The Beginning to Breaking
Creative Writing Assignment
Rolling over, I muffle a small string of profanities into my too-warm pillow. The blaring beeps of my new alarm clock are signalling to me that it's time to get up, but my body is telling me It's too early yet. I slam my fist down on the clock, aiming for, but missing, the snooze button. I miss it repeatedly, getting frustrated until I force myself to sit up and try to find my way to the button through the mask of sleep blurring my vision. I blink and rub my eyes, trying to rid myself of the little remaining sleep. The stranger's room around me slowly comes to focus, and after turning off the alarm, I look around at the blank, white-washed walls, the deep burgundy carpet hidden beneath piles of unpacked boxes. I blink a few times, trying to recollect how I got here. Then realization knocks on my brain, Um, hello? We moved you idiot. We live in Gotham now. I sigh and shake my head, running my fingers through my mess of dark hair. I'd hoped it was just a dream…
I pick myself up off the bed and stretch before going to the pile of boxes near my closet, hoping to find something decent to wear. I pull out my favorite pair of dark jeans and a simple, light blue T-shirt. I pull them on and take one last look around the room, taking in the heavy red drapes over the window, the dim little light hanging from the ceiling. Everything looks old yet, somehow, crisp and clean and new. I shake my head, a few wavy strands falling into my face as I walk to the oak-framed door. Without a glance back, I flick off the lights and head downstairs.
I drag my feet as I head down the short upstairs hallway, targeting the white-painted door at the end opposite the carpeted staircase. I flick on the yellow light overhead, and my stockinged feet slide across the icy linoleum of the upstairs bathroom as I step to the sink, the large vanity mirror looming over me. I splash some warm water on my face, trying to wash the sleep from my eyes. Slowly, I look up into the mirror, my dark hair dripping and my face shiny from the water. A single drop slides down my face, tracing down from my hairline along the side of my nose to my lips, melting into nothing as I slowly stand straight. I study my echo in the mirror, almost my entire image reflected. My tall, slim form is comparable to a noodle, skinny with wobbly-limp limbs and spine. I look from the dark blue woven fabrics of my jeans, up over my T-shirt, my pale collar bone slightly protruding just above the collar of my shirt, to my pale, slender face topped with a mop of black, greaser hair that hangs over my brown eyes. My mother used to tell me my eyes were chocolate gold, but all I see are two black holes sucking my soul apart from my body. A small shiver ripples down my back, causing the small wisps of hair on the back of my neck to stand straight. I turn away from the mirror, breaking the holding eye contact. I turn to walk out of the room, tipping down the light switch, flicking off the buzzing overhead bulb.
The downstairs hallway mimics my room with cardboard boxes scattered everywhere, full to the brim with things from our home back in Brooklyn… our old home I mean. But once past the kitchen, the amount of boxes lessens, the kitchen half set-up, and the living room beyond it completely unpacked. I walk into the kitchen to find a black bookbag hanging on the back of a kitchen chair, the zippers accented in a bright, lime green. I pick it up and mutter to myself "It just had to be green… Why couldn't it have been red or something?" I put it back down and head over to the cupboards in hopes of finding some cereal or something. Just as I get to the fridge my dad steps into the kitchen, his red flannel boxers making his legs look pale as a ghost. With a shudder I turn back to the fridge as he sits at the table, opening up the newspaper I hadn't realized was there. My voice cracks as I say "Good morning Father." I look down into the fridge, a light red blush covering my cheeks as I wish I hadn't said anything. Stupid, he doesn't want to talk to you after what you said to him yesterday. However, Chris replies in a low rumble "G'morning Jack." I smile a bit and sit down across from him to eat my mush of oatmeal, the only thing that we have for breakfast until we go grocery shopping again. I glance up at him and read the bold headline on today's newspaper, Recent Disturbances in Brooklyn: Are You Safe? I shudder and hunch up in my seat, staring down at the mush dripping from my spoon. My father rises from the table and stretches, wadding up the newspaper and trashing it as he walks out of the kitchen. He calls over his shoulder "Don't forget to catch the bus, I don't wanna have to drive you." I sigh and empty my bowl of oat-mush into the garbage, then set my bowl in the sink, making sure to rinse out the drying grain. Moving to the fridge, I pluck the orange-yellow bus schedule-card off the freezer door. The pick-up bus time reads 6:50. I pocket the card and glance at the oven clock; 6:47. I shout a half-hearted "bye" as I sling my bookbag over my shoulder, weighted with art supplies and a couple notebooks. I hesitate in the doorway to put my shoes on, the straps of my bag awkwardly pressing my hood down into my shoulder. I stand back up to reposition it then stop, light bouncing off the glass surface of a picture frame near the door. I step closer and see my mother's smiling portrait smiling warmly back at me. I smile a little, tears threatening to well-up. I blink a couple times then sigh, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of the picture frame. I open the door, cold autumn air rushing in like an avalanche. Pulling my hoodie tighter around me I smile at the portrait once more and say softly, "See you later Mom… I miss you."
