Special thanks to Mitchy, who has been reading this to make sure my writing is coherent. Mistakes are still my fault, I wasn't asking her to fix mistakes, I was just asking her to make sure my writing was linear, not messed up. So, thank you, Mitchy, I appreciate it.
Chapter One
{o}
The room was silent, save the sound of steady, even, breathing, and the faint hum of the air conditioner. If anyone besides the boy and the man were in the room, they would think the two of them were asleep, but they would be wrong because the boy was awake. He had been pretending to be asleep for the last hour, until he was sure the man was in a sound sleep.
Slowly and carefully he started to get into a sitting position. He had tried the bed earlier, when they had arrived, and like most cheap motel beds, it was noisy, making squeaks and groans every time he moved, so he had to do this very, very, slowly. If he wakes up now, you're just going to the bathroom, he told himself. Right now, it's just the bathroom. Nothing wrong with that, people are always waking up to go to the bathroom.
The bed made one groaning noise as he sat up, causing him to freeze and stare over at the other bed, where his father was sleeping. He was facing the window, so all the boy saw was the back of his head, but he stayed as he was. The boy stifled a sigh of relief and slowly, so slowly and carefully, moved his feet to the floor, so he was sitting. Bathroom, he told himself over and over as if it were a chant. You are just going to the bathroom. Everyone goes to the bathroom. He won't suspect you at all if you just go to the bathroom.
Very gently, the boy reached out and put his hand on the nightstand that was between the two double beds, a worn, shabby thing. On his side there was a bottle of beer, almost empty. He hadn't drunk it, he'd taken it with him into the bathroom right after his father gave it to him, and poured out most of it, knowing he had to be stone cold sober tonight. He had filled up the bottle with water to weaken it, and had sipped on that all night.
On his father's side of the nightstand were two beer bottles, one empty and one almost empty. The boy knew there were three other bottles in the trash. He'd kept a close eye on his father that night. Father had gone to bed with a bit of a buzz, but he wasn't in a dead drunk sleep, which would have made this easier. Maybe I should wait until another night? He asked himself, then answered his own question. No. You might not have another night. You do it now, or you don't do it at all. Time is running out.
There was a small bag of whitish powder in a tiny Ziploc baggie, and a couple of joints neatly rolled on the nightstand too. Normally, the boy enjoyed snorting cocaine, but his father hadn't offered him any, and the boy hadn't asked. He needed his wits about him tonight. He wouldn't take the powder, or the joints. What he was doing was bad enough, the last thing he needed was to take his father's drugs with him. Besides, pot never did much for him.
The only other item on the nightstand was his father's wallet, fat with cash. As the boy used the nightstand to rise as slowly as possible, hopefully making less noise, he cast a longing glance at the wallet. He had a stash of money at the last place they had called home, over five hundred dollars he'd gotten bit by bit, from scrounging the couch cushions, or taking a ten or twenty out of his father's wallet as he slept and the boy wished he'd had a chance to take it, but he hadn't known this trip was coming, they'd woken him up in the middle of the night, his father and his father's friend Sam, and his duffle bag had had been packed by his father. There was no time to get his money. He knew his father's wallet was likely to contain a lot more than five hundred dollars, because his father paid cash for everything. "If I can give you one piece of advice, Timmy, it's this; never get caught up in credit cards. They always give you just enough rope to hang yourself with, and they can use them to track you. Cash will always get you through. Even if someplace says they have to have a credit card, if you flash enough cash they will overlook the rules." The boy had been about ten then, and he nodded as his father gave him this advice. He didn't even flinch when his father ruffled his hair, he had passed that stage long ago. Instead he smile, glad his father was having a good day.
As he was rising from the bed, trying to anticipate any noise it might make, his father suddenly made a snorting noise and turned in his bed. The boy froze in place, even though that was probably the stupidest thing he could do. It would have been much better if he'd just gotten up and headed to the bathroom. Now if his father opened his eyes, he'd see his son, looking like a squirrel in the road as the car bore down on it, wondering if it should keep running the way it had been going, or to turn around and go back from where it had come. His father liked to hit squirrels with the van. The boy rarely got a chance to sit and look out the windows when they were in the van, but the few times he had been, he'd seen his father speed up to hit a squirrel. "Little fucker is road pizza!" He would laugh, as if it were the first time it had happened. "One less tree rat in this world!"
