Disclaimer: Bridge to Terabithia is the property of the Paterson family, Disney, Walden Media, HarperCollins books, and whomever else it may concern. No copyright infringement is intended.

Long Way Down

Prologue

Outside the open window, a cold, black night waited, void of moon and stars, silent as lips closed by death. The only thing alive was the wind, a faint, moaning breeze that froze skin and bones as it met the exposed flesh of his arms and soaked through the thin cotton of his T-shirt.

The bedroom was as dark as the evening, breeze tugging softly at the worn curtains and blowing the blanket wall behind him like a dancer's skirt. The dirty screen lay discarded on the floor somewhere by his bed, leaving the normally blockaded window open.

You can do better than this, Jess. I know it.

The words sounded ancient in his memory, though in reality it had only been a matter of weeks since he had seen and heard them flow through the lips of the very source. How different he was now. It was almost terrifying how much he had changed in such a short while. In spite of himself, he wondered what the speaker would think of the new him, should he ever return home. Would she like him like this? Would she finally see past his age—which was not that far from his own, really—and see him, as he had often found himself dreaming she would?

Or would she simply stare at him, black-lined blue eyes wide, unable to comprehend or understand the person in front of her? The wider shoulders, the tattered clothes, the shaggy hair, the calloused hands and the voice an octave deeper. What would she think, he wondered, of the scar on his neck; the delicate skin sliced clean open by a blade that belonged to someone he had once considered an ally, a trusted friend. Or, more interestingly, he contemplated what she would make of the red mark that covered it, to him a symbol of balance and hope, a marking that was the result of pleasure, not pain. A temporary tattoo of love and lust, not hatred and betrayal.

He touched it yet again, both factors contributing to the tenderness, the redness and dryness and unevenness of the surface. It felt like a ghost to him, like the last tie to a childhood memory or the scent of fresh baked cookies fading from the kitchen after they have all been eaten, the only reminder that the gooey, warm deliciousness had actually existed. The red mark was not even a week old, but already the breath that had breathed on that area seemed to shift from hot to cold; her feelings much different that his own.

So, no, he at last decided, the woman with the raven hair and sky blue eyes would not know the one that would go back to visit her. And he was glad. He didn't want to be that boy anymore—the child, so cut off from his own heart that his mind had to compensate for it. He wanted to live. And living he was—no longer did he have to dream of blue eyes and dark hair, to wait for sleep to conjure up something that could never really exist. All he had to do now was think; think about what had happened over the past few days, weeks, months. He thought now only of blonde hair and eyes green like the incoming tide, ones that could switch from elated to sorrowful in a matter of brief seconds. The way she made anyone and everyone feel comfortable, the stories she could tell, the way she laughed easily, lightly, like it took no effort at all to find the goodness and humor in things. The way she looked at him, sometimes, when it was just the two of them…

Somewhere down below him glass shattered against concrete and slurred swears broke loose, too mangled by drunkenness to make sense. Behind the blanket wall May Belle stirred, moaning slightly in her sleep before licking her lips noisily, sighing, and lapsing back into silence.

What was he thinking?! He couldn't leave May Belle alone here; she was just a little girl!

Not so little anymore, One side of his brain coaxed. She's eleven years old, Jess. She was the one that hid in your truck in the first place, remember? She wanted to get away like you. She was the one who demanded you keep her with you, the one with the spunk, the fire, the bravery. She was the one who spotted Fulcher on the street corner in Roanoke, the one who talked to him; the one who got you dragged into this rat-hole and begged you to stay. If you had it your way, she'd be back home and you'd be living alone in some dingy apartment in DC by yourself, drawing on the streets for a living like you wanted to, and everything would be alright.

Liking the logic this half of his brain was presenting, he urged it to continue, groveling for something, anything.

Okay, so Fulcher and Hoager and probably Madison and Carla are drinking. So what? They've done it before. Besides, they'd never hurt May, and she knows better than to make them angry…

But the littlest of things—things eleven year old girls didn't even understand or know about—made the four of them angry, even when they were completely sober. The scar on his neck was proof of that. He just couldn't abandon her here, in this house of horrors. He owed her that much, didn't he?

She won't be alone, The voice in his head began again. She has Alexandra; and Janice too. You know Janice would kill anyone who tried to touch her.

Janice was an ally he hadn't expected, that much was true. The burly eighteen year old could be positively frightening at first, but every once in a while she showed a genuine goodness and loyalty. Despite the devilish façade, Janice was just as broken and wounded as any of them.

Broken and wounded, yes, but also perceptive. That was another surprising trait of hers—she could often sense things about people before the person was even aware they felt something. He was no exception to her alert eyes, either. He recalled with startling clarity an event that had occurred not yet two weeks ago, on a frosty, moonless evening not unlike the current one. Janice perched calmly on a rusty trashcan in the alleyway behind the warehouse, cigarette in hand. He had only be taking out the garbage, unaware she was even there until she spoke.

"You love her, don't you? I've seen the way you look at her."

He had nearly had a heart attack, jumping a half a foot into the air and spilling trash all over the sidewalk and his shoes.

"Love who, Janice?" He asked, still breathless from the fright.

"Who do you think, moron?" She retorted. "It's not hard."

"Janice, it's freezing out here," He had replied, the tone slightly whiney, reminding him of May Belle. All the while he studied the girl in front of him, her plump and pimply face illuminated faintly by the red glow emanating from the quickly dying cigarette, but otherwise shrouded in darkness. Dressed only in ripped jeans, sneakers, and a black T-shirt that had seen better days, he wondered how she was not freezing. Maybe the fat from the pork rinds did her some good after all. "I really don't feel like playing games right now."

"It's an easy game to play Aarons," Janice had told him, her tone almost annoyingly blasé. "All you gotta do is think."

"You just called me a moron, remember?" He had smirked in the darkness, trying to lighten the mood. When she didn't respond after a few moments, he had turned away and began walking back towards the warehouse.

"You know, Jess?" She called when he was almost inside.

"Yeah?"

"I think she loves you too."

He had spent countless evenings mulling over Janice's words, trying to determine who the girl was. Now it was painfully obvious, and his heart ached as he recalled his blindness. With sudden determination he gripped the window pane, easing himself over the side and landing on the rusty fire escape below him. Janice would know where he had gone.

He climbed down the stairs two at a time, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He glared out at the inky evening before him, determined.

"Hang on, Leslie." He told the empty night sky. "I'm coming to get you."