The bus stop is cold from the morning chill, the dew soaked into the bottoms of my pants legs. I start to shiver as I wait for the bus to get here. It was supposed to be here three fucking minutes ago, c'mon! It's freezing out here! I sneeze and, with a groan, hug myself in a futile attempt to keep out the chill. Finally I hear the grumble of the bus engine as it drags around the corner; I glance at my watch. Five minutes late… typical. As the orange-yellow school bus trails up to the front of my house I sling my bookbag over my shoulder and wait patiently for the door to fold open, letting me on board. As I climb up the slippery black steps, the bus driver stops me. "'Ey, you Jack? Jack Na- … Neigh- …. Nah- ….."
"Napier," I finish for him with a small nod. He grumbles something that sounds like "okay" and closes the door behind me. I start to walk down the aisle towards the back of the crowded bus, the many students silent as they watch the new kid look for a seat. Thankfully, I notice that there's a seat towards the back with only one passenger. The kid looks nice enough, dark shaggy hair that comes down over light blue eyes and a slightly pointed nose. "M-May I sit with you..?" I ask sheepishly, trying not to seem too desperate for him not to say no. Thankfully, the guy smiles bright and says "Of course!" in a way that coaxes a smile onto my face that grows to be just as big as his. The whole way to school we talk. He asks me about where I'm from, my interests, why we moved… I try to hold a smile and hide the darkness that curls up inside my chest with that last question. I obviously don't bother lying about where I'm from, but the reason behind our departure is, as my father says, something no-one needs to know.
It didn't even take five minutes after I walked through the front doors before I found myself frantically sprawled out across the hallway linoleum. Meatheads and Jocks laugh as their girlfriends squeal and rush to their arms. "Where is it? Where is it?" I'm flipping through papers, so many papers, where my notebooks are spilled and drained over the floor. It looks like a shelf's worth of books exploded around me. My hair is tangled, disheveled from a lack of sleep; I can only imagine the crazed appearance I must've assumed. "Where is it? Where is it? Where… There!" I pick myself up off the ground and sprint at the hand dangling my dark cerulean pendant. I hear a female voice laugh harshly and I stop, tracing the hand up to face wielding a menacing smirk.
"Ooh look at him Brucey, making a fool of himself! He looks like a worrrrrm, down there on the ground," the siren of Hynden's shrill voice mocked the crazed laugh of a circus clown who's high on addicting syrups. I watch her pocket my mother's necklace as she sticks her tongue out at me in such a way that a five-year-old child might. "Thanks for the gem newbie, it really is much too pretty for a mess like you," Hynden laughs again as she rushes off to find Bruce. I fall to my knees, pushing my hair back as I hide my face in my hands. But before I can start to break down into tears, the bell rings, telling me that I'm late for class.
When I walk in, the class is still sectioned off into different groups of people as they talk with their friends as I make my way through the aisles of desks to the back of the room. I drop my bookbag next to the chair of the desk sitting right next to the wall of windows. I open my backpack and take out my composition notebook and black pen. Flipping to a blank page, I uncap my pen, sticking the cap to the back of the pen. I lower the ink-tipped ballpoint to the page, my loopy scrawl creeping across the page like little black demons burning the page with their feet. My eyes glaze over, dulling as I watch the words flow from the pen, my mind numbing and going dead. A sharp voice whispers into my thoughts.
Here we are again, I see. Shut up. Where are your new friends? Don't tell me that you don't have any? I said shut up. You're all alone… Just like you've always been. My pen has stopped writing; I'm staring blankly down at the page where I started to draw. Dark figures stare up at me, frightening crows and realistic tombstones. I shudder as the voice whispers Now there's no-one to save you from me…
The buzz in the hallway is so loud I can barely hear Oswald ask, "Dude what was with this morning? Have you met those guys before?" I sigh heavily and answer Oz's question with a melancholy tone, "I'm not so sure Oz. I mean, it's only my first day. I can't be getting that much attention, can I…?" He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders as if to say "Beats me". Out of the corner I see the school quarterback, Bruce Wayne, leaning against the locker of a tall, slender yet pretty girl. I can just barely hear him above all the noise "Awe c'mon Selina, you know we'd be the best couple this school's ever seen..." I see her starting to turn her head towards us and I duck my head to avoid eye contact… too late. She saw me and at not recognizing my face in such a small school, she breaks away from Bruce and comes up to me, looping one of her arms through mine and the other through Oswald's. I glance over at Bruce and see him glaring in my direction before turning to walk with the rest of the football team. I turn back to Selina, hearing her sigh in relief. She smiles bright at Ozzy then at me, "I don't think I've seen you around before, you new?" I nod slowly, uncertain what to say to this beautiful girl making small-talk with me in the middle of a crowded hallway. "Well… you got a name, newbie..?" I nod again, my jaw falling open a little as my name stumbles from my lips, "I-its Jack… Jack Na-Napier." She smiles and laughs, saying in a soft yet joking way, "Talk much?" She giggles, a sound like drops of rain falling upon sheets of glass. She gives me a one-armed hug around the shoulder, doing the same to Oswald before skipping off calling, "Anyways, thanks! See you around, guys!" Oswald and I turn to each other, our faces red and our mouths hanging open. We flap our lips like fish out of water, looking for the right things to say until the bell rings. "Crap, we're late!" Oz and I run down the hall to our art class, and I can't help but let out a laugh as we sprint down the hallway, side by side.
