In the Hands of an Angel
Written by Me
Synopsis
It all started with a rainy day and an accident
Sure, she knew she was dead, but she wanted a second chance
A second chance to start over
She stumbled upon it in the form of a frail child
When the plane came crashing down, his life followed suite
His life was hell, in and out of foster homes, transferred to countless orphanages
For God's sake, his own grandmother didn't want him
He was old enough to get an education, yet he was denied it
He guessed that was how he ended up holding a gun to his head
Prologue
"Dad, there's supposed to be a storm today!"
"It's alright Allison, we'll get to your Aunt's house before it hits."
"Dad, it'll be a lot safer if we stay." She nervously eyed the looming gray clouds piling in the sky. "There are already storm clouds forming."
Her younger sister tugged at her cat cardigan, one of her favourites given to her as a gift from her father from her most recent birthday. A pout formed at the blonde haired girl's plump lips. "Please, Allison I really want to go to Auntie's house! She promised me a surprise when we got there. It'll be real quick! Only an hour drive! Pleeease!"
She chuckled and patted her sister' head. "You couldn't survive in that car for five minutes at the most, but alright, I'll go." She only agreed to go at the mention of her sister's surprise. Allison had picked up a pure white bunny with her Aunt at the local animal shelter. Her sister had been whining for weeks ever since she saw a pet program on rabbits and bunnies. Would her dad kill her when he saw the bunny? Probably. Would he? No, Allison doubted he would after seeing the heartwarming grin plastered on Lizzie's face. He loved his daughters to death, no sense in doing anything to upset either of them.
It would be a pain cleaning up after the pet though. Taking care of pixelated pets was a lot easier than taking care of a livinng, breathing one. Although that tamagotchi did ask for as much undivided attention as a real animal, if she was being honest.
Her sister cheered as they buckled their seatbelts in the car. Slowly, her dad backed out of the driveway and drove cautiously onto the street. The sky got darker,as if the brightness had turned down a notch. The street lights flickered on, illuminating the already forming puddles with artificial light. The only living things there were her family and one or two stray moths who dared flutter around the lightbulb. She couldn't shake the feeling that they should wait until the storm cleared. After all, she had watched a safety video during homeroom. Her high school insisted upon learning safety precautions, which high school didn't? It had only made her more paranoid of the outside world. She'd very much rather stay in the comforts of her room and play as a goddess on some sort of edition of a Sims game.
She should've stayed inside.
Chapter One
"Allison!"
Her voice was so faint.
"Allison, please!"
Drifting away like the fog clouds from one's mind.
"Please!"
Only this time.
"Please, Alli-son!" Her voice pleaded, masked behind choking sobs.
The fog clouds would stay permanent.
All she could recall were the headlights of a truck, creating a dim luminescent fog behind the heavy rainfall. The ear-splitting honk of two cars battling to be heard, battling against time to swerve away from each other. Battling to the death against an early visit from the grim reaper. How her breath had only been caught in her throat, and had finally been released when she dared let out a trembling breath of surprise as the windows shattered from impact. When her sister screamed as the run down car jerked violently to the right, the truck's trailer managing to hit the passenger's side, giving them a boost towards the empty roadside valley.
She recalled her green eyes widening in surprise as the car flipped three times. The first turn, she saw her father's head hit the steering wheel, body going limp as his chestnut hair became drenched in blood and rain, the rain coming from the windows that had been shattered, leaving behind a ghost imprint of jagged glass.
The second turn, she had regretted not bothering with her seatbelt, her stunned body thrown against the window with no mercy. As she flew through the air, the only wings were the shards of shattered glass flying beside her, scraping against her already bruised skin, splitting it open effortlessly. The rain pin pricked her skin, feeling icy against it. Even if she was only airborne for a brief moment, she felt it nonetheless. Her body hit the ground with great ferocity, the liquid running over her eyes and jawline, mixing in with the tears flowing from her eyes. Her bones ached, she was being eaten alive in agony.
At the third turn, she desperately tried to crawl away, like a pathetic gazelle wounded by a lion. She could only scream until she gave up, watching in helpless horror as a tire tore away from the vehicle, landing and crushing her midsection. Her lungs screamed with all the air she had left in them. She couldn't take it. Her breath grew heavier and heavier as she coughed and wheezed. She could taste the overpowering flavour of iron in her mouth. But her only guess was that it was blood.
It felt like hours until she felt a hand on her right one.
"Allison.."
"Please don't die on me! Please, please, please stay!" Her younger sister could tell Allison was in grave condition, most likely mortally wounded. Her face peered over that of her elder sister's and only than could Allison see Lizzie's wounds. Her face was covered in cuts, the particularly bad ones across her cheek and browbone. She strained her eyes to see her legs were in no better shape, the left one looking twisted, maybe even broken. Lizzie's sweater looked like it had been slashed with a knife, glass still embedded in some wounds.
"You...You're hurt..!" She choked out.
Her sister only cried harder. "Forget about me! Allison, please! Look at you, please stay awake a little longer, I called an ambulance! I found dad's phone on the ground and called an ambulance. They should be here soon." Lizzie's face was warm with salty tears, she couldn't control herself. Her father was dead, she could tell from the way he wouldn't answer. How his face looked maimed, his head dented in.
Allison was her only family left.
She held her sister's hand closer to her chest. It was cold. Ice cold. "You're my only family left, please Allison! You'd promise you'd see the surprise with me. You promised remember?"
"It...B-Bunny…" She couldn't think properly over the pain. Her vision was becoming cloudier.
She wanted to die.
But at the same time, her lingering heartbeat was countering her, she didn't want to die.
Not yet, she still had so much more to live for.
She wanted to have a family for God's sake. She wanted to go to the beach this summer with her sister, feel the millions of grains of wet sand between her toes and feel the summer sun's heat pounding against her shoulders. She'd give anything to build a final sandcastle. She'd give anything to splash salty waves at her sister and laugh until her sides hurt because a giant wave would knock the two over in the shallows.
"I don't want a bunny! I want you to live!" She was screaming this time, praying to God her sister would live. Lizzie only needed a miracle right now, but in her heart she knew that repeating the word please would never fix the damage the crash had done to her sister.
Allison couldn't breathe, her vision was clouding over, a white light shining brighter and brighter. It took her a moment to process what was happening as her body felt warm and full of life again, yet at the same time, she felt dead.
"I'm sorry.." She choked out.
Lizzie's breath hitched as she desperately pressed two fingers to her sister's pulse. She pressed a hand to her chest, but felt nothing. No beat. No steady rhythm signaling she was okay. Her sister's eyes even looked dead.
Her sister wasn't blinking.
And she knew what that meant.
The girl cried, sobbed, and only pulled her elder sister's head closer to her. She was alone now.
The wailing of sirens got closer, the bright flashing blue and red lights casting a shadow over the lifeless face of her sister's shell. Shell she called it that, because the person that was once in that shell was gone, somewhere into the unknown. Perhaps in a carriage ride, looking back over her memories. Maybe in Heaven.
There had to be Heaven.
Chapter Two
There was no Heaven.
Jackson could probably guarantee the fact that Heaven didn't exist.
And if there was a so called place, he would be sure not to book any hotels there, because that was certainly not where he was heading.
Not with a revolver placed against his head.
The orphanage owners sure were quite stupid, in his opinion. They kept a loaded revolver. Loaded because they'd figured there were no children suffering from severe depression and hopelessness. No child should be depressed enough to take a bullet to the head. It was even unlocked in an emergency case, just to be safe, if any intruders dare to set foot in this sorry excuse for an orphanage. Who in their right mind would rob an orphanage though? They owned nothing. Nothing of value, anyways..
The revolver, jet black and gleaming in the moonlight, the only source of light in this bedroom now. Jackson wasn't sure how to do this, if he was being perfectly honest. He was sure he was supposed to pull the trigger, he'd done it a million times with plastic Nerf water soakers. He'd seen it a million times on TV, especially in movies. Only this was real, the gun was far from plastic, far from a synthetic imitation. The revolver was cool in his hand, waiting to be used. It whispered to him, coaxed him. Told him how utterly hopeless and useless he was.