It wasn't just squirrels. He'd speed up to hit cats, possums, almost anything that crossed the road, as long as it was small enough to kill. The only exception were dogs. His father never hit dogs. "Dogs are great," he'd said once, when he had to swerve to avoid hitting one. "I had a dog as a kid, and I loved that dog. Cujo, like the dog in that movie, but my dog was great. At least to me. If anyone tried to mess with me, well, let's just say on those occasions, Cujo lived up to his name."
The boy had asked if maybe they could get a dog, and his father had said he'd think about it, which the boy knew really meant, "No way." The boy didn't protest. He was glad his father didn't try to hit dogs with the van, and wished he wouldn't try to kill squirrels, cats, and other unfortunately creatures.
The boy even stopped breathing as he stared at his father, waiting for him to open his eyes, and ask what was he doing. Just going to the bathroom, the boy rehearsed in his mind. Or, 'I gotta take a leak, dad.' Yeah, that would be even better, the sort of thing his father said, along with things like "Drain the main vein" or "Gotta go take the piss out of me."
But his father's eyes didn't open. Instead he let out a soft snore and kept right on sleeping. Breathing a sigh of relief, the boy rose.
His sweatpants were lying in pile where he'd thrown them when he climbed into bed. Carefully, he pulled them on. He would have liked to have put on his jeans and t-shirt he had worn earlier, but if his father woke while he was changing, he would know something was up. No one would get fully dressed to use the bathroom.
After he pulled up his sweatpants, he realized he really did have to go to the bathroom, so he did. There was an orange night light type of thing in there, no doubt to give someone enough light to use the bathroom, without risking waking the other person with a bright light. Not all motels had such things and he was grateful this one did. He used the toilet, but didn't flush. It was only pee and he'd drunk enough water that day that he doubted that it would even look as if anyone had used the toilet, if they turned on the light. "Why didn't I flush?" his mind rehearsed, in case when he walked out of the bathroom, his father was there. "Well, I didn't have to go that much, and I didn't want the noise to wake you up."
When he left the bathroom, he walked carefully near the bed and stopped to listen. His father's breathing was still steady and even, with the occasional soft snore. His father liked to deny it, but he did snore, especially if he slept on his back. "Me?" he had said once, when the boy mentioned his snoring sometimes kept him awake. "Snore?" His father pointed to himself his eyes wide as if in shock. "Perish the thought! You're telling lies again, Timmy, terrible lies about your father."
His father had been in a good mood that day too, but even so, the boy had stiffened just a little when accused of lying. But his father was grinning, so he grinned back. That had actually been a really good day. If he remembered right, they even had pizza for dinner that night, pizza without olives, which was all the boy wanted. He didn't care what other toppings the pizza had, even if it was those salty fish, but couldn't stand olives. They mingled in with everything, and made the whole pizza taste like olives, even if you picked them off. Unfortunately, his father and Sam loved olives and almost always got extra olives on pizza. But on that day, his father had told him he could pick the toppings and Sam wasn't around to object. The boy asked for pepperoni, sausage, and bacon, knowing that those were three toppings he and his father liked. His father had agreed, and that was one of the few times, the boy could remember really enjoying a pizza and not having that lingering olive taste in his mouth for hours.
His father wasn't on his back now, he was on his side, so his snores were so soft, that if the boy had been asleep, they wouldn't have woken him. So far, so good. Now it was time for part two. As carefully and noiselessly as he could, the boy walked over to the dresser where the room key was. There was only one key, his father only ever got one key, but the boy knew he could get a replacement if he had to. If he bothered to stay once he realized what had happened. It was more likely his father would just throw their stuff in the van and try to find him.
He picked up the ice bucket and mentally rehearsed what he would say now that the bathroom excuse wouldn't work. "I was going to go get some ice. The air conditioner is such an old piece of shit that this room is like an oven. I was going to get some ice and drink some ice water to cool down." That would work, as long as he could make it sound casual. He'd done that type of thing before, gone for ice. And he'd come back, he'd always come back. Because that's what good boys did, they came back to their father. And he was normally such a good boy. It had been years since he'd been a really bad boy, many years. So his father trusted him now and would let him do things, like get ice, even if it was late at night.