Oswald waves to me over his shoulder as he runs down the hall to his class. I slowly open the door, sighing in relief to see that the teacher isn't there yet and students are still talking excitedly amongst groups around the room. I step in and close the door, seeing a familiar grin causing my face to flush. I look away from Hynden's Cheshire-grin in favor of the floor's much-less-threatening checker pattern. I hear her chair scrape acrossed the tile as she stands, her heels clicking deafeningly closer, forcing me to cringe back in fear. I back up to the chalkboard, the metal chalk-tray digging into my back. She steps closer, near enough that I can see the pointed toes of her red heels. She leans down close, chuckling in that same, clownish way. Her hot breath washes over the side of my face and neck, her words barely audible over the slowly hushing din of the classroom. "What's it like down there, worm?" She squeals like a pig, laughing and snorting as she backs away from me and sits down in her desk. As I start to pick myself up from the floor, the teacher opens the door and steps in, nearly tripping over me. I sigh inward and think to myself, This is gonna be a loooong day...
The lunchroom was stuffed with people, bustling from left to right, hurriedly making their way through the lunch line before rushing to find a table where they can sit with their friends. As I observe all of the movement, I begin to feel lost. Being new, I really don't know anyone. This realization hits me almost like a punch to the stomach. It hurts worse though when the school linebacker runs up behind me, hooking his arm around my shoulders, turning me towards the cafeteria wall. With a hard shove, the quarterback pushes me into it, then high-fives his teammate. I slowly turn to face them, blood leaving spots on the wall and front of my shirt.
"H-hey Bruce," I stutter at the quarterback's familiar form, his smug grin fading and twisting into a dark smirk as I speak. He puts one hand on the wall behind me, leaning close so I can smell the acidic rankness of his breath. He mutters a "hey," then punches me hard, right in the gut, hard enough to knock the breath out of my lungs. I slide down the wall to my knees, and he crouches down to murmur in a low, soft voice, more at me than to me, "Who said you could could talk to me?" Bruce is grimacing in my face, so furiously that his cheeks are red and I'm caught waiting for him to drool on me like an angry rottweiler crouched over a stray kitten. He leans closer, growling and ready to bite my throat out, forcing me to press further and further back against the wall. Once I'm fully pinned he draws his fist back in preparation to drill it hard into me.
He jumps slightly as someone grabs his fist, and I open my eyes slowly to see Oswald, sweet, sweet Oswald, standing behind Bruce holding his wrist. Bruce murmurs a small slur of profanities beneath his breath as he lifts himself to his feet, turning to face Oz. "What do you want, bird face?" Bruce tears his arm out of Oswald's grasp, leaning over him very similarly to how he crouched over whole experience seems to be swimming in front of me, my vision blurred and bulbous from a bubble covering my eyes. The lights are spinning and I feel like I'm going to hurl chunks. I quickly rise to my feet and run out of there, catching a slight glimpse of Oswald pointing at someone in the cafeteria, followed by Bruce storming away.
Bursting through the bathroom door, I sprint to the nearest stall, the overwhelming dizziness consuming me, causing me to heave heavily over the bowl. Not long afterwards, I hear the door creak open, soft footsteps slowly entering the room. I sit straight at Oswald's shaky voice quietly calling out my name. I stand and step out of the stall, the chipped-paint door swinging open and smacking against the stall next to it. Oz's slim form jumps back in surprise from the clamber, and I side step around him, going up to the mirror to splash cold water on my face. I cringe slightly as Oswald lays his hand on my shoulder, an unexpected weight. I turn to face him, the water dripping from my hair onto the cold, checker linoleum. He shakes his head slowly and softly says, "Don't let them get to ya' bud… Got it?" I don't answer him with anything more than a grunt, the final bell ringing. I look up into his eyes, his deep, sad blue eyes… and he slowly steps out of my way. I leave that bathroom far behind, wandering the halls to my locker, grabbing my bag and leaving for home.