He didn't realize he was crying until the wetness of tears dripped down his chin.
He hadn't cried in ages.
He hated how he was submitting to despair.
It seemed as though when the plane came crashing down, his life followed suite.
Only three years ago, they had been planning a nice family trip. Somewhere exotic to travel for their son's birthday. He remembered how elated he had been on the plane ride, mesmerized by the beautiful view from his window. How the white fluffy clouds floated slowly in the sky, like blotches of white oil paint on a bright, blue canvas. How he had been so enticed by them, he fell asleep.
How he had woken up to the screaming and and sobbing of people, the wailing of ambulances, and someone with an accent he didn't recognize asking him if he remembered his name, or by chance knew his location as he was wheeled onto the ambulance. He recalled the flames being put out by several firemen, people warmly wrapping their arms around others who sobbed, holding on to their arms for dear life. He was terribly confused, frightened and sick to his stomach.
He remembered asking the nurse where his parents were, and if they were going to visit him. He remembered how she quietly shook her head, tears pricking her hazel eyes. How some man in a suit came in the next day, solemnly breaking the news to Jackson, that his parents weren't coming back. And the other man who accompanied him held less sympathy in his heart, having seen this scene play out a thousand times before, went straight to the point and told him "Kid, your parents are dead."
The men had expected screaming and crying, a relentless sobbing tantrum. The men in suits expected Jackson to nearly die of despair in front of them, learning that his parents were dead, killed in an accident. They expected accusations followed by "It's just not fair!" They had seen this a million times over. It was perfectly natural, kids would always be kids and not understand some things just happen, sadly. Unfortunately, the two men could never help that, emotions were natural instinct.
They had never expected a calm "oh" to escape the boy's mouth. Hi blue-grey eyes unfazed by the fact, well, he'd never see his parents again.
Then came when he was handed over by his only family that could be tracked down, his grandmother. His grandmother had hated him from the moment she laid eyes on him. She'd call him a demon, a devil for killing her precious daughter, her only daughter. How she tormented him on the fact that he resembled his father. How she'd said that he would become a filthy dirtbag just like him. How she would always rant to him how his father had been unfit to marry her daughter, how they produced a miserable, hideous disgrace for a child. During rants like this, she'd often forget to feed him days on end.
And then one day, she threw him into the basement, locked the door, hoping to forget about him. He'd waited in the dark, hunger ebbing at this stomach, he'd refused to acknowledge the hunger, and waited silently in the cold and darkness of the basement, sitting cross legged, head bowed, waiting for her to return. He had to make her proud, she was his only family and all he wanted to do was lift her spirits, strengthen her hope. So he sat waiting for her.
He remembered hearing the door be kicked down, thinking it was his grandmother. Than when he looked up, he was quite surprised to see the stunned face of the police officer, flashlight in hand, pointed straight at the child huddled in the corner, with sunken cheeks and matted hair. Only than had the boy realized, he had been reported missing for the past two weeks.
Needless to say, he was ripped from his grandmother's custody and placed into foster care. The first home was alright. The parents were nice and affectionate towards him. The only problem was when the couple turned their backs, he was nearly beaten to a pulp by their eldest son. The other two kids, twin girls, would only watch in fear, no doubt glad that it wasn't them this time.
Jackson only smiled and followed the boy around, the beating from him not enough to bring down his determination of lifting his spirits. The other boy was obviously better than Jackson, so he stayed in his place, becoming a daily punching bag for the boy. All was good until a social worker noticed the dark bruise on his cheek. That was when he had to be transferred again.
The next few homes were neglectful. Not nearly neglectful to the point where he was not fed, but neglectful in the sense that the couples worked too much, obviously unfit to care for a foster kid, but he needed a place to stay. The father would always work nearly every day, and the mother was too busy engaging in housework and having friends over to chat and gossip. Whenever this happened, he had been shooed away, locked in the toy room, with entertainment at least, but still locked away because the mother was too ashamed to admit she was raising a foster kid.
He was removed from that placement after he was caught trying to escape the room by unlatching the window and climbing the overgrown tree beside it.
Then, by a stroke of luck, he actually found a decent placement.
When he had arrived at the house, it had looked eerie. Vines intertwining around every crack of the Victorian looking house. The paint was chipping off of some of the siding of it, and even the splintery stairs squeaked and creaked when Jackson built the courage to walk to the front door alongside his social worker. The bushes were overgrown and the trees had gnarling branches, almost masking the house.
Jackson liked it. It gave the house more personality than the other ones on the block.
He did not expect an elderly lady to answer the door. She was thin, unlike most older people Jackson saw around, black and silver hair cropped to her ears. She had on red lipstick and gave him a warm smile. She seemed friendly.
The woman's house was neat and tidy, a crystal chandelier gleaming and glimmering in the candlelight above. There were bouquets of bone white and blood red roses in glass vases everywhere Jackson looked. They reminded him of the roses his father would give to his mother on Valentine's day. He wandered a bit further down the hallways, the woman and his social worker heatedly discussing something in the doorway. Soon he came across a grand archway in the center of the house, he peered inside the room that demanded the archway's elegance. Inside there were rows and shelves of books. The room had a pleasantly comforting smell of old paper. There was even a seating area, velvet armchairs and loveseats piled around a coffee table. There was a couch with a vine pattern on it, throw pillows overflowing from the seating. Some looked hand stitched, and some looked too fancy for anyone to lay their head on.
What caught his eye was the mess of papers on the coffee table.
He decided it wouldn't hurt to look.
He struggled with the words, he couldn't read and write very well, but his mother tried to teach him, well, before the accident.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" Jackson's eyes snapped to the woman who gently plucked the yellowed paper from his hands. "Ah, looking at some fine poetry, are we?"
"I-I um. . ." his face flushed red.
"It's alright dear, you were only reading it, you look like you've caught a fever." She chuckled and patted his matted white locks.
"I, I actually can't read very well…" He stuttered, slightly embarrassed at his words.
The woman only smiled. "Better late than never."
That had been Jackson's favourite foster home. He finally learned how to read and write from that kind woman. He remembered how that woman loved to bake cookies, how she set them on the coffee table, the smell adding to the already comfortable home. How she slowly taught him vocabulary and how to improve his writing. Soon enough, he could read paperbacks and the poem he grabbed on the first day at her home. It had been a beautiful poem, comparing hope to a bird fluttering around.
He wondered when his bird of hope would arrive for him.
It had lasted longer than any of the other foster homes, but then one day when he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, he eagerly ran down the stairs into the kitchen, hoping to start another poem with the kind woman. But his heart stopped when he saw her sprawled on the kitchen floor, eyes open wide, clutching her chest in agony. Jackson could tell the woman was dead. She wasn't blinking.
It had been a heart attack, he was told.
He made his social worker take him to the woman's funeral, and only there did he shed a few tears. He actually liked the old woman, he hadn't had anyone show him this much kindness before. The sky that day had been sunny, a pristine blue with not a cloud in sight. The heavens, mocking him. It didn't deserve to look great on the day of a funeral. It was meant to be raining, gloomy. But that day there hadn't been a single chance of rain. The woman's family sobbed as the casket was lowered into the ground, buried with dirt. Jackson was sure they'd forget about the woman though, he had nearly forgotten how his parents looked like, if he was being perfectly honest.
His social worker scowled at him. "You have the worst of luck kid. You finally find a nice home that doesn't want to completely throw you out and then your luck goes ahead and kills her. It's a shame really."
The words only stung a little, because they were mostly true.
