2
dirty fingerprints
"I am ashamed, little one.
Ashamed that I have failed you.
Ashamed of my abandonment,
Ashamed to call myself mom."
—Lillian Green
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He slips the strap of his backpack over his shoulder, absentmindedly glancing over his room. There are multiple beds for multiple boys, each with a story; each with a past. He sighs and rubs a hand against his arm.
Kneeling down beside his bed – he nearly snorts at the concept of it being his – he delves a hand under the bed, groping for a box. From there he removes a single letter, the edges worn and scattered with dirty fingerprints.
And with that he turns and leaves, knowing it to be the last time he slept here or cried here or silently screamed here.
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She is crying. Of course she is.
He doesn't understand why.
"Jack," Nana Lena sniffs, "oh, Jack, I'm going to miss you." Her hair has fallen out of its usual bun, only serving to frame her trembling smile.
He mumbles something that might have resembled Me too. Or maybe it was Yeah. He isn't sure. He isn't sure of much these days.
Nana Lena is stooping again. It makes him tense, makes him mad that even she is taller. Even she is stronger.
"Now Jack," she says sternly, and that makes him listen. She is hardly ever strict. Not with him. "Tooth is a lovely woman. She's very kind and I hope you can realize just what a wonderful family you two can make."
He turns his face aside so Nana Lena won't see his expression twist into something bitter and hurt and utterly hopeless because – he – he – he can't believe her. He can't believe in anything.
There is a tentative, extremely gentle finger on his chin, slowly tipping his head up. "Jack. You're an amazing boy," – Nana Lena's eyes are painfully compassionate – "but honey, you're still only a boy."
It is with great restraint that all that accompanies her actions is a flinch. He tamps down on it soon enough and prays she can't see the anger in his eyes.
"I'm no child," he responds, pulling himself from her grasp before he does something like punch her. Or maybe scream. He's done both before.
A sigh.
Is everyone sighing?
"Okay, Jack," he hears as he turns to leave. "I only ask, my dear child, that you give her a chance."
That is the problem, though. He has given many chances, but no-one has given him one.
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The house is small, and painted a ridiculous shade of yellow. There is no picket fence and no neatly shorn grass.
"What do you think?" Tooth asks nervously as she pulls the car to a stop.
For a moment he almost asks Why yellow?, but the desire dissipates and he only says, "Nice." When he climbs out, his arms clutch at his backpack. He hunches his back as he stands.
Tooth is quiet as she unlocks the front door. "It's not very big," she says suddenly. "There are only two bedrooms and we'd have to share a bathroom." Hesitating, she asks, "Is that okay?"
"Yeah," he mumbles.
She steps inside.
He risks a peak.
She is shorter than him, which he is glad for, with dark caramel skin and brown eyes.
She turns round with a smile. "You coming in? I'll show you your room."
Another mumbled Yeah.
She had a nice smile.
He still isn't calling her "Mom".
He's had one. He doesn't need another.
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The walls are blue. Fuck, is everything painted an obscenely happy color?
"Do you like it?" Tooth asks.
He nods his head, dropping his bulging backpack on the bed-sheet. Which is also blue.
"I picked the color," she admits, following his movements. "I thought it was more you." Her eyes flicker over his black t-shirt.
He ignores her.
He doesn't need blue-painted walls and soft sheets and worried eyes and fucking yellow houses.
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The tile was filthy. It had splotches of beer and mud. It was cracked, too.
"Jay-boy!" boomed through the house.
Jack's head lifted warily. "Yes, Pitch?" Never father. Never dad.
A chuckle, rough from drink. "Now, now, is that any way to talk to the man who s-s-sired you?" he slurred, appearing in the kitchen's doorway.
Jack leaned the mop against the wall, casually maneuvering himself behind the kitchen table. Away from Pitch.
"No, sir. I apologize, sir." He hoped his face was blank. He doubted it.