But I'm not a good boy now, he thought, as ever so quietly, he made his way to the door, opened it and stepped outside. The air outside was hot and muggy, making the boy realize the old air conditioner had been working better than he thought it was. But, it was warm enough in the room that the ice would still be a good excuse. He just wish he could have put on a shirt and worn some shoes. But if his father had woken up, that would have looked strange. Why would he need his shoes just to walk the few feet to the ice machine, which was right outside of the motel office? As it was, the boy didn't wear shoes often. At first, his father wouldn't let him wear shoes at all. Even when they moved someplace else, which they did a lot of, his father wouldn't let him wear shoes in the van, even though the heat didn't work in the back of the van at all, and sometimes it was so cold that the boy would shiver and sometimes he just wished the box he traveled in was big enough for him to sit up and rub his feet until they were warm. His father would let him wear a pair of socks sometimes, but never shoes.
He when the door was shut, he paused and listened. The walls were thin in this place, and he could hear the sound of people a few rooms away, having noisy sex. The boy shook his head, disdainfully, feeling sorry for the people that were on either side of that room. They were probably feeling like they were in the room with the couple and likely couldn't sleep. There was a woman in there, and she was moaning and going, "Oh yes, oh yes, that's it, yes!" over and over again. And then the boy heard a deep, male voice going, "That's it, that's it, cum for me, baby, let me feel your pussy squeezing my dick!" The boy sighed, both irritated at what was being said, because it was so cliché and surprised he hadn't heard them in the room he'd just left, but maybe they hadn't gotten to the shouting stage then. For a moment, the boy was afraid that maybe now their stupid fuck talk was loud enough to wake up his father. It was a chance he'd have to take. And hopefully, his father would either be pissed off or turned on by the noise, that he wouldn't even think to look over to where he thought Timmy was sleeping. Hopefully, he wouldn't realize until it was too late.
Trying to look as casual as possible, the boy walked to the ice machine, holding the ice bucket by the rim. It was one of those cheap, plastic ice buckets, that wouldn't keep the ice from melting. When he got to the ice machine, he opened it, and used it as a scoop, to put some ice into it, just like anyone would. He looked back towards the room he'd left, holding his breath, half expecting to see his father outside, looking around for him. If he's there, just bring the ice bucket back, full of ice. That will work. That's why you took the key, because you were just going to get some ice and come back.
But his father wasn't there, wasn't looking around. Nobody was outside, not even someone having a cigarette or coming back to their room after a night of partying. The boy had no idea what time it was, he thought it was late, but maybe it had been earlier than he'd figured. But, it was dark, and that's what counted.
Do or die, he told himself, drawing in a deep breath. He wished he'd had a paperclip or something that he could have used to let the air out of the tires of the van parked right out in front of their room. But he hadn't thought of that until just now, and it would be stupid to go into the office and ask for a paperclip. Who needed a paperclip in the middle of the night? And, knowing his luck the half stoned looking night clerk would think his request so odd that he would call his father's room and ask him why his son needed a paperclip in the middle of the night. And most important, even if a paperclip was to fall from the skies, it would take time to let the air out of the tires and time was precious right now.
Drawing in a deep breath and holding it, he dropped the ice bucket into the ice bin and left it there, along with the hotel key. Then, he ducked so he couldn't be seen out the window of the office, and crept under and past it. Then, he straightened himself up and took one last look towards the room. No sign of his father, no sign of anyone.
Letting out the breath he'd held since he'd tossed the ice bucket into the ice maker, he turned and ran, out of the parking lot, for once grateful that his father hadn't allowed him to have shoes, because the parking lot was covered with broken seashells and thanks to hardly ever wearing shoes, the soles of his feet were tough enough to run on those shells without cutting up the soles of his feet. So he ran out of the parking lot and hit the road and kept running and running. And he refused to look behind him.
"Hey, Marc could you drive any slower? I mean, I wouldn't want to get home before dawn," Sixteen-year-old Roman Reigns grumbled from the passenger's seat of the ancient SUV. "It's not like I have practice at six in the morning or anything."
His older brother took his eyes briefly off the road to give him a look that was equal parts annoyance and amusement. "Hey, you're the one that wanted to see Jurassic Park, and y-"
"Not just me," Roman interrupted, "You wanted to see it too, and so did pipsqueak," he pointed his thumb towards the back seat where his nine-year-old brother, Lance was sitting.