And after that, no one took him in. Not a single family showed pity to him. It was like he was the last miserable player on a team no one wanted, except there was no coach to force him into a family. Instead, he was forced into an orphanage. There weren't many kids there in the first place, but it was still like his second foster home. He was shorter than the other kids, skinny, weak, and a bit sickly looking. Of course he'd have a group pick on him, kick him, beat him until his face was purple or his nose gushed out blood. But even through that, he still put on a mask and smiled. He was dying on the inside. But even then, he silently hoped beneath his many layers of suffering that maybe someone would come in and adopt him, take pity. He'd take anything he could get his hands on. He still dreamed of the bird in the poem.
But it had already been two years, and no one showed any signs of interest in him. He wasn't stupid, he'd seen many kids be here one day, and gone the next, their rooms all empty and packed up. Those kids has been lucky, probably out with a great family as this very moment.
He scowled bitterly at the revolver and lifted it back to his head. No sense in stalling any longer. He was sure someone would walk in on this any moment, and he currently didn't need to be under the constant surveillance of a mental hospital.
There was a loud click noise as he clicked the bullet into place.
He pressed his finger against the cool metal of the trigger.
"You know if you're going to kill yourself, it's better to do it from the back of the head."
He nearly jumped out of his skin at the mysterious voice.
He nearly did it again as he looked up to the speaker. The girl was a lot older than him, it seemed. She was tall, well compared to him at least. She had a black cardigan over a white dress shirt, tied neatly with a pink, silk ribbon. She wore a beige pleated skirt, knee high socks and pink flats. Her brown hair was short, in a flipped cut, some bang pieces held back by a pixelated clip with bright green eyes. But that wasn't the most shocking part about her, no, it was the pure white wings that outstretched from her back, the feathers floating around this small room now.
She snatched the gun from his hand and threw it somewhere in the corner of the room. Slowly, she made her way towards him and give a warm smile. "You're not gonna being do that again, not ever. Not as long as your guardian angel is around"
"What are you-"
She playfully flicked him than drew him in a hug. Jackson' heart fluttered. No one had hugged him in a long time. He never thought anyone would do that ever again. "You want to go home, right?" She whispered.
Jackson only nodded against her wings, too stunned to answer properly. He wasn't sure what was happening, or if this was some sort of kidnapper, but right now she was showing him affection in a genuine way. The feathers were soft too, he noted, too soft to actually be fake feathers, like the ones used in the arts department durings arts and crafts time.
She smiled, holding him a little longer. "Let's go home than."
He had yet to realize this was the hope he longed for.
Chapter Three
He was having a pleasantly sweet dream, until the horrible arguing downstairs raised its volume by three bars. Jackson dug his silk pillow further into his ears, trying to drive the venomous noises from his eardrums. It was no use though, the arguing only rose. He dug his teeth into his bottom lip. It had been like this for the past week or so, he had stopped keeping count after night three. Night Three when he cowered in fear under his bed when his mother came to tuck him in, only for his father to argue with her why she always had to tuck their child in. They had argued repeatedly in the bedroom, their taunts echoing off the walls.
His parents relationship seemed like a bomb nowadays. The smallest spark could set them off in full explosion.
"How do I even know where you go all that money for that ring? You could be sleeping with someone else for all I know!"
"Oh, I'm the one sleeping around now, am I?"
He couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed his light blue blanket, something he had since he was a baby, dragging it behind him like a security blanket. Following the trail of continuous retorts through the echoing hallways of the mansion. His messy hair was giving his shadow an ominous look as it followed him. His house frightened him, to say the least. He didn't even know what half of the rooms were, or how many there were, but he did know a basic path to the kitchen. The kitchen was where he had learnt to make his own breakfast, dinner and everything in between that.
Especially when his mother had forgotten that he wasn't a doll, and did need to be fed to live.
He scraped the pads of his fingers on the wallpaper, decorated with intricate details of golden swirls and vines, as he wandered further from the solitude of his bedroom. The lights and candles had all been extinguished, smoke wafting upwards towards the ceiling window. Faint moonlight cast disturbing shadows over the sculpted angels on the roof, sending a mocking smile towards Jackson. He hated the gaudy religious figures around his home. The statues, the paintings, marble columns. He didn't need any of that. His house looked like a castle from a book, a girl from his playgroup had once told him. He didn't want a castle. Most of those princes and princesses in castles grew up isolated, meeting love too later in their lives, no siblings, no pets, no company in general. They were isolated in the simplest terms.
Jackson didn't want to die alone.
Truth be told, he wanted to live in a cottage, a warm, cozy one. One with an inviting atmosphere. One with so many throw pillows piled on a single worn down couch that you could be buried in it and fall asleep just from hiding in the pillow fort. He wanted one of those pictures of smiling family, cliche family photos with poses that every photographer in the world could think of. Ugly Christmas sweaters worn during the holidays. His mother knitting him scarves or gloves, as the embers of the fireplace crackled softly, while she told him she loved him for once. He wished his dad would finally tell him that he would grow up to be a fine young man.
Wishes were firecrackers that would never be lit, it seemed.
He soon found his way to the beginning of the staircase, probably the one thing in the house Jackson enjoyed. He would slide down the banister at times, spinning at the loop, finally having some enjoyment during the boring day. His mother would usually snap at him for doing something so childish, but she stopped in the past years. He lost track of when she stopped addressing him daily.
He slowly walked down the stairs, hand clutching tightly to the railing, and slowly, he cautiously peeked an eye out from behind the wall.
"Oh be quiet already! You're going to wake him up and then what?" His mother screeched, despite what she said.
"Please, how do I know he's even my kid? You could've been having an affair and passed him off as my own this whole time!" His father yelled, his cheeks fuming of crimson. Jackson could practically see the steam rising from his head.
His mother gasped, insulted by the remark. "How dare you say that about not only me, but your own child! You know very well he has nothing to do with this! He even looks like you, dammit! How could you even say that about...about…" She hesitated for a moment at his name. "J-Jackson!"
His father eyed her suspiciously.
"I'm surprised you even remembered him honestly! I've had to drive him to seven play meets in a row because his so called mother is too busy! Huh, too busy to drive a damn car, huh? I wonder what she could be doing during that time!"
As his mother opened her mouth to speak, he decided to walk into the kitchen, where they were currently fighting. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he stumbled as he walked. "P-please stop fighting…" He pleaded as his parents eyes snapped towards him, unbeknownst to them he had heard their quarrel. Heard every single word they'd said about their son. But he chose not to waste a breath on thoughts, and he never would. "Please, stop….
"This doesn't concern you!" His father had yelled as he felt a sharp pain thud against his ribs, sending him flying backwards. He gasped in pain as his nose collided with the railing of the stairs, the cool metal a sharp feeling against his skin. On instinct, he clutched his nose, which was probably broken from the way it was angled. Warm blood dripped from his hands and onto the ground, slowly pouring and dripping.
"Oh my God!" His mother exclaimed, hurriedly running in concern over to her son, examining the damage as she slowly removes his protective arms from his face.
Needless to say, he didn't hear any more fighting after that.
He woke with a start, choking on air, gasping and sputtering for breath. He wheezed as his throat clamped, struggling to get a steady air stream into his system. Her arms wrapped around his figure instantaneously, rubbing his back. He tightly clung to her, digging his face into the crook of her neck, her wings wrapping around them both like a cocoon, covering them in a shield of bright light.
She still calmly pat his back. He still struggled to understand how she could put up with him. Everyday, Jackson still expected her to be gone, gone up and left. Yet, despite what he thought, every sunrise she was still there, sleeping silently, keeping him company just in case a nightmare decided to plague his mind. Even then she held him there, let him cry if it had been that horrible, regain his breathing control. It had been two months since she had plucked him from the orphanage. Plucked him like a rose, except instead of ending his life, she was slowly giving him a new meaning.
He let out a shaky breath, quivering as he released Allison. "Better?" She asked, locking her peaceful eyes with his, placing her two warm hands on either side of his face. She gave him a small smile.
He nodded, still trembling. "Better."
She still held him. "That bad, huh?"
"All of them are bad." He paused. "It was about my parents, this time."