I push through the heavy school doors, the white sunlight beaming down into my eyes and burning my retinas. I wince and blink… once, twice, three times, my thick eyelashes pushing away the tears forming in my eyes. I skip lightly down the concrete steps to the sidewalk, slinging my bag over my shoulder. The air is cold as it brushes across the back of my neck, causing the little fluff hairs to stand up stiff. I grumble frustratedly and paw at them for a bit then sigh, a heavy sigh that feels like all the air was pushed out of my lungs.
The walk home is brutally cold, but I still hesitate before stepping over the threshold of the new house. I slowly turn the key, the icy knob numbing my fingers as I push the white-washed door open. I kick my shoes off and start to head upstairs, ignoring the sight of my dad sitting on the sofa, talking to Mom's photo. I go into my room and almost slam the door, eager to drown out the old man's drunken voice. I push on the door until the latch clicks softly, then I flop down on my bed, slipping into my wireless headphones. I take my iPod out of my pocket, click the tunes to Evanescence, and crank up the volume. I smile softly and slowly drift off to sleep.
It's dark, the only light coming from the end of what looks to be a long alleyway. I blink a few times and shield my eyes, trying to adjust to the contrast. I hear voices, one of them familiar… I feel something cold and hard press into my thigh. Something tells me to take it into my palm. I slowly raise the .45 AMT Hardballer to meet my other hand, aimed directly at a family of three. A cold, heavy feeling settles in my heart for a fraction of a second before being replaced by the tantalizing warmth of revenge. I fire the gun… I sit up in bed, drenched in a cold sweat. I slip out of bed, thoughts of the dream still floating in my mind. I can't shake the feeling, the lust for revenge that settled into my heart. I sigh softly, my mind made-up. I knew what had to be done.
The night's silent. My father's heavy breathing echoes through the hallway from his bedroom door at the end of the hall. I quietly climb down the steps, my stockinged feet silent across the carpeted floor. I slowly move down the hallway, knowing I won't be coming back as the same boy I am now. I get to my mother's photograph, her simple smile captured gracefully in the little dye-drops. My eyes well with tears as I gingerly pick up the photo, almost as though it will shatter beneath my corrupted fingers… I softly kiss the corner of the picture frame and murmur "I love you Mom… I'm sorry." I carefully set the photo back down then climb into my father's old trench jacket, the dark cloth thin but sturdy. It hangs down past my knees but fits nicely, slim. I go out the back door, careful not to let the screen slam as I move out into the chilly autumn air. I shiver a little, pulling the jacket tighter around me as I walk out of my yard and onto the street. Our road doesn't get much for activity; we live on the outskirts of the city.
As I near the city, I start to take darker back-roads, knowing that the cops will bring me back to that prison if they catch me… I won't let that happen. I can't. I hear a rustling further up in the alley, and I step off to the side. My breath catches and my eyes narrow, hatred filling my lungs and turning my face red. That snotty Bruce kid is walking this way with his parents…The night's wind pushes the coat tight against me, my father's loaded handgun pushing into the side of my thigh. I slowly pull it out of the jacket pocket, anger filling my lungs and flushing my face. I slowly pull up my hood and that old voice returns to me, whispering such sweet blasphemies. I can't push the voice back this time; I'm too far gone. He doesn't know the pain you go through, he doesn't care. Make him pay… make him suffer the way that you do! I move off of the wall, to the outskirts of the shadows and I slowly lift the gun, aiming directly for the man next to Bruce. Father's are such cruel beings… capable of unspeakable things. Thoughts of my father flash through my mind, the memory of him crouched over my dead mother, the pistol still hot in his hand… the same gun that I hold now. His image flashes over the man in front of me and I shoot… one, two, three times. His wife screams, running to the man. Another two shots and she falls atop him. Bruce is standing there, tears in his eyes, blood on his clothes and skin. His mouth is dropped open and he slowly turns to face me as I step towards him, into the moonlight. I smirk, the sight of the scarlet so vivid. I can almost taste the coppery scent of it all, slowly filling the air. A sharp wind blows my hood down and Bruce's eyes widen oh so deliciously. He murmurs "J-Jack..?!" and I see his eyes flash between anger and sadness. A low chuckle rumbles from deep in my chest and I say in a confident, sharp tone, "Jack? Jack's dead. You can call me... Joker." I step closer to him, laughing louder, watching as he tries to scramble back. He trips over his own two feet and I crouch down in front of him, my face a mere inch or two from his when I mutter, "Tell me kid… Have you ever danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight?"