Chapter 11: Before I Call Alex, I Have a Dream

JIM

It's my house. Small, and compact and basically almost an apartment – but it's home. The day is cloudy – either early morning or late afternoon, I can't tell – and suddenly I'm inside of the house without my legs carrying me there. Dreams do weird shit, you know.

Actually, when I first fell asleep, I felt like I was falling – falling, falling, falling, into a dark pit, deeper and deeper, and I couldn't fucking wake up. And then I landed, and I couldn't see anything; I could only feel and smell and hear, and then a voice came out from the darkness, and it sent a chill down my spine.

"Come again, whoreson?" The voice laughed, and it was evil and cold. Still, no matter how scared I am, you insult my mom, you fucking pay.

"Fuck you asshole!" I remember yelling. I remember kicking out as hard as I could in the direction of the voice, hearing a grunt.

"You think you can attack me, boy? Cronus, Titan of time?" The voice seemed a little farther off and kinda strained, like maybe I had kicked him right in the nuts. My grin only lasted a little bit, though, I remember. Greek mythology has never been something I've been interested in, but I know some of the basics. And one of the most basic things I know is that Cronus is the dude who ate his fucking kids. And people say I have issues. This guy was bad news, but this was my dream, so I just did my thing.

"Listen here, you ancient-ass-motherfucking-"

From there, things went weird. I started talking to Hades, and even though I couldn't see a damn fucking thing, I'm pretty sure he set his dear old dad on fire, by the sounds and the smells and the heat. Hmmph. The Lord of the Dead ain't such a bad guy, I guess. Even though he sounds exactly like the crippled fucker who beat the shit out of me. Like I said, dreams do weird shit.

Anyways, long story short, I ended up at my old house. I say 'I,' but it's actually probably 'we,' 'coz I have the sneaking suspicion that Mr. Underworld is still here with me, even though I can't see him.

I'm in the living room, and I see the clock on the wall reads that it's 6:30 pm. Huh, so it's pretty late. Then, I hear the sound of my own voice, light and small and fuck did I really sound like that when I was a little kid? My mom and me, small me – maybe three or four-year-old me are on the couch, and she's cuddling me, stroking my hair.

" When's Daddy comin' back, Momma?" There's a tightness in my chest, and I feel my breath hitch a little bit.

Shut. Up.

"Daddy will be back soon, baby. He's at work. Go to sleep." She rubs her hands on my back – on three-year-old me, I've decided, and I see myself fall asleep. I glance back at the clock again, and it reads 12:30 am.

I hear voices in the kitchen now, arguing but trying to keep low, and I slowly walk there.

"Where have you been, Leland?" It's my mom, and she looks angry and stressed the fuck out, with her usually free-flowing auburn hair in a ponytail. She looks like she's on the verge of tears, and I clench my fist, which doesn't hurt like I expect it to. Probably 'coz I'm dreaming.

My dad is leaning against the counter, with his arms crossed, and I realize that the only feature I get from him is the cleft in his chin. I don't get his dark brown hair, or his gray eyes, and I think that maybe, just maybe, that's why he left us. 'Coz I look almost nothing like him.

"Out," my dad says, picking a cigarette out from his pack of Camels. He lights it, and my mom pinches the bridge of her nose. She hates it when people smoke.

"I know you were out, Leland, but where?"

My dad exhales and dusts off his pants. "It's really none of your fucking business, Cora. You're not my damn wife." I feel my heart start to speed up, and I feel my body shaking with rage.

My mom clenches her fists. "Don't you talk to me like that, Leland. It is my fucking business, because I'm the mother of your child." She's not crying, but she looks like she's gonna. I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me at her words, almost like they inflicted pain.

"You still with me, Mr. Underworld?" I look back, and even though I don't see him, and he doesn't say anything, I fucking know he's there. I look back at my parents, and my mom looks like she's barely holding it together. My dad just keeps smoking.

"You damn well know I didn't want to be a father, Cora."

"Well that's too fucking bad, Leland!" my mom yells, throwing up her hands. "Condoms are only 98% effective, and the pill isn't 100% either, and now I'm a mom and you're a dad, so fucking act like it."

My dad peers at her, taking another drag from his cigarette. "You coulda had an abor-"

My mom puts her hands up. "Don't even say it – don't you even damn say it. He's your son, Leland." Her voice is quivering, and I wish I could just hold her; comfort her, but I can't, and I know it won't change a thing. Me, I know I got tears streaming from my eyes. My dad never even wanted me…I clench my fists.

He just shrugs, dammit! The asshole just shrugs and moves to the fridge, pulling out a soda and taking a big swig of it.

"Momma? Daddy? Whazz goin' on?" They both peer down at the little three-year-old version of myself, carrying a stuffed purple dragon by the end of its tail. I still have that thing, by the way…. Don't tell anyone, or I'll knock you out, got it? Good.

"How did he get out of the crib?" my dad asks, surprised.

"He hasn't been in a crib for the last year, Leland."

My dad smiles down lightly at me and he ruffles my hair. "Hey buddy," he says, crouching and putting his hands on my shoulders, "Why don't you take Drake and go back to bed?" He smiles at me, and it seems warm and reassuring, and everything a father's smile should be, but as I look at him now, I start to think that my dad was a really good actor.

"Why?" three-year-old me asks, shaking his head and hugging the purple dragon across his chest. He – I? – he looks tired and small and confused and goddamn, my eyes used to be fucking huge and green when I was little!