Her ears perked up, not quite trusting the idea of his parents. All she knew from the file report was that they died in an accident, a plane crash to be precise. Allison knew Jackson didn't like to talk about them, she could tell by the way he tensed up after night terrors, do she never pressed the matter. If it was one about an old foster home, or not to peachy experience with kids at the orphanage, he'd tell her willingly. He never did during nights involving his parents. He radiated a toxic vibe when he awoke from those, usually trembling or waking up in a panic. She'd wondered what they had done to him, but she assumed it was some sort of abuse.
She decided to test the waters. "What about?"
"They argued a lot." he willingly offered a sentence. "For a while, before they died. They yelled almost all the time. I hated it, because they weren't as happy as they used to be. I thought maybe, they'd get divorced, y'know? That always happens to couples that argue too much. T-then, then one night, I got really scared hearing them fight, I couldn't sleep at all, no matter how much I tried. So I snuck out of my room, and I asked them to stop." Jackson felt his eyes begin to water, but he suppressed the feeling and continued rambling. "My dad, he was fuming angry, and, a-a-and he kicked me away. I remember hitting my nose on the stair railing, and how my mom had rushed me to the E.R. He broke my nose."
Her eyes widened, secretly fuming that someone, especially his father-someone a kid looked up to, had ever hurt Jackson that badly. She didn't say any of this though and let him continue.
He laughed a little. An unsure laugh, quivering as it left his vocal cords. "They never fought after that though.."
That was just his luck, he thought bitterly.
"H-hey, Allison?" He continued
"Yes?"
"You wouldn't forget my name, r-right?"
She faced him seriously, cheeks puffing slightly in anger, not at Jackson, but the reason he was asking the question. "Now what kind of question is that?" Of course I'd never forget something like that." She playfully flicked his forehead, earning a giggle from the white haired boy. Allison liked it when Jackson giggled, laughed or showed any sign of happiness. That meant he was getting farther and farther from the state of mind he was in two months ago, and frankly she thought he deserved to have a ray of sunshine in his life.
"Ja-ck-so-n Mi-ll-er." She dragged out the syllables in his name longer than necessary, a small smile tugging at the boys face. "Ja-ck-so-n Mi-ll-er."
Jackson snorted in response as Allison continued to repeat his name and several other nicknames she had to come up with in a matter of seconds. He laughed a little harder as she made an odd face while singing it in an exaggerated opera voice.
Then something caught his attention. A nickname stood out more to him than the others.
"Could you repeat that?" He asked abruptly
"Repeat what?" She replied
"The last nickname you said."
"Oh!" She smiled. "You mean Jackie?"
"Yeah, t-that one.."
"Why?" She suddenly stopped smiling, fearing she might've triggered the boy. "Is something wrong with it? I can stop calling you that if you want."
He quickly waved his hands in front of him. "N-no, it's fine! I-I just like it, that's all." He paused, embarrassed. "I just wanted you to call me it more often.."
Jackson swung his feet back and forth as he sat on the wooden stool, one hand balancing a book and the other trying to shove a forkful of pancake pieces into his mouth. He wanted to finish it before he and Allison set out to the library again, he didn't want to cause more inconvenience and have overdue books, but he didn't want to return the book when he was nearly done with it either. It'd kill him not to find out how a story ends, and there was no fun in looking it up to see what happens either. He preferred to read it straight from the pages, it was more genuine that way.
He sighed in relief as he turned to the final weathered page, and slammed the story shut. Gently, he set it next to the other nine, stacked neatly onto a pile next to a box of some sort of an off brand cheerio box. And overwhelming sense of pride filled Jackson because, yes, he did just finish ten books in a week. He announced this to Allison, who was busy wrapping the leftover pancakes in aluminum foil for later.
"I finished it!"
She looked over to the stack of books on the kitchen table and knew what he meant. "I can barely finish one of those in a week and you finished ten! Ten! We should consider living at the library at this point," She chuckled, picking up his nearly full plate of pancakes, drenched in maple syrup. "Wish I could say the same about your food, though. You left nearly the whole stack here."
"I wasn't that hungry." He protested. "I ate, maybe, three of them!"
"Well now the other nine are lonely." Jackson smiled at Allison, who laughed when she met his eyes, unable to stay serious on that matter. "But seriously, Jackie, you need your nutrients, your health is no laughing matter. So finish your juice at least."
Jackson complied and drank the last bit of orange juice. "Now can we go to the library?"
"Now we can. Bring your wallet, just in case you see something you like, or if we have to pay a fee," She paused eyeing the clouds outside. 'We're gonna need an umbrella though. Maybe a raincoat, too."
The pitter patter of raindrops grew heavier against the window.
"Might as well get your rain boots."
The library wasn't a far walk away, thankfully, but the rain didn't show them any pity. Jackson clutched Allison' hand as the black umbrella she held shielded them from the rainfall above. People were scurrying to the nearest building, hoping to stay dry because they'd probably forgotten their umbrellas. The rain was calming, if you focused on the steady sound it made when it hit the sidewalk, how the fog swirled near your feet, or the crisp breeze and occasional raindrops hitting your face as you trudged on to get to your destination.
Jackson tugged his navy blue scarf over his nose, which he would bet was as red as a cherry at the moment. The cracked concrete staircase leading up to the old library was beginning to become more prominent the closer the duo got. The orbed shaped lights were on, a dim glow signaling to passerby that they were open. A few people with backpacks lazily slung over their shoulder opened the wooden double doors and made their way inside. Jackson grinned beneath his scarf as he made his way back to a place of familiarity.
The place had that inviting smell, the smell of old books and aging paper mixed with the delectable smell wafting from their coffee shop. It was a chain coffee shop attached to the library, which currently had a small line of people waiting to purchase a warm beverage. Their barista was a middle aged woman, with a wide smile seemingly plastered on her face, he had spoken to her a few times, not enough to know her name, but she seemed friendly.
Allison shook the umbrella in the doorway a couple of times, raindrops flying off of it. Jackson wiped his feet on the doormats, the last thing you wanted to do was leave a trail of mud or puddles of water, the janitor did not take that kindly.
They made their way to the front desk as a familiar voice called out to them. "Hello Allison!" The woman at the counter waved at the two of them, her chocolate brown curls bouncing off of her shoulders as she did so. "Hi Jackson!"
"Hello, Mrs. O'Neil," she replied back, unzipping her pink cat backpack, and placing all the ten books on the counter. "Sorry if they're a little wet, we got caught in the rain out there."
"Ah, that's not a problem. The rain should be clearing up soon, at least I hope it does," the woman placed the books on a dented green cart labeled 'return.' "Well, well, well, we sure do have quite the reader here don't we? I can barely get my own kids to touch a book for a report, much less read ten of them for fun. That's good though, reading does help build up a strong vocabulary, after all."
"Ah that reminds me, how're the kids doing?" Allison built small talk.
"They're doing fine, my oldest is starting high school soon though." Mrs. O'Neil sighed, "They're making me feel old."
Allison laughed a bit. "Enjoy their company while they're still young."
She turned to Jackson. "Alright Jackie, meet by the coffee shop in half an hour, alright?"
He nodded. "Alright," he started making his way around the library.
It was like he was walking around a maze of books, wooden shelves towering high above him, piled to the maximum limit with novels. He scanned the signs pointing to the various genres located in a particular shelf, until he found the section he favored most, poetry.
"I hope they got some new things checked in," he muttered to himself as flipped through the different volumes. Poetry wasn't a really popular section at the library, Jackson had noted, he could tell by the way dust always collected on the shelf he liked to visit. Not that he was complaining, he never had to put anything on hold because of that. The only visible downside to this was that it was a more neglected section because the library staff usually updated more popular genres. He finally read a spine of a book that didn't sound too familiar.
"A Collection of Poems By Emily Dickinson," he read the title aloud. Jackson racked his brain to think if he'd ever heard of the poet somewhere. His brain returned a plain answer of no. He hadn't heard of the poet before, which meant new reading material for him. He scanned the spines of the rest of the poetry books, but he couldn't find another that piqued his interest. He'd have to settle for more fantasy books.
