Silent, his blue eyes round with wonder, he stared at the heavy blue, blindingly lit horizon stretching far and littered with skyscrapers. Each building housed secrets and stories galore, which he would never hear, would never wish to hear. But somewhere out there was a secret, was a fantasy-story contrived from truth waiting just for him. He felt it in his bones.
And knew it from the letter he now held in his hand.
A plain, rectangular, white envelop, addressed to him with an American return address. Both written in a familiar hand from long ago—before his band even had a record contract, almost an eternity away.
"It's been years since I even thought about her—why would she write to me now?" He sighed and closed his cobalt eyes, his face innocent-looking even when troubled. "Jacklyn-chan…."
He remembered her bright red hair, vibrant green eyes and pale white skin—and how everything she wore seemed like a second skin. Even the scent of her lilac perfume still tickled his nose from his memory. The way she walked, the tone of her voice and the way she spoke—everything he remembered—miraculous compared to how little he cared to remember in his day to day life.
Miraculous—but of course she'd been his first lover. His first and only lover, and her memory lingered in his thoughts even fifteen years later. Every love song he sang with her in mind—each one that reached out to him that is.
Was she writing him to rekindle their relationship? Even with how brief it'd been, it was still the best, the most memorable time of his life. But did he want to rekindle the flame? He'd known her only a week—had been intimate with her for only one night—was the effort worth getting back together?
"I enjoy my life how it is. I don't want to give it up, don't want to change a bit."
Opening his eyes he stared at the letter for a second, then ripped it in half, then in quarters before throwing the pieces out the window unread.
Meanwhile:
Vibrant green eyes stared at the telephone expectant but forlorn, too much even for tears. Hope rested in that phone, a meaningless contraption otherwise, and she prayed incessantly for it to ring.
"Mother? Are you all right?"
"Wha…." Jacklyn averted her eyes to the child standing in the doorway, and struggled ot hold back her tears as she stared at her firstborn. Long brown hair hung loosely in a ponytail framing a slender face and deep blue eyes, ocean-hued, her firstborn gazed at her from the doorway, cowering into the shadows. "I'm all right, Sparrow-dear. Come sit by me."
"…He's not here, is he?"
"No, he doesn't even know where we are. You don't have to worry, Sparrow." Jacklyn beckoned her daughter, Sparrow, her green eyes glistening at the sight of her cowering child.
"He'll find us."
"Sparrow."
"Who'd you write that letter to?" Sparrow changed the subject and took a tentative step into the room, her blue eyes eyeing everything carefully for danger. She seemed more like a timid mouse than a bird, but Jacklyn didn't have the heart to say it. She knew perfectly well why Sparrow behaved so, and he'd been the first to call her a mouse—or more commonly, a rat.
Jacklyn's husband never spared from Sparrow any of his anger, and his rage didn't come out just in words: How many times did she find bruises on her daugther's skin from where her husband grabbed her and threw her against walls, etc.? How many times did she have to bring her firstborn to the hospital because of him?
And how many times did she flee from him with Sparrow only to end back with him for the sake of her other children? Too many.
"Who'd you write that letter to, mother? Did you write to Chris or Mabel? Mother, did you?" Sparrow glared at her mother icily even though a wistful gleam glittered in her eyes. "You did, didn't you? Didn't you? He's gon' find us, I just know it." Her eyes grew cold and she slipped back into the shadowed hallway, unheeding of her mother's forming protests.
"Sparrow, Sparrow, I didn't." Jacklyn stood and followed her daughter down the hall, into her room, and then into…into the closet. "Sparrow, what are you doing in there? Come out, you don't have to hide. I didn't send them anything. C'mon Sparrow."
"It's safe here."
"You're safe with me."
"You always go back to him. For their sake. You care more 'bout Chris and Mabel than me. You both do." No tears were in her voice, just the bitterness of being right so many times that hope had vanished.
"Sparrow, listen, I didn't write to your stepfather." Jacklyn kneeled just in the closet and reached out her arms into the dark abyss. "I didn't write to your brother or sister either. Please believe…ow!" She snatched back her arms and stared at her right one for a second—red teeth marks marred her pale skin, with one puncture deep enough to draw a drop of blood.
She felt like screaming, but thought better of it.
"Sparrow, I didn't write to your stepfather, or Chris, or Mabel. I wrote to your real father, like I should've a long time ago." Pause; she heard some movement in the closet, then silence. "Once he responds, you can live with him—where your stepfather can't harm you. Where you'll be free."
"'You'll'? You mean you won't come with me?" Sparrow's voice broke through the darkness, this time sounding sad rather than bitter. "I'll be alone?"
"You'll be with your real father, and his family and friends."
"Alone…." Sparrow ignored her mother's last sentence, her mind obsessed with that single idea—being alone.
"Sparrow, you…."
"Where can I find him? My real father, where is he?"