Pitch laughed, tipping his head back. Straight nose, black tresses of hair.
Jack hated that Pitch was handsome. This would be easier if he were ugly.
This would be easier if his teeth were yellow and he had a beard filled with flecks of food and he had overgrown stubble and knobby fingers and cruel eyes –
But he wasn't. He was handsome. And his fingers were elegant. His eyes warm.
It would be easier to hate him –
"'I apologize, sir,' you say, all spiffy like." Pitch's mouth twisted. His eyebrows lowered. "Come here, Jay-boy."
Jack went.
His hair was gripped and harshly pulled backwards. "You look so very much like your mother," Pitch said softly. His hold gentled. "She was so very beautiful."
Jack's toes curled. He waited.
"I loved her very much, you know," Pitch remarked. He pressed a kiss to Jack's forehead. "But she was a whore. A fucking whore!" he roared, and dealt Jack a stunning blow.
Jack wakes with a gasp. He feels faint. His heart is pounding and his hands are trembling. He clenches his jaw.
The hands still.
He ignores the wetness on his face.
He tries to sleep. He can't. He can't. He feels ill. His stomach rolls.
You look so very much like your mother.
He curls up in his bed, arms looping around his legs.
She was so very beautiful.
He whimpers and bites his arm.
It isn't working. He bites deeper and the pain lances outwards in a wave – a warm-cold feeling. He feels every indent of his teeth. Feels his muscles complain at the abuse.
Feels his heart slow.
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"And how are you today, Jack?" his therapist asks. She eyes him intently.
"How are you today?" he mutters snidely.
She grins with what might've been amusement. "I am well, thank you for asking." She purses her lips. "You look tired, Jack. Nightmares again?"
He folds his hands in his lap.
She tries again. "How is living with Tooth? It's been a month, yes? Are you settling in well?"
He shrugs his shoulders.
The therapist scribbles something down.
His teeth grind together.
"Are you excited?" She taps her pen against her notebook.
His hands tighten their grip on each other. "For?"
"School," she says easily. "Summer's over. First day tomorrow, yes?"
"Yes," he says belligerently.
She nods her head wisely. "I take it you're not all-too-thrilled."
"Why would I be?" Jack asks, turning his head towards her. "What could possibly be thrilling?"
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"Jack, wake up, honey."
He mumbles and rolls over, hands clutching his pillow, duvet coiled between his legs.
The same voice again, soft and gentle and feminine: "Jack, you'll be late."
"Don't wann', Mom, 'oo early," he cries beneath his breath.
There is a gasp, surprised and pleased.
He is almost asleep when he hears a croon: "Okay, baby, I'll be back in fifteen minutes."
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Fifteen minutes later his ears are burning and he avoids looking at Tooth the entire morning. He'd called her Mom. And suddenly he isn't embarrassed, he's angry. He is so, so very angry. She isn't his mom.
His mom had left him and she wasn't coming back. He knew this because he'd read her letter a thousand times, and now he read it once more in a stupid fucking yellow school bus.
My Jackie-boy,
You are so small. You are nine years old and you're still so small. You laugh often and freely, like my little angel, my guardian of joy. Everything about you is special and precious. I love you so much.
You are so strong. And I am so weak.
You see, Jack: I know you think the world is wonderful. And for some it is. For me, though, it is a nightmare. Your father, Jack, is my nightmare. I can't stand this anymore.
I can't. I'm so sorry, Jack. I'm leaving. I'm not coming back.
Your daddy loves you very much, Jack, but he doesn't love me. He resents me. But you … you he loves.
My child, I hope you see one day that though there are nightmares, there are always guardians to guide us.
You are my guardian, Jack-heart, but I can't care for you. I have no money. I have nothing.
I hope you understand.
I love you.
Please forgive me.
Mommy
He's not stupid, but somehow he still can't comprehend her words. He reads them, but doesn't understand. "Please forgive me"?
Please forgive me, he thinks.
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