He yawned as he walked down the aisle, rerouting back to the fantasy section, where he was sure something would be of interest to him. He needed to kill some time anyways, he still had an additional twenty minutes of browsing time until he had to meet Allison back at the coffee stand.
"I really want a hot chocolate right now," he silently thought to himself as he spaced off for a second, slapped back into reality when something slammed into him.
Jackson rubbed his head, sitting upwards as he realized he had run into someone. He looked up at the boy in front of him, whose green eyes showed just as much surprise as Jackson's. His clothes were drenched, hanging and sticking to his skin awkwardly in some places. The only dry part of his attire was a lime green hoodie. His dark brown hair was in no better shape, if you didn't count one piece of hair that stuck up from his head, and by the looks of it, refused to stay down even with a good brush. He had a bandage stuck right above his eyebrow and a dark plum colored bruise forming on his tanned cheek.
"I'm so sorry!" Jackson immediately apologized, offering a hand to the boy to help him up. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going!"
"It's okay," the boy muttered, glancing vigorously to his left and right.
"Are you hurt? You've got a really nasty bruise there." Jackson gestured to the boy's cheek.
"Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry," He bent down reaching for the poetry book Jackson had dropped. The boy scanned the title of the book as he held it out to him. "Do you actually enjoy poetry? Or is your teacher making you do some sort of report?"
"I- I, um, actually enjoy poetry," Jackson stuttered as he took the book from his hands, avoiding the topic of teachers and school.
"Well that's a first," the boy chuckled as someone yelled something from across the room, Jackson assumed it was directed at him. "Well, I gotta go, see you around."
Jackson waved his hand at the boy as he ran to the right. He tucked the book underneath his arm and made his way towards the fantasy section again, praying he wouldn't carelessly run into another person again.
He failed to realize the emptiness in his pocket.
Chapter Four
In truth, Daniel was relieved he had made his way to the library that day.
The day had started off normal enough, hastily making sure to arise before his dad and running like hell out the front door before he realized his son's bed and room were empty, devoid of any child. He had to make sure to avoid him for the time being, especially this week. Hinata distinctly remembered the night his father had finally chosen to come home, so drunk with struggled keeping balance on his feet. He had been apprehensive since he had arrived from school, parent nowhere in sight, empty building so dead silent he could hear his own breathing, no note stating where he had left or if he was coming back.
A particular incident with his mother had given him a phobia of empty houses.
His face had lit up instantly at the sight of his dad, door clicking as he opened it, not caring if he reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, only elated knowing the fact that his dad had returned. How he had run over to hug him, gagging only slightly at the stench of his sweat, but still glad.
His father cringing away in disgust, punching his cheek in order to pry his arms from his waist. Daniel had stared, eyes bug wide and mouth gaping in disbelief as he held his face, cheek warm and stinging. It had been so long since his father had been this drunk and violent. It had been so long since his father sneered at him with such hatred and anger in his eyes, flickering in small flames behind his drunk facade. Daniel had picked up that people are much more truthful when they aren't sober. Who knew if behind that calm smile in the mornings before sending him to classes that this was how he really looked at his son?
"You have her eyes," his words slurred, voice hoarse. "Don't look at me."
"I-"
"Go to your damn room!" He yelled this time. His heart skipped a beat as he lay on the wooden floor, suddenly going cold. He felt paralyzed, but when his father started to move towards him, he forcefully made his body stand, tripping on the stairs and hitting his head as he ran up the staircase. How he cursed as he continued onward, knowing he had already lost his father, but not quite convinced yet.
The loud slamming of his door and the immense feeling of security as the lock clicked in place. How the huge lump in his throat had vanished as he let out a quivering breath. Only when his back slid against his wall and he slowly sunk to the floor did he feel the warmth flow freely down his jawline like a river of tears. He silently whispered a thanks to the heavens above he had a bathroom in his own room.
The annoying part of this whole ordeal was that the bruise hurt whenever Daniel lay the faintest of touches on it. The cut above his brow bone burst open so much he had to pile four bandages on it.
Perhaps the most annoying part though, was how his father was seemingly normal the next morning. He had woken up early, expecting to have to wake up his father from the couch and assist him with his impending hangover, that was always the routine. He had thought he was going to wake up with the complains of his dad, the anger gone but his son's fear still there. Instead he woke up to the sound of sizzling eggs on the stove and the bittersweet smell of freshly squeezed orange juice.
"Morning, Daniel," his father smiled, dressed neatly in freshly pressed gray pants, green tie tied perfectly, dark hair combed back with not a single hair out of place. He was sipping his coffee, reading the newspaper behind his wire rimmed reading glasses on the bridge of his nose. He had forgotten.
That annoyed Daniel, he realized days later, but at that moment his stomach stilled swirled with the murky sensation of fear.
"M-morning."
His father looked at his son, face twisted in confusion as his eyes found their way to the nasty bruise on his tanned cheek, no doubt purple, and the mess of bandages on his eyebrow, crusted blood dried at the edges from where it had managed to seep out.
"What happened to you?" He gestured at his face.
"U-uh. . ."
His father's mouth let out a small gasp as he realized that this was his doing from the previous night.
"You're not going to school today."
"O-okay."
The week did progress, his father still getting piss drunk every night. All Daniel did was avoid him, not too keen on another bruise. He wasn't complaining all that much about no school, but it still bugged him that his teachers had still sent him his "vacation homework." Apparently his dad had called and said they planned to go on a family trip and that his son wouldn't be showing up for classes for a week. The teachers had taken the liberty to send out his homework, which included a writing assignment due the day after his last "vacation day."
It wasn't too challenging of a task. The assignment was only to write a poem with your choice of subject that could rhyme or not. He had finished it in an hour, most likely guaranteeing a barely passing grade. Poetry wasn't his particular favorite style of writing, but all he had to do was endure the two weeks they spent on that section of the unit and he was home free. He could manage.
He scowled as he noticed his bruise wasn't looking better at all, his cut was healing nicely, the amount of bandages that needed to be used on it had reduced to one, but the bruise was still the same shade of plum, maybe a little darker even.
"Dammit," he breathed out as his reflection stared back at him. "Well it's not like I'm going anywhere today. I'll worry about it tomorrow."
He heard the distinct thump and squeak of the worn out couch on the floor beneath him. Just another place to avoid.
The ear splitting sound of the phone in his room rang, echoing loud enough to be heard from his small bathroom. He groaned, knowing exactly who it was. He debated on letting the call pass, but he knew he wasn't going to hear the end of it if he did.
He pressed the talk button on the black cordless phone. "What do you want Mark?"
"What? How did you know it was me?"
"You're literally the only person I've given my number to, unless you've been selling me out to the telemarketers."
"Okay, okay, I get it I'm very predictable but hear me out-"
"-You want me to help you with your poem at the library because you waited until the day before it's due and know I finished mine already."
"Wow, am I really that predictable?"
"Completely predictable," Daniel responded, having had this conversation every time they had an assignment due since the fourth grade.
"You're helping me though, right?"
"I don't have a choice do I?"
"No. No you do not."
Daniel let out a breath of exasperation. "Fine. I'll be there soon." He hangs up as to not continue the conversation any longer.
He doesn't need to see the soulless figure staggering up the stairs, he hears it first. The thump thump thump seemingly imitating his heartbeat, accompanied by the occasional squeak of the staircase, years of use finally catching up to it. He felt like he was the protagonist of a horror movie, about to be attacked by a dangerous serial killer. The serial killer is his dad, who isn't quite a serial killer as far Daniel knows, but he's sure as hell close to it. He's the miserable protagonist, who isn't quite fitting of the title in the first place.
He stood frozen like an ice statue, the deadline of the phone dragging out throughout the room. The mere seconds of the sound of his door being forcefully unlocked and opened roughly felt like hours, days, centuries. Daniel glared daggers into it, hoping it would shut. Hoping to dear God the man opening it was sober enough to not beat him until he couldn't move his own miserable body to the bathroom.