Lance, who had been quiet up until now, finishing off a box of Raisinets, decided that it was time to speak up. "We all wanted to see it!" he protested. "I mean, dinosaurs! Even if it wasn't as good as the first two, even if they don't don't portray dinosaurs the way they really were, it's still dinosaurs. Everyone wants to see dinosaurs!" He pulled a candy out of the box and tossed it at the back of Roman's head, where it landed and bounced harmlessly off. "Besides, we wouldn't have missed the first showing if you hadn't been flirting with the ticket girl!"
Roman turned and frowned at his brother and made a swipe at the box of candy, but Lance jerked it away, closer to his chest and the seat belt didn't give Roman enough room to reach him. "I was not flirting," he said, "She's in my American History class, I was asking about the report we have to turn in next week."
Marc snorted, "Yeah? Since when is asking someone if she's still dating 'that loser Anton' qualify as American History?"
"Because we're in America and Anton is history," Roman said, grinning.
"Sure, do your report on that," Lance suggested. "Yes Ms. Maple, my report is about Britney and her ex boyfriend. I'm sure you'll find it very exciting and knowledgeable and when you finish, your understanding of American History will be greatly broadened."
Marc let out a short, sharp, laugh at this comment.
"Bite me," Roman suggested to Lance, his voice sounding more amused than upset.
"He's right though," Marc said. "Your hormones made us miss the first showing and we had to go to the late showing."
"My hormones?" Roman found the Raisinet Lance had thrown at him, and threw it at Marc. "Who was the one making a date with woman in the lobby? A woman who had come with another guy? It wasn't me, and it wasn't Lance."
"It's not what you think," Marc said, ducking slightly so the candy sailed past him and hit the window, like a chocolate coated insect might, sticking to the glass for a second or so, then sliding down, leaving a brown trail in its wake. "Noella and that guy are just friends. And quit worrying about the time. I gave Lance my phone and he called Mom and she knows we ended up going to the late show, and she's cool with it."
"That's great for you two," Roman grumbled. "But I still have to make practice tomorrow at six am or the Coach is gonna kill me."
"Oh, poor baby," Marc said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "If you remember, I have to get up with the sun myself and get the maggots running."
"Yeah," Roman said, his own voice thick with mock sympathy as well, "While you sit in a chair, spraying them with a hose every time they run by. Such hard work." He shook his head, laying it on thickly. "Rough life." Then he stopped mocking and grew serious. "C'mon Marc, pull over and let me drive. I'll get us home faster and it'll be legal. You're over 21 and I've got my permit. It would be good for me to practice driving at night anyway."
"No way," Marc said. "You drive like the instructions on a coupon, tear along the dotted line. The last thing I need is for you to be pulled over for speeding while I'm supposed to be-" He never had the chance to tell them what he was supposed to be doing, because as he was driving around a curve in the road, a white figure streaked by the car. "Holy-" Marc began as he slammed on the breaks as hard as he could. The white figure leaped to the side of the road at the last minute and landed on the tar and gravel in the breakdown lane, and rolled down a small incline, into the rain ditch. Marc pulled the SUV to the side of the road and put it in park. "What the hell was that!"
"I-I would say it's a ghost," Lance said, his voice trembling. "Except that ghosts aren't real."
"Yeah? Well, if it isn't a ghost, it's the palest dude I've seen in a long time," Roman said. "Did you hit him, Marc?"
Marc shook his head, but he was shaking. "I didn't feel any impact, but everything happened so fast. I've got to see if he's all right." he started to unbuckle his seat belt, but Roman shook his head and reached out his hand to stop him.
"Let me go, instead," he said. "Someone might be chasing this guy and if so, you and Lance have to be able to get out of here quickly."
"Like I'm gonna leave you alone to deal with it?" Marc asked, his voice rising slightly.
"I'll be fine." Roman already had his seat belt unbuckled and before Marc could offer more objections, he opened the door and jumped out. "You keep the car running. I'll see if he's all right and see if we need to call an ambulance. Keep an eye out for anyone that might be chasing him." And again, before Marc or Lance could say anything, he headed down the incline.