My dad squeezes my little-self's shoulders and smiles at me again. Seeing him do that, I feel a lump in my chest that I can't get rid of.

"Your daddy and mommy are talkin', buddy. We'll play in the morning, I promise. Go back to bed."

I see my smaller-self nodding, his eyelids drooping, and his feet unsteady. He's lying to you, you damned little idiot. "Night, Daddy," he says, kissing my dad on his clean-shaven cheek. "Love you." My smaller-self hugs the purple dragon close to his small chest and wobbles, wobbles, wobbles, his way to his small room down the hallway.

My dad doesn't say nothin' the entire time, and then he just gets up, picking up his soda with him and taking another swig.

"Leland?"

"Hmm?" He doesn't look back at my mom.

"Remember that night, four years ago when you said you loved me – did you mean it?"

My dad takes one last swig from his soda and tosses it. "I would have said anything to get into your pants. But yeah, I think I did mean it then." My dad starts to head out of the kitchen, but he stops when he hears her laugh.

It's a sad, desperate laugh; forced and terrible-sounding. "What about now?"

He shakes his head. "You know." He walks out of the kitchen, leaving my mom there, stunned and shaking. I walk over to her, try to hug her but my arms just end up going right through her. I try again and again and again, and she just keeps crying and crying and crying and I can't fucking do shit.

"I'm such a fucking idiot!" I yell, smashing my fist against the table. "It's all my fucking fault! All of it!" I smash my hand against the table over and over again and I realize that I'm just screaming at the damn thing – just fucking screaming at it, and my throat starts to constrict and I start to cough and my hands are starting to bleed. 'Cept, the weird thing is, they're bleeding gold, and it's getting all over the table and I just keep smashing and smashing until I feel someone's hands grab my arms and spin me around. Those arms warp around me, and even though I can't see them I can fucking feel their strength, and I can feel my head resting against a hard chest.

"You're fine," I hear a voice say. I guess in my dream he's Hades, and for whatever reason he sounds like the cripple and for whatever reason he's still in this dream. And for whatever reason, he's fucking hugging me, and this is my dream, so I'm the one dreaming that the Lord of the Underworld is giving me a bear hug and something in my mind almost cracks at the ridiculousness of that. I really must be losing it.

I try to struggle out of his grip, but it's impossible. "I'm not fucking fine!" I say, yelling against his chest with tears streaming from my eyes. "I'm not fucking okay!" I try punching at his back, but he's just there, solid as a rock even though I can't see him. "Let me go!" I try pushing away from him, but damn, my subconscious has made this guy strong. Strong like the cripple who sent me flying across the street.

"You're fine, Jim," he says again, and though his voice is deep and kinda rough, it's sorta soothing. With my head against his chest, I hear his steady heartbeat; purposeful and rthymic; getting louder with each pump.

"You're fine." I feel my eyes drift shut, and I stop struggling, and around us the world of my dream fades and I wake with a start at my alarm beeping. I'm drenched in fucking sweat, and my t-shirt is soaked through. I look over at the small digital clock on my dresser. 3:30 am. Shit.

"I need to call Alex." I say it aloud, to no one but myself.

I get up fast, feeling my head begin to swim, but it goes away soon enough. Quietly, I open my door and step out of my room, tiptoeing to the living room where we keep our landline. Honestly, I'm surprised we still have one.

I walk as softly as I can, and when I finally – finally – reach the phone, I dial Alex's number. It dials and dials, and for a second I'm really fucking scared that maybe he's in jail or even dead. In the end, though, my brother answers.

"Yeah?" His voice comes out groggy and tired, but it's him – it's Alex – and he's alive and not in jail. Goddamn, some good news.

"Alex!" I exclaim, doing my best to keep my voice a whisper.

"Who's this?"

"Little Slugger," I say, whispering.

"Oh shit! Jim, are you alright? We saw that guy hit you with that cane and send you flying, and then suddenly a group of Second Sons jumped us….Echo and Gordo got killed." I grip the phone tighter.

"How many Second Sons were there?" I ask, my voice coming out raspy.

"Around 40. There were so many…Jim, I thought you died. I came back after Lucas and me managed to ditch them through the alleyways. I couldn't find you-"

"I was at the hospital."

"At the hospital? How'd you get there?" He sounds confused.

"Doesn't matter. Look, I heard about some of the guys getting arrested on the news, Lucas and Tugg – what're we gonna do now?"

He doesn't talk for a while. He's thinking. I can hear the cogs in his head churning through the phone.

"We gotta lay low for a while, Little Slugger. Boss John isn't too happy with what happened, and I think the cops are still looking for me." Damn it all, that is not what I wanted to fucking hear.

"Alex-"

"Lay low, Little Slugger. You'll be a man soon. Give me a couple of months." A couple of months?!

"What?! No fucking way! That' way too long, Alex. You can't make me wait that long!" I know my voice is starting to get louder, but for some reason I just can't bring myself to care.

Still, another part of me feels relieved that I won't have to try and kill another person for a while.

Shut up.

"It's the best I can do, Little Slugger. Don't call me again. I'll call you."

"Alex, wait-" It's too late, though; he's hung up. I almost call him back. I don't, though. He said not to.

I put the phone back on the receiver and walk slowly back to my bedroom. I lie back down in my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

I sigh. "It's going to be a long fucking day."

A/N:

I hope you all liked this chapter! Read and review, my lovelies! :D