His tie was undone, idly strung over the shoulder of his unbuttoned ebony blazer. His face was flushed bright red, eyes half lidded, but fully aware of what his surroundings happened to be. As far as he could tell, his father was sober for the most part, no mood swings, he managed to unlock his son's door after all. The rumble of thunder from outside his window nearly sent him leaping backwards, the brilliant glare illuminating the shadows of his face in an uncanny manner. He was infuriated that his father had relapsed after staying sober for a good while, terrified, because although he knew that was his father, there was really no telling what would happen to Daniel if he dared disobey him during his hammered state.
"Daniel."
"Y-yeah?" He gently placed the phone back in it's place.
"G-go get me more beer. I need more." It wasn't a question at all. It was a command, an order despite the idiocy of having a middle schooler fetching you liquor. "We're all out. 'Drank it all."
"O-okay."
"Don't come back until you get it." His dark brown eyes stared down his green ones, daring him to even show the slightest bit of hesitance.
He ran.
Ran out the front door, not noticing how the drops of rain rolled off of his skin in clusters, the sinister kisses from the icy water. His breath trailed in white clouds against the crisp air. His side stung, his chest heaved, breathing heavily at this point, but still running.
He stopped when he saw the familiar illuminated lamp posts of the library. His sneakers skid to a stop against the pavement. He stared blankly at the building, only now noticing how drenched he was, rain water running down his legs and arms.
"So it was raining," he thought as he held out his hand. "It really was."
Mark had stared blankly at him behind his glasses as Daniel took a seat at the wooden table, making sure to scrape it annoyingly to purposely bother anyone trying to work. He wasn't in a sunny mood to begin with.
"That's a pretty sick bruise you got there," he clicked his tongue and gesture to his cheek.
"Skateboard accident," he paused, sweating nervously. "Y'know, on my family trip."
"It was your dad wasn't it?"
"W-what?"
"Your dad," he repeated, eyeing him seriously. "Daniel, I've known you almost my whole life. You can't hide this stuff from me. You probably forgot your sweater and umbrella running from him didn't you? That's why you're soaked."
"N-no, it's not. . ." he sighs, knowing it's no use to argue with the brunette in front of him. "Yeah. It happened, again."
"Again?" Mark breathes out in frustration, seemingly equally as annoyed as Daniel. "We aren't even halfway through the school year, and what? Isn't this his second time already?"
"Third." He replies in a hushed whisper. The first time was on New Year. How Daniel had spent the night alone at his house. It was a tradition that he and his father would wait until the clock struck midnight on the final day of December to blow out his candles. Cut the cake that would usually be chocolate from the local bakery accompanied by ripe crimson strawberries. The words disguised as a casual phrase, filled with melancholy in actuality. 'I'll be back in time, Daniel, just a work party,' he had told him. Daniel regarded those words as authentic, his father would never tell a lie to his son. Isolated he had blown out the incandescent flame, he remembered. His father had not shown up the next day, or the next. When he did however, he had only given Daniel the most humble of nods, not recognizing the fact that hey, he had turned thirteen.
The second time, his father had locked Daniel out of the house, shoving him into the freezing cold whilst he was wrapped in only his warmest blanket, wearing only socks, and dressed in thin, flimsy, cotton pajamas. He did not like to talk about this experience. Daniel was only thankful that Mark only lived three streets down.
"Can we not talk about it?" Daniel drummed his nails on the table. "More importantly, please explain to me why you decided now was the best time to start a paper?"
"Hey it isn't my fault." He blew a stray brown hair out of his face. Daniel gave him a quizzical look reading 'dude, I am not judging you right now, but I totally am. "Okay, okay, fine. I was working on this bike. I found it by the junkyard, all I really needed to do was fix it up a little bit. It's almost done too!"
"You could've done this before though."
He dramatically drops his neon pink lead pencil on his composition notebook. "No one understands the esteemed life of a mechanic."
"Esteemed? Mechanic? When did you start giving yourself all these titles?" Daniel snickers, earning him a detesting glare from a woman three tables away, typing something on an expensive looking laptop.
"Like I said, no one understands." He eyes the puddle of water pooling next to his friend's chair. He tosses the lime green hood to Daniel, gesturing for him to put it on. "Seriously dude, you're making puddles all over the floor and I can literally hear the drops hit the ground."
He slides the sweater on, it's a little oversized, but Daniel can manage, at least it was dry.
"So am I just hear to watch you struggle to find rhyming words, or am I actually going to do something?" He asks, not minding just sitting here, just glad to have any sort of excuse to stay away from home, but still, quite restless just sitting and staring, not doing anything productive.
"Okay how about you go find me a book on poetry or something? Kind of in need of examples right now," he rubs his temples. "I'd ask you to also buy me something from the café but neither of us have any money anyway, so. . ."
Daniel almost chokes on his saliva.
He almost forgets his father's words, threats in all honesty. How peaceful it was not worrying and devising a plan to actually try to obtain liquor. How on earth is he supposed to get liquor, he doesn't even appear to be anywhere near eighteen, so fake IDs aren't going to get him places. Shoplifting? No he'd get too easily caught. If he's caught, he'll be forced to admit the details behind his actions. The authorities would end up plucking him away from his house, father, neighborhood, separate him from his way of life that he was so accustomed to.
No he couldn't risk it.
The best thing to do now is get money, find some cheap gas station, and pray to whichever deity he believes in that the cashier isn't too bright. There's only one problem with this scheme, though.
He doesn't have money.
He had spent it all two weeks ago. His school trousers had started getting ridiculously short around his ankles and he had taken it upon himself to buy himself a new pair at the front office. They weren't inexpensive at all, and he bought the cheapest style that there was. Curse growth spurts, they made getting new clothes a regular activity that was quite costly.
The chatter is dead silent around the building, a low mutter of some people discussing books by the shelves, people whispering to themselves what they already know about a subject they're studying for. Daniel doesn't even know where the poetry section is in this place, it's a whole abyss of literature here, if you don't know exactly what you're searching for you'll easily waste away your hours. He didn't even realize there was a poetry section in this place, and if there is it's definitely not one people rave about. He's gone through seven rows of shelving units now, and there's absolutely no sign of poetry, it's as if everything's dead in this area. There's not a soul browsing through novels here, and Daniel starts to think you could actually get away with committing murder here easily with no witnesses. Not that a public building is even the proper place for a homicide to take place, though.
He hears an idle humming that nearly makes him jump out of his skin.
Slowly, he peeks a green eye from behind the bookcase, quite surprised to see someone skimming through the volumes on a shelf, in a hushed whisper mumbling to themselves 'nope, nope, read that, read that.'
Daniel would say that the person was female judging by their mess of rather long, thick, curly, mop of hair. He doesn't quite trust his hunches with people's genders anymore, though, considering he was teased for a whole month because he mistook Janet Walker as a male. He goes on to trust his other hunch that this person is a guy, because no girl in his class would be caught dead going out in public without brushing their hair.
However, he is sure of one thing. That person is wearing a very expensive coat. He's seen it around when he passes by the more classy shops in the wealthier part of the town, where people's houses are so sophisticated and elaborate that they look like castles. That jacket costs more than what his father earns in a week.
He's a rich kid alright.
Daniel's conscience is already guilty just thinking about what he wants to do. He's only pickpocketed once this year, and even then he was in a similar situation. He robbed an elderly woman who helped him up when he 'tripped' and collided with the ground at the park.
He tries to convince himself that hey, this is a rich kid he's talking about, most likely he won't miss whatever money might be in his pocket. If there isn't money, then Daniel did not technically steal anything, attempted yes, but didn't. He could pickpocket the boy and get away with it, he'd have the money to go along with whatever plan he may need to create, and really, what are the chances he's ever going to see this kid again?