The figure was still lying in the ditch, now covered with rain water and mud, not moving. For a moment, Roman's heart sped up, thinking he was dead, but then he sat up with a groan. Roman hurried over. "Buddy," he said, "Are you okay? Did we hit you? I mean, we didn't mean to, but you just ran out into the road so fast, we didn't see you until it was too late. Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance? What am I saying, of course you need and ambulance!" He pulled out his cell phone.
The guy reached out, trying to grab the phone from Roman. "No police!" he cried out, "No ambulance. I'm fine. You didn't hit me, I jumped off the road. You didn't even graze me, so no need to call an ambulance, no need to get the police involved. I'm fine. Really I'm great," The person tried to struggle to his feet, splattered with mud and marsh grass from the ditch. Roman reached out to help him, offer him a hand, but the person batted it away. "I can get up by myself!" he insisted as he started pulling himself into a standing position. As he shifted weight onto his left foot, he groaned and fell to his knees. "My ankle," he said, and Roman realized from the sound of his voice, that he was young. Not a little kid, but not an adult either. "I fucked up my ankle."
"Yeah, we've got to call an ambulance," Roman said. "The ankle might just be part of this, you could have gotten hurt worse than you know. Internal bleeding and all of that."
"No!" The whitest kid Roman ever met roared, "I'll be fine!"
"Don't be an idiot," Roman said. "You will not be fine. Why are you out this late anyway? Alone? And not even wearing a shirt for God's sake? You wanna be mosquito bait?" His gaze wandered up and down, trying to take in more of him, then just his unnaturally pale skin. "Oh god, you aren't even wearing shoes. You were running around in bare feet! You're either the bravest or stupidest person in the world."
"Hey!" Marc called down, having opened the window of the SUV and was leaning out of it. "Is he okay?"
"His ankle is messed up," Roman called back. "He says you didn't hit him though, he got it when he jumped to the side of the road to avoid you. He's a mess though, he's all muddy, he's not wearing a shirt and he has no shoes, but he doesn't want me to get an ambulance for him."
"Well, how about we take him to a hospital?" Marc suggested.
"Great idea," Lance muttered from the back. "He could be a zombie or something, and eat our brains."
"Zombies are no more real than ghosts," Marc reminded his brother.
"Okay, he could be a serial killer or something," Lance countered. "Serial killers are real and they like Florida, it's got a lot of swampland to hide the bodies."
Roman, meanwhile had helped get the guy standing up, allowing him to lean most of his weight onto Roman, and keeping his bad ankle off the ground. "No hospital," pale boy said, shaking his head. "I can't go to the hospital."
"Why not?" Roman asked.
"I just can't," the person said, shaking his head quickly spraying Roman with bits of ditch water. There had been some heavy rain the past few days and these drainage ditches were more like tiny swamps. "I'm okay, you didn't hit me, you can go. I'll be fine."
"No you won't," Roman disagreed. "You can't even walk. You don't have a shirt, you don't have shoes. What do you think, you can just sit down here until you heal?"
"Let's bring him home," Marc called down. "Mom's done enough first aide on the students, she'll know if it's sprained or broken, and if it's just sprained she can wrap it properly."
"Another great idea," Lance said, his voice still soft enough so only Marc could hear. "A might be serial killer, and we're gonna bring him home to meet Mom and Dad."
"Yeah, he's such a threat, him being unable to walk." Marc snapped back. He thought his younger brother was completely full of it, but as Roman began half walking with and half dragging the kid up to the road, he told Lance to move to the front seat. Lance was tall for his age, and this was a special circumstance, so Marc figured he could get away with it. Marc knew if Ghost boy tried anything, Roman could stop him, Lance was another matter. He wasn't going to let the baby of the family, have to deal with him, he didn't care about the law saying you had to be twelve to ride in the front seat.
"I don't need any help," Ghost boy protested, as they got to the car and Roman opened the door. "it's probably not even sprained or nothing. I'll bet if I wait a couple minutes, I'll be able to walk on it."
"Oh yeah?" Roman snorted. "Put your weight on it now. If you can do that without pain, we'll drive off and let you figure it out, but if you can't, then you're coming home with us. Mom's cool, and she does know a lot about the difference between broken bones and sprains. And you probably won't have to go to the doctor or the hospital. But we're not leaving you unless we know you can walk."
