Maybeck's Broken Heart

"And this, Terry, is your new home!" Jelly said, entering the boy's bedroom. A young boy, Terrance Maybeck, held her hand, shaking slightly. His eyes were opened wide, his face tear stained. Poor, scared little boy.

"I d-don't want to b-be here," he whispered. Jelly rubbed his back gently.

"I know sweetie. I will go get your bags." With that, Jelly excited the room.

A frightened Maybeck walked around his new room. "I don't want to be here," he whispered to himself, running a hand along the bed.

It all happened so quickly. One day, Terry was just a normal kid, a mom, a dad, a nice, big house. The next day, all gone. A couple big, scary men came to him, put him in a car, and took him to his Aunt's house.

"Mommy..." he whimpered, looking out the window. "Daddy..."

His parents...gone. Disappeared. Dead.

Terry Maybeck was a naive little child. He believed nothing bad happened in the world, it was just was in stories. Then his parents died, and his world changed.

Now he knows reality. Nothing was perfect. Things were never happy. The world may seem perfectly fine at first, but then it comes back to smack you in the face.

I hate the world he thought angrily, punching the pillow. He buried his face into the bed, smelling the unfamiliar scent, quite different from his old bed. He brought the blanket over his head, but he didn't cry. He couldn't.

He sniffed and raised his head. The smell of something...clay...filled his nostrils.

"What?" he muttered to himself, standing up. He stepped into the store, with a large sign that said "Closed."

"What's this?" Maybeck asked, picking up a plastic bag. In it was a big block of grey...stuff. Clay.

He poked his finger into it, letting it sink in. The stuff molded around his finger, keeping it's shape as he pulled it out. He giggled slightly, sticking his finger in another part. He took a handful of clay and dropped it onto the table. He sat down, his feet dangling above the ground.

He bit on his bottom lip, tasting salty blood. He pressed down on the clay ball, forming shapes. He laughed to himself.

Then all his rage came out. He growled, smacking his hand against the clay. He pulled and pushed, the hot tears he has been holding in finally spilling out, falling onto his little piece of clay. The clay started to take shape, and he put more muscle into his artwork.

Jelly smiled from a cracked door, before slowly closing it.

"I...hate...EVERYTHING!" little Maybeck yelled, grunting as he worked. The clay started to take shape... a heart. Girly, I know. But a heart.

Maybeck held up his little heart, the last of his tears falling. He was done.

He walked over to the window and laid it down for it to dry in the sunlight, since he was so young, he didn't know the proper way. He curled up next to the window, his little body suddenly very tired. He yawned, and his eyes closed.

"Are you alright?" a small, British voice asked. Maybeck opened his eyes. A young boy, about his age, with red, fiery hair and big eyes stared at him. Maybeck yawned and nodded. And looked at the clock. If only he knew how to read time. He wished he knew how long he was asleep...

The little boy held out his hand. "My name's Dell. But call me Philby."

Maybeck smiled and took the boys hand, and Philby helped him up. "I'm-" he stopped, about to say Terry. I need a cooler name... he thought.

"Well, my name IS Terry, but you can call me Maybeck. Or Donnie!" he said.

"Dell! We have to go, sweetie!" a bright haired woman, Philby's mother, yelled. Philby looked back at her and smiled.

"I guess I'll be seeing you around, Donnie?" he asked Maybeck. Maybeck smiled, liking the sound of that name.

"Defiantly!" little Donnie nodded eagerly. Maybe this place isn't too bad after all!


Maybeck, 15 years old, held the little heart in his hand. One long crack went town it's center, not deep enough to break it in half. But still there.

Memories flooded through Maybeck's head. A tear fell from his eye, falling and seeping into the heart's crack. He hugged it close to his chest, now sobbing. Of course, he would never let anyone see!

"Mom...Dad..." he whispered, wiping his eyes. The small, pathetic piece of cracked clay in his hands, his first piece of artwork ever, was his only company in his small room. He rubbed the heart gently. The imperfect, broken heart, never to be fixed.

Just like his real heart.

Maybeck felt the heart was the ONLY thing that understood him. The only thing that has seen him cry. The only thing that has shared the painful memories of his dark childhood. Not even the Keepers knew about his feelings. His tears. His broken heart.

Maybeck's broken heart.

He sniffed gently. Ever since he created the small heart, he has been attempting to do more artwork, his talent growing. He went from pathetic little hearts to amazing masterpieces.

If my parents never died, I would have never started to do art. I wouldn't have the Crazy Glaze. I wouldn't have the Keepers. I wouldn't have Wayne, or the characters, or the OTs, or Aunt Jelly, or this clay heart! he realized.

"TERRY! Your break is over!" Jelly called. He sighed and placed the heart back into the secret door, standing up. He closed it gently, and looked out the window.

"Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad," he whispered. Because of his parent's death, he was here. Where he belong. Their death was sad, yes. And Maybeck would most likely shed more tears along the way. But he was thankful, for now he had everything he wanted. Everything he needed. "Thank you."

"TERRY!" Jelly called again. He chuckled to himself and headed to the Crazy Glaze. His shift was about to begin.