He doesn't have to think as the boy turns around making his towards Daniel, not to confront him of course, but just strolling away from the bookcases, checking the watch on his wrist for the hour. His eyes are facing the ground, almost like he were watching his feet. Daniel thanks his lucky star that this looks like it'll be far too simple to complete.
Daniel slowly picks up speed, steadily speed walking, nearly sprinting, preparing himself for the collision.
The boy let out a startled gasp at the sudden impact, Daniel swiftly reaching into the boy's pocket, which was already open. His fingers latched onto something that without a doubt, was a wallet. They both landed on the ground with a thud, the other completely oblivious to the brunette's actions.
"Make it look like a casual mistake," he thinks.
Before he can let out a word the other boy is already up. "I'm so sorry!" A blush of embarrassment is creeping up on his cheeks. His grey blue eyes widen as he offers a hand to Daniel, helping him up. Daniel notices that the boy is quite pale, almost unnaturally pale. Daniel would've almost guaranteed he would've mistook him for dead if he were to fall asleep. He's thin, and a tad on the shorter side, too. Daniel can tell by how he stands a good three or four inches above him, perhaps the fair skinned boy is younger than him. His hair is wild, a mop of curls that didn't look to be tamable. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going!"
It's odd how it seems that the boy's natural instinct is to immediately to apologize for something he didn't initiate. He's almost taken aback at how genuine the boy sounds, and can barely mutter an "It's okay," as he glances around, hoping to see something to get him out of the situation already.
"Are you hurt? You've got a really nasty bruise there," the boy is gesturing to Daniel's bruise. Daniel is again, startled, he's never had anyone acknowledge his wounds, aside from the occasional teacher or Emily and Mark, who both seem to bug him quite a bit on the matter.
He spots the book that the boy had dropped, and decides he should pick it up. He has to be casual about this, he doesn't want to seem too suspicious. "Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry." He takes it upon himself to read the title of the book, which happens to be the name of a poet that Ms. Brown likes to ramble on and on about during classes. He almost snorts aloud because there's no way anyone could actually stand poetry, but he stops himself because that does seem a tad on the ignorantly rude side of his thought process. "Do you actually enjoy poetry? Or is your teacher making you do some sort of report?"
The boy stutters. "I- I, um, actually enjoy poetry."
"Well, that's a first." Daniel chuckles awkwardly, desperately looking for a way out of this situation. He suddenly spots the familiar brunette shouting from across the room, trying to get Daniel's attention. He really owes Mark another favor, but he's not going to mention it to him anytime soon. "Well, I gotta go, see you around."
In truth he really hopes to never see the boy around again.
Mark is puzzled when Daniel comes into ear range. "Who was that?"
"No one," he responds, maybe a bit too quickly and suddenly. "No one at all."
Chapter Five
Jackson was soaking in guilt, the poison slowing making its way into his pores.
Allison had taken it upon herself to search every nook and cranny of the library that he had visited, searching for his wallet. He had been very sure he had slipped it into his coat before they left the house. Knowing his luck, it was highly probable that he might've dropped it on his way to their destination, but he could never be sure of that. He was only sure that he would never see it again.
Yet he was still guilty. He had seen Allison's face flicker with concern when he had informed her that his wallet was missing, statement laced with an odd concoction of placidity. The thought of him misplacing his wallet didn't make his heart ache with disappointment (although he did have some pictures of Allison and himself in there, but she owned the same exact ones). Not a single ounce of it. It was always the norm.
It was the strange overwhelming sense of guilt that had settled in the dark pit of his stomach that caught him off guard. Because Allison cared and yeah, sure, maybe it had taken him this long to properly let that thought register, but Allison did truly care. She had cared enough to take him to the library, cared enough to inquire him on his actions, cared enough to silently lay there with him in his bed, an arm wrapped around his frail body, wait for the night terrors to warp his mind. She would never leave or abandon him, she was always there to comfort him, battle away any darkness with her illuminating pure flame.
He brought the boiling cup of hot chocolate to his lips, blowing the cloud of steam away. "I'm sorry, Allison."
She dropped the handful of marshmallows into her cup, stirring the gooey mixture with a straw. "It's not your fault, Jackie." She pauses, reading the boy's face, holding his hand from across the small oval coffee table as to reassure him. Allison's green eyes are reading him, studying him. Jackson has become accustomed to it, there's never really anything he can keep hidden from her. "You're feeling guilty, I know. It's fine, you know. I don't mind looking for something that gets lost. I don't mind taking you places you want to go. Don't mind buying things either. If it's for you, I'll be happy to do it."
Anything that makes you happy is worth it. It's odd to say it so soon, but I can truly tell I love you, she wanted to add.
There's dead silence between the two among a sea of chatter. He's only stunned, hearing her say it aloud. In a way, it's the first time he's truly felt someone genuinely caring for him. It's different than the attention he received from his parents. Love and affection wasn't the proper term to use for the relationship he had with his parents. He was just there. Just there as an accessory. A flawless family portrait wasn't complete unless there was a child to add to the masterpiece, too. He was that exactly, his mother's porcelain doll that served as the cherry on top to a sundae. It was never love, it was neglect, he was only an object to them.
Foster families didn't quite count either, none of them really given any attention-except that old lady, he'd like to interject, she was the only exception.
He felt warm inside, having someone acknowledge him.
"T-thank you," he holds the bone white cup tightly, to keep from trembling too vigorously. In an attempt to hide his excitement, he focuses on the nearly melted marshmallows dancing around in a river of chocolate.
"Don't mention it, Jackie." She was adding sprinkles to her drink, the fluffy mountain of whipped cream threatening to topple over. Her eyes meet with his as she sees his face show a slight glint of surprise at her beverage choice. "Now, please don't use me as an example for what you should eat. I am very much a junk food enthusiast and can probably live off of a box of donuts. Some French fries too if I'm feeling like getting up."
Jackson gives a small smile, he can't help it around Allison's demeanor. "I take it you enjoy sweets then?"
"I used to be in a baking club, friend convinced me to join back in high school. Turns out I was pretty good at it, surprisingly." She uses her straw to scoop up some of the whipped cream threatening to spill off the sides of her cup. "Everyone had me taste test their things to see if they tasted any good, so I accidentally ended up developing a sweet tooth."
"Could we bake something? That sounds like it could be fun," he suggests, intrigued with Allison's baking stories. "That is, only if you want!"
"Sure that sounds like fun, we'll get to it sometime." She yawns a little, staring at her drink. "But first, I must show this drink that even the amount of sugar in it cannot defeat me."
For a moment, the light catches behind Allison, the faint, almost ghostly, impression of her wings spreading out and reaching the table next to them. He blinks and then they disappear again. He wonders if he's the only one who can see her wings, the only one that witnesses how beautifully they show up in the darkness, the breathtaking glow they radiate among all the shadows. How they fold up behind her when she rests next to him, occasionally wrapping around him in his sleep. They brought a sense of serenity and protection to anyone to looked upon them. However, he was the only one who could witness their magnificence.
His mind wanders, back to the wallet, his conscience is tugging at him, pulling the loose thread at the back of his coat and urging him to dwell more on the wallet. He's perplexed as to why, but he's learned one thing over time-don't argue with your conscience.
And so he rewinds back to the house. He slipped his wallet into the pocket in his coat, so he's positive it's not there. He doesn't recall the distinct plop of something hitting the concrete of the pavement, he would've picked it up for sure. Perhaps he was too indulged in the books to realize it had fallen out during his browsing session? No; that hypothesis was incorrect, the pockets on his coat were too large to let something like a wallet fall out.
The realization hits the back of his head with more force than a fall.
It was the boy.
Who else could've it been? Yes it was the boy. The boy whom Jackson had never gotten a name from.
But of course he would steal from someone as lowly as himself, he was only a worthless scum, a speck of dust among others that was just a tad duller and washed out than the rest. One that would be forgotten quicker than anyone else. The boy had deciphered that on his own as he lay a single passing glance on Jackson, he himself was positive of that.
How embarrassing.
He has to dig his nails into the sleeves of his jacket to keep himself from shaking.