Ghost boy drew in a deep breath and lowered his foot to the ground. He hadn't even put any weight on it, and it began hurting. He tried to pretend nothing was wrong and only shift the tiniest amount of weight to it. "See?" he said through gritted teeth, "it's fine."
Lance had climbed up to the front seat, and fastened the seat belt. Feeling braver, he rolled down the windows and called out to the pale stranger, "As my dad would say, 'yeah? And if my aunt had balls, she'd be my uncle.' We're already late, get in the car and let's get you to our place or I'm gonna be grounded until puberty." He turned his head and looked over at Marc. "If he is a serial killer, one of us should manage to escape. I almost hope it isn't me, because mom is gonna kill whoever survives for being stupid enough to pick up a serial killer. And she'll probably do it more painfully than Ghost guy would.
Ghost guy wanted to protest, but sighed instead, the fight drained out of him. "it'll be cool, dude," Roman said. "You'll see. Mom'll figure it out and get you fixed and on your way." He wasn't sure about the "on your way" part, his parents weren't just going to let a kid go back out into the world without knowing where he was going, but he thought the kid was skittish enough. It's just a small, white, lie, he thought.
Heaving one final sigh, Ghost boy nodded. Roman opened the door behind the passenger's side and as carefully and gently as he could, helped Ghost get inside and get his seat belt on. Then he ran around and climbed into the seat behind Marc's and fastened his own seat belt. "Bro, can't you pulled the seat up a bit? My knees are almost behind my ears."
Marc ignored his brother and pulled out onto the road, grateful that no one else had stopped. "We're not far from our place," he said. "By the way, I'm Marc, the little dude next to me is Lance and Roman's the one that got your sorry ass out of that ditch."
"Thank you," the ghost said.
"You're welcome," Marc said, "So, what's your name?"
The ghost leaned his head back in the seat and never answered. His eyes were shut, whether he'd passed out, or was in too much pain to think, none of the three Reigns boys could tell, but they thought it could wait. The important thing was to get the kid to their house and get their mother to take a look at his ankle.
Great, the boy thought, as he bit his lip, trying to will the pain in his ankle to go away. He didn't want to be here, he couldn't be here. He was supposed to be putting distance between himself and his father, and while being in a car was faster, these guys were taking him someplace close. Just my rotten, fucking luck, the boy thought, fighting back the tears that sprang to his eyes. He never cried anymore, never. His father didn't like it when he cried, and would call him names, or worse. So he had learned not to cry. But then again, he'd never been hurt while running away. He hadn't even tried to run away for years, and that was scary enough, but his ankle hurt too. He felt as if he was entitled to shed a few tears, but he didn't know if these three guys would get mad. Maybe they didn't like crying as much as his father and Sam didn't.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to stay where they were, and hoped everyone just thought he'd fallen asleep and would leave him alone. He wasn't sure what would happen when they got to their house, but he'd play that by ear. Maybe this rest would make his ankle feel better? He doubted it, but for now, it was the best he could do.
"I think he's asleep," he heard Roman say, which was perfect. Let them think he was sleeping. It gave him time to think. And he needed time to think. If only his stupid ankle would stop throbbing.
Then, the Marc guy drove over a bump in the road and the boy's left leg was jostled, rising a few inches in the air and then slamming his foot down. Unable to stop himself, the boy's eyes flew open and he yelped.
"Hey, take it easy!" Roman called to his brother. "The kid has a bum ankle, let's not make it any worse!"
"Oh, I'm sorry I couldn't anticipate the potholes better," Marc said, sarcastically, but he call out "Sorry about that" to the boy.
"So," the youngest one twisted in his seat to look at the boy. "Since you're awake, what's your name?"
Name, the boy thought, Shit yeah, I need a name. I can't say I'm Timmy, that would be bad. And I don't want to be Timmy anymore. So, I need a name. Any name, I just need a name! He should have thought of this earlier, should have come up with a name and practiced it in his head until it sounded natural. Now he was caught. Desperately, knowing the kid was staring at him, the boy blurted the first name he could think of. "Bret Hart."
There was a second of absolute silence, then the three boys burst out laughing. "Try again," the youngest one said, shaking his head. "You are not Bret Hart. If anyone would know that, it would be us."
They must be wrestling fans too, the boy thought, which might have been cool, talking to other folks who loved wrestling, but not now with his ankle all messed up and them taking him to their parent's house. "I-I know it sounds weird," he stammered, "I know there is a Bret Hart who wrestles, but it's my name too. It's a coincidence."
