Your mothers name boy, what was it?" he asked sharply.

"Mary," Jack replied after a slight hesitation, "S'all I know, t'was what I heard the girls called her down in the pub…and the men. She's dead now sir, you ain't going to be finding her you know, so if you be wanting anything I can't help you… I'm sure Gra'am there's a told you."

"I know," the man said gravely. "Can you describe your mother for me boy?"

"Oh," Jack said, "I…um…see it's hard to remember, I never really stopped to look at her…it's been so long…" Jack felt rather lost at the question he could not answer, and for some reason he thought it gravely wrong that he could hardly recall his ma.

"Just do your best boy," the man said.

"Well….she had red hair, and blue eyes and a fiery spirit, and she drank a lot, which made her sad." Jack began, "People used to say she put air's and graces on, and sometimes when she was drunk she used to talk of being a lady, and the fine gowns she had, and the servants and the mansion. Often times she was angry and bitter though, with the world, specially with the "First" and me….and...and she used to imagine things, all the time, that she was a fine lady again with pretty gowns…when I was younger she used to have me imagine too, that I was her livery servant or such…but she stopped playing and laughing quickly and she stopped once I got a bit older…she kept on imagining though, but not with me no more…She wasn't a bit mad if that's what you're thinking." Jack snapped, scowling at the man who was looking down at him with something that could be called pity, as well as distaste. "Just eccentric is all…" he trailed off with this, suddenly uncertain of himself as the mans look became hard with something like recognition.

He bent down to look Jack in the eye, "Yes," he finally sighed after a while of looking deep into the defiant boys eyes. He seemed resigned to something he did not want to believe. "He looks exactly like that good for nothing sailor, except he's got a bit of his mother in him, she was a bit unbalanced you know. You can see it in the eyes." He straightened up, "Well I suppose one must take care of one's daughter's mistakes." He said, talking absently to himself. "Here," he suddenly said chucking a purse at the bar tender after he had given Jack a heavy look. "For your help," with that he gripped Jack tightly by the shoulder and dragged him off. That was the turning point of Jack's life.

As the man was dragging him down the streets he asked him, "What have you been doing all these years boy?" he was rather brusque and rude, talking down to Jack. Jack contemplated not answering but decided it would be better to, being afraid and suspicious of the man's intentions.

"Watching the ships," he said cautiously The man did not seem to be threatening any way however, and was hardly paying attention to Jack which managed to still his fears of any sinister intentions that he thought the man might have had. So once Jack began his mouth ran away from him, now that his fears were dispelled slightly and despite his better judgment. "I wanted to get aboard one, travel the sea you know, but no one's recruiting yet. I bet that when they start though I'm gonna hop along real smart, gonna be a legend I am a Captain with me own ship. Do grand things and have grand adventures and all, I'm gonna fly too…an old gypsy showed me my future, s'all there." In Jack's mind this seemed like the truth. For all those years it seemed all he'd been doing was watching the ships. He had imagined that if he ever could afford to pay for one of the gypsy's fortune telling they would take him by the hand and whisk him through time, showing him all this and more, taking him straight to the better part of his life. Of course he knew those gypsies were all frauds, but it didn't hurt to dream.

"Oh really," the old man said absently, "If you want to fly you'd have to grow wings you know, like the seagulls up at the beach, or the sparrows back home."

Jack turned this idea around in his head, he liked the last thing the man had said, the sparrows back home, he knew the man meant his own home, not including Jack, but it sounded nice to Jack all the same.

They walked far and finally he took him to a building near the docks and they went inside, Jack sat down outside an office while the man talked to someone within. A clerk kept a sharp eye on him and Jack judged that it would be stupid to try and run away…yet. The old gentleman came out of the office, looked down at Jack, he suddenly put out his hand and Jack shook it and then he was gone as quickly as he had come. On that day Jack had been apprenticed to a cartographer, and was due to set sail the next day. When asked his name for the ledger by the scowling clerk he answered Sparrow…Jack Sparrow. When he first set his newly booted foot upon a ship he knew it was the last day of Jack's old life and the first day of Jack Sparrow's new one.

"Is the room all right sir?" the old bartender's son Bart asked. Graham had long become old and grey, unable to move from a stool, blind, stooped and wrinkled it was now his son who looked after the proceedings and business of the "specialized" bar. He had taken to it like a duck does to water, Jack noted dryly, but then again every man had to make a living, and who was he to talk. All of his mother's friends were aged now, mostly all were dead, but the ones living were still trying to get clients. It amused him greatly that they looked at him with admiring eyes, he who they had often kicked and abused as a young child. Of course they weren't to know who he was, no one had recognized the legendary pirate for the small grimy rat they thought would have been long used and dead by now.

"No actually mate," Jack said, he found his voice rather hoarse. "I think I'll take another, too small for me tastes."

"Will you be having any company sir?" the man asked. "We accommodate to all sortsa…tastes…" he trailed off looking pointedly at the rather flouncy way Jack was moving his hands and swaying, and the lace cloth tied around his wrist, Jack grinned at this, it was funny how people thought they could put you in a little labeled box just because you moved, or looked or spoke a certain way. "Young an old sir.." the man continued.

Jack looked at him sharply this time, holding his gaze for a long moment until the man dropped his. It made him shiver to think of something like that, of what he might have become in this place. "No," Jack finally said rather more somber then usual, "Rather don't think so."

"Well right this way then sir," the bartender muttered mulishly, heading out the door.

Jack took one last glance at the room then shut the old weather beaten door with a roguish grin, content to know what he had escaped, what he left behind and what was before him.

When he went down to the bar in the morning, people whispered how strange it was that he, the famed libertine, had been alone all night. They would have been even more astonished if they had seen him, a famed pirate, slip a piece of eight inconspicuously to a sooty and ragged looking boy curled unobtrusively in the corner, who reminded the pirate of himself. Some people would be calling him mad long after he had gone once they found out he had done such a thing, but quite frankly Jack thought it wouldn't be the first time people had called him mad, nor would it be the last.

Really random, please review.

Sairra : P