He drives them farther into his shoulders. Oh how difficult it was to keep composure.
Her arms wrap around him quicker than he would've ever anticipated. Passerby give them an odd glance, but seemingly dismiss the scene and understand that it's none of their concern. She hugs tighter, fearing letting go, and strokes his hair in an attempt to soothe his nerves.
He lets out a trembling breath.
Breathing control, breathing control, he repeats to himself.
His body doesn't show a hair of resistance when she lifts him into the air with no effort at all. He's a lot lighter than anyone would ever anticipate.
She feels himself bounce as she opens the door, the crisp evening air swirling around them, feeling as cold as frost around the exposed base of his neck. He hears the doors of a bus open, Allison walking up each step and taking a seat somewhere, he presumes it's the middle area, it's her favorite place to sit.
The lids of his eyes are taking more effort to keep open, the sound of the bus engine acting as a lullaby summoning slumber. He relaxes a little, his drowsy eyelids draping over his vision, like the velvet curtains would at the finale of a performance. If only this was the finale.
They're both sitting there, outside the library, on the curve of the staircase staring at the fortress of stars, not quite sure what to do next. Wavering silence hung in the air. They're both in a catatonic state of thought, Daniel with a mind far too focused on his father, Mark wondering if that Social Studies assignment was due this Friday, or the next.
"I guess I'm gonna head off."
He sighs and unzips the lime green hoodie in an attempt to return the borrowed sweater to his friend.
"Dude, it's fine, just give it back tomorrow," he shoves the article of clothing back at him. He gestures to his clear plastic umbrella. "If it rains again I still have this. Maybe I'll fend off a pack of wolves that might jump out of nowhere with it. You'll be stuck fighting wolves with a sweater. I'll plan your funeral, don't worry."
"Shut up," he shoves Mark on the shoulder, letting out a snicker. "That'd be lame; 'here lies Daniel Morrison, the guy who was mauled to death by a pack of wolves."
"Totally not lame if they took you in as one of their own," he pauses thinking of a storyline off of the top of his head. "You'd be raised by wolves, eventually learning the customs of a wolf. Maybe you'd grow a tail, I don't know."
He frowns. "Isn't that the plot of some overrated romantic novel series?"
"No, no. God, Daniel, no wonder you suck at trivia. Remind me to never be your partner during class Jeopardy. It also has vampires in it, not just wolves. Wolves and Vampires."
"Oh wow because that's so original," he retorts.
"This is why you got bad marks when we did that whole novel unit on fantasy," Mark reminisces on the moment he saw the D minus on Daniel's report card. "Even I did better than you, and that's a new low."
"It's not my fault Ms. Brown chose one of my most hated book series ever," Daniel hates how Ms. Brown is one of those sappy romantics. She probably enjoys lounging on her couch and stuffs her face with ice cream while she watches The Notebook. He wouldn't be surprised if she owned a cat or something along the lines a stereotypical house pet.
Mark clicks his tongue and mutters. "You're just jealous because the protagonist has a boyfriend and you don't."
A blush slowly inches and creeps it's way to his ears and doesn't want to make a big deal about it, but his voice betrays him, revealing how flustered he truly was. "Boyfriend?!"
Mark nearly busts his sides wheezing in laughter. "Okay, sorry, my very straight no homo friend. Girlfriend, there happy?" he coughs. "Not that anyone would ever show interest in you really, girl or not. I usually stay on top on that whole 'who likes who' gossip. Your name has never been mentioned. None, never. Your chances are very low. Lower on the charts than Oscar's height. That low." He's lying so much he's sure Satan is going to shove his hand out from the underworld and purposely set flames to his pants now.
"If my chances are low, yours are in the negative range."
"Oh, please. Tell me one time my love plans have ever failed me."
"Remember the hamster incident back in sixth grade?"
He goes quiet. "We don't speak of that."
"What about the tree incident?"
"No! We definitely do not speak of that one!"
"I have a whole list, I could go on forever," Daniel smirks, trying to hold back a laugh.
The age of the old gas station has never shown through until the downpour outside rocks its foundation to the core. It had definitely always looked pleasant enough, almost new despite it's age. But it was like a model caught in the rain, all its makeup running off. The old rickety ceiling was creaking in a way that can't possibly ensure safety at a work environment. He's almost positive he hears the sound of raindrops leaking through the ceiling above, maybe into a vase or bowl of some sort.
He isn't going to put an ounce of faith into this scheme. The worst that could happen was a simple scolding from the cashier, chastising him on how these pranks weren't humorous, the scolding probably followed by a long lecture if the cashier was an adult or someone older than the age where all you want to do is earn enough paychecks to find a semi-decent apartment and maybe go clubbing once in awhile.
He doesn't exactly know how much beer he should buy (attempt to purchase) but he's going to test his luck with a simple twelve pack.
Brand? No he doesn't need to think twice about which brand he's getting, he's all too familiar with his father's preference.
(Remember when he broke that bottle on your shoulder).
(Bet the name's been burned into your skin).
He hauls the heavy box to the corner of store, finally taking the time to thoroughly examine the wallet he had snatched from the boy and absconded with. The item itself looks to be of high craftsmanship and he hasn't even looked at what was on the inside yet. It was a smooth leathery jet black wallet with red and green embroidery on it, Daniel could've been incorrect, but the designs looked hand stitched.
He almost chokes on his saliva and his eyes nearly pop out of his skull in astonishment. There's no way this kid could've had all of that money to himself in that one wallet.
Calling him wealthy was an understatement at this point. The first bill made the allowance Daniel earned in a year look like a percentage of it. He feels beads of sweat form at his temple. That's only the first bill, and it was quite a bulky wallet.
God, he just had to be human and feel accountable for his actions.
He felt like he should give it back.
But you don't know him, he thought.
"Too late now anyway," he sighs averting his eyes from the compartment for bills.
The reflectiveness of photos caught his attention.
They're a set of cheaper photographs from a photo booth somewhere, there are five frames in total. He's giving a bright, sunny sort of smile in all of them, blue-grey eyes practically illuminating with joy. There's a girl present standing by his side, her expressions quite goofy in all of the shots. He assumes it's his sister, she seems to appear as a young adult (he'd call her his mother, but the two don't resemble each other at all). In the second to last panel he's caught off guard laughing as the girl next to him sticks her tongue out. It seems she points this detail out to him in the last shot as he hurriedly tries to cover the camera with his hands, pale skin dusted with a peachy blush.
He sincerely hopes the boy has a double of the pictures somewhere.
There are a couple others that seem to either be of the sunset, pictures of oceans printed from the internet, or of the girl (who always seemed to be wearing the same cat cardigan). Daniel wonders why there doesn't seem to be a mother or a father present in any of the photographs, it seems like the sort of thing kids would like to keep in their wallets, but he decides it's not important and doesn't dwell on the matter.
There's a final item of interest tucked into another compartment, an ID.
The photo on it looks gloomy, however, a complete contrast to the cheerful face he had expressed in the photo booth pictures. His eyes look nearly blank and lifeless, staring to the ground, avoiding the camera. His mouth isn't brought up at the corners to even give a smile, it's just there. His expression looks like a much more depressing version of a poker face.
The ID has some basic information on it, but most details are scratched off- most likely done by the kid himself.
One piece of information is clear.
His name is Jackson Miller.
It's interesting to Daniel, anyway.
He's pondering the name at the cash register. The cashier is obviously an exhausted worn-out teen that got stuck working the night shift. Her light purple hair done up in a loose braid, messily tied and sticking up in several places. She has gray circles under her light blue eyes, which are nearly shutting and threatening to close as she scans the box of liquor, not even asking for any form of identification.
Jackson Miller.
He hopes she doesn't end up losing her job because of this incident.
Jackson Miller.
He tightens the hood around his head as he struggles to ignore the burning sensation in his arms as he struggles to keep the box from dragging him down to the ground.
Jackson Miller.
It's going to be a long walk home.
Jackson Miller.