Jesus Christ Was an Only Child
by infamouslastwords
Chapter One | Now
"Malachy."
The knuckles that have taken to his door wake him.
"Malachy, what did I tell you about locking this?"
His mother. He reaches up to grip his headboard tightly before rolling over.
"Don't do it, I said. Malachy!"
"Mum!" It's muffled. Dawn tries to reach him through the blinds, falters through layers of sheets and a forearm. He breathes and waits for her reply.
There's a shuffle and sigh. "Get up. You'll be late for your service work."
Footsteps sounding down the stairwell. On the twin bed, he swings his legs over the side and stands. In through mouth, out through nose.
There's a half-full pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jeans when he pulls them on, and keen to the fact his mum won't be making him breakfast he tamps them down and lights one.
His dad's in the hall by the front door when he hops down the landing, orange suit packed in an old gym bag. The routine has been the same for the past year—200 hours of community service under the ASBO army while going through A-levels. A year without mates or the Lifeboat or sex; his parents treating him like a dog they hadn't managed to housebreak but still had emasculated. His father's stare and silent nod follow suit to this feeling of Malachy's, hands unconsciously clenching around letters from the box.
Walking down the street he didn't have refuge, either. The papers took care of whatever anonymity he had moments before the incident by plastering his face along with the two others' every chance it got for the six months following. They were blamed for the malfunction of 'regeneration' within the greater Belfast area, and any discussion of the bullshit philosophy afterwards unfailingly mentioned what had happened at the leisureplex—and the full names of those involved. The community now regards him as some shade of a drug-psychotic scapegoat upon which to place the blame for faults of their own sons and daughters upon.
And even worse, he is alone.
Michelle, with no family left in Ireland, was deported to London where she, Malachy assumes, was reunited with her mother. He can only guess on what terms she had been living at her Majesty's leisure, but knows they can be no shoddier than the things he's had nightmares about concerning Luke.
Detention for a year can change people, juvenile or not. If a blond-haired bird could shake the foundations of their friendship so completely, what of an October-to-October run in jail? Malachy can't stand the moments that seem to trip over themselves when he's stuck-on, staring at his ceiling at night, wondering how in the hell a kid like Luke could survive for that long in a place like that. There are a lot of things he thinks about, a lot of things he can't seem to scratch from his mind, but the single phantasm of Luke wrapped up behind bars, his skinny legs folded into himself in some cell block during break, the guilt of not being able to wash the blood from his hands… Malachy knows this guilt, because he feels it when he passes by the detention center on his way to service and hasn't the heart to go in, because it is him who put Luke inside its walls.
He changes into his jumpsuit in the community center and takes the bucket of nails waiting for him from the bench. Outside and a ways back there is a structure he and the others have been working on, a functioning shed for the regeneration efforts. There was only so much spray paint to wipe from the façade of the Titanic.
No one speaks to each other inside of his service group. Heads down and comments kept to themselves, they work. Malachy's the only one who has been long-term—the others change out, new names and new faces that he forgets seconds after their introductions. They don't care; somewhere, deep down, Malachy realizes that he has begun to not care, either.
And he used to be such a good boy.
While positioning a support beam Malachy finds himself thinking again of that weekend. With only four more hours to serve after this one, at seventeen and a half years old, the thought of what he's been doing with his life sideswipes him. How volatile this town had and has the potential of being again. How volatile he has the potential of being. What kind of person he is. He's not one of these, 'paying back' the community; but that big drawn line in the sand starts to disappear with so many possibilities toeing it as of late. He's worried, knowing the extent now to which circumstances out of control can forever affect the future.
He holds the form out for his officer to sign, changes, and begins to walk back.
Two roads exist leading from the community center—one of which, the more secluded one, Malachy only recognizes on his way from service. He usually prefers the shaded path as opposed to the other, and took it frequently during the summer. This almost makes an excuse to why he'd chose one over the other; its selling point is that it circumnavigates the detention center he's so keen to avoid, even in his thoughts. He feels shame under the shade of those leaves when he decides one over the other, and especially today. The burden of knowledge hounds him like some dog in heat, bearing down upon his shoulders, back. The October air burns crisp through his nostrils, mixed with the cigarette he lights to keep anxiety from biting at his temples. Rationally, it's best to take this path. Leave some breathing room. Leave some space.
Feeling thoroughly a coward, Malachy flicks his butt on the stoop and softly closes the door once inside. He leans his shoulder to it, listening for his mother's presence with shallow breaths.
"Not here," he murmurs, taking the gym bag strap from across his chest to toss it limply into a chair at the table. He washes his hands slowly, looks for food in the pantry but can't manage to find an appetite. His mind on A-levels later that afternoon, he goes upstairs to take a nap but resolves that just laying there and numbing himself would be alright.
As long as there's space, for a while.
Two black-clad legs are crossed over the covers of his bed when he reaches the landing, marble pale feet at the end of them. There had been trainers set out by the stairs, he realizes now; flat trainers with yellow socks shoved down in the toes.