"Sure," Roman said, snorting. "C'mon, what's your name?"
"I told you," the boy stubbornly insisted.
"Fine, don't tell us," the younger one, said, twisting back so he was sitting correctly. "I'm just gonna call you Casper, then."
"Casper?" The boy said, shaking his head. "What a dumb name."
"Not so dumb," Lance disagreed. "You're so white you're almost luminous, and Casper is a ghost. And since you won't tell us your real name, I'm gonna call you Casper."
Great, the boy thought. He wished he could give another name, but his brain was drawing a blank, and all he could think of were wrestlers names. He thought for a minute of mixing a couple of them, like calling himself Shawn Helmsley, but if they hadn't believe he was Bret Hart, they probably would figure out pretty fast he'd just mashed up a couple different wrestlers. I'm dead, he thought, biting his lip, trying to block out the pain of his throbbing ankle. He had noticed Marc had slowed down, and the boy suspected it was to keep from jarring his ankle again and for that, the boy was grateful. Since he was probably nearing the end of his life, he might as well be as comfortable as possible, even with a bad ankle.
End Chapter One
Authors Notes: First, if you aren't the type that enjoys reading Stephen King's notes that he includes in a lot of his stories, then feel free to skip over these things. I'm putting them at the end of the story for that reason.
To any readers... if you've read my stuff before, hi, hows it going? Yes, I'm writing again! If this is the first time you've read my stuff, hi, welcome.
Second... Yes, I love feedback. Comments are lovely, so feel free. However, when I was on here before, I was... well, let's be blunt, I was demanding of them. And I still do feel that it's a nice thing to give feedback, but.. while I was gone all this time (I was dealing with cancer. Yes, it sucked. But also, I was luckier than a lot of folks, and I'm okay now, so no, you don't have to feel sorry for me.) I realized that I was on some bad sort of hamster wheel, where I felt like all I was doing was trying to give everyone feedback while hoping to get feedback myself. Every story I read, I felt like I was supposed to write huge reviews. Whether I wanted to or not. And, wanted people to do the same with me. And it stopped being fun. It started being a chore. So, I stepped back. And then, of course, cancer. But, when I went back to writing, something hit me that should have hit me years ago.
I need to stop asking my readers to justify my writing.
It isn't your job to make me feel that it's okay for me to write something. It isn't your job to validate my ideas, or to dictate my plots to me, or anything. Just as it isn't my job to write in ways that conform to your wishes. If I were writing a story as a favor to you, that would be a different thing, but I don't write request stories, I write what I want to write. So, I have no right to expect readers to treat my writing like I am doing a personal favor to them for writing it. That's BS and I was doing it, and I have to stop it, right now.
And yes, this is a hard road for me to travel. Because I do want to crawl into people's heads and see what they see when they read my stuff. I want to know if people were moderately amused when they read Roman's line about how he lives in America and Anton is history. I want to know who they think the pale kid is. What they think is going on. I want to know everything, because I can only see my work from one side, the side of God of This World. I want to know what the ones who are not Gods, but merely visitors to my world think.
But... for me to expect readers to do that, is again, to ask them to validate me. And that isn't fair. That is forgetting the whole basis of fanfiction. Fanfiction is supposed to be fun for me to write and it's supposed to be fun for you to read. And if the best way for your to enjoy it, is to read it and keep your observations to yourself, then, well, that's how you enjoy it.
So, yeah, I want feedback. I really do. And I will continue to thank folks for their feedback, but I'm going to stop expecting it. I'm writing this story because I want to write it. It's been bouncing around in my head for years, and I've tried to write it before, but now I've found the way to do it. And, even if I never know for sure, I hope you still enjoyed reading it. And I hope we all can enjoy this journey together... even if you choose to travel along as a silent observer.
tl;dr: Enjoy this story however you want to. I'm just grateful you're reading it. And, while I am likely to still thank folks for feedback, I won't try to coax folks into giving it to me, it's completely up to you.
Third: I have to thank my husband and Betagirl, who, through role playing, helped me create this world we're in. Especially my husband, who helped me flesh out the characters of Lance and Marc, to the point where they seem as real to me as the character of Roman Reigns. Thank you. I love you both.