I thought about leavin'
But I couldn't even get outta bed
Hitchin', but I couldn't get a ride outta town
Now anyone who really wanted me to be down
Come 'round
It was really a very normal afternoon -- well, as normal as things had gotten lately. Doing homework wouldn't be considered 'normal' in any other situation, but a lot of things had changed -- the definition of 'normal' being one of them.
"Donovan, man, look," Shay said suddenly, distracting Donovan from his ever-exciting paper on Abraham Lincoln. "That's Mr. Kerrigan class!" He looked upwards obediently, a dry comeback on his lips.
(Well, yes, that would be Kerrigan's classroom, wouldn't it, Shay?)
But there was something wrong with the scene, and alarms went off -- both in his head and from the school.
(There shouldn't be smoke.)
Donovan was out of his chair before he realized it.
(there shouldn't be smoke no uh-uh)
"Come on," he said quickly, and hurried towards the stairwell.
Shay was ahead of him. Donovan darted up the stairs as best he could, but the flood of panicked students was slowing him down.
(fire there's fire up here)
He seemed to be moving much too slow for the urgency of the situation, but he was indeed running. As fast as he could.
"Mr. Kerrigan!" Donovan cried, shoving aside yet another moron in his way. Shay got there before he did; he could glimpse the flames that danced inside the classroom. A pile of desks seemed to be the cause.
(can't go in there I can't)
But Mr. Kerrigan was pretty near the blaze too, and he wasn't moving. Donovan ran into Shay at the doorway, staring with wide eyes.
"Mr. Kerrigan!" he yelled again, and signaled for Shay to follow.
(fire fire I don't like fire)
He dodged past the nearest pile of flaming books. Mr. Kerrigan was in sight, still unmoving.
(fire it's all around)
Donovan was already too far in to go back when he remembered how much he hated fire.
I thought about singin'
But I couldn't remember all of the words
Breakin', but I couldn't get the pieces apart
Laughin', never knowin' what the joke was about
Now I'm down
He had been young, very young when it all started. Daddy had left and taken the money with him. Mommy had lost her job and her rational mind along with it. Donovan was only four when the Bad Man came. He was dubbed 'the Bad Man' for obvious reasons; he looked bad, he sounded bad, and always -- always -- he smelled bad.
"Here," the Bad Man had said to Mommy, "this is the stuff. Pure, 100% gen-u-ine." He said it like that, each syllable slow and deliberate. Donovan watched with wide eyes as Mommy took the bag of white powder from the Bad Man.
"Are you sure?" She had sniffled that, because it seemed that recently all she did was cry. "Are you sure? 100%?"
"Gen-u-ine," the Bad Man said again, and grinned. An ugly grin, rotted teeth. Donovan had cringed at the sight.
"And it takes care of the pain?" Mommy was looking at the powder with unconcealed wonder. "All of it?"
"I said it was pure, didn't I?" The Bad Man glanced at Donovan as if he had just now noticed him. "Hey there, sport," he said, and coughed drily afterwards. Donovan, frightened at the sound of his scratchy voice, had backed away quickly and disappeared into the back room of the apartment. "Skittish little guy, isn't he?" The Bad Man laughed at his own unhumorous comment and coughed again.
Things had gone downhill from there.
Mommy became more and more addicted to the "100% gen-u-ine" powder, and her life was an endless parade of job searching and drug buying. Donovan watched in silent wonder. She was becoming less and less the person he had known from birth, and it looked as if she would never be that person again. There was just enough money to keep the dingy downtown apartment, but nights had gone by when his stomach ached and he cried for food. Mommy was in her gen-u-ine stupor by then, so all Donovan got from her was a slurred order to go to bed. Those times, he wished desperately that he could get the relief from pain that his mother seemed to get.
Donovan was nearly 9 when Mommy lost control.
And I wonder how I never got the burn
And if I'm ever gonna learn
How lonely people make a life
One strain at a time
"Come here, Donny," she called one night, and he had trotted obediently into the kitchen.
"Hm?" Donovan chirped pleasantly. Mommy had looked up with glazed-over eyes.
"Light Mommy's cigarette for her, would you?" She held the plastic lighter towards him with a shaking hand. "I can't seem to get it myself." He watched the lighter warily. He had seen Mommy shaky like that before, and she had almost burned herself. Donovan didn't like lighting her cigarettes, because she was always very quiet afterwards, but he didn't want Mommy to hurt herself again.
"Yes, Mommy," he reluctantly, and clicked the lighter like she had shown him. A tiny flame sprang to life. Donovan held it out to the end of her cigarette.
"Thank you, Donny dear." Mommy took a long drag and gave a shuddery sigh. "Thank you." He tossed the lighter to the table, turning back towards the living room. He wanted to go back to his toys.
"Yes, Mommy," he said mechanically. Donovan hadn't even taken three steps before there was a frightened shriek. He whirled clumsily, sneakers thudding on the dirty tiles. Mommy's shaky hands had turned against her; she had dropped the cigarette onto the table. Unfortunately, she was in the process of reading the paper when it had happened, and that was instantly aflame.
"Donovan!" Mommy had screeched, grabbing him roughly by the collar. "Look what you did, Donovan! Look what you did! Put it out!" Donovan watched in a dull sort of fear. He had never seen a fire like that before. He tried desperately to remember what it was the fireman at school had said to do in case of fire.
(Don't use water, it could only spread.)
Donovan pulled away from Mommy and searched the kitchen madly.
(Fire extinguisher should be used in case of an emergency.)
There was one on the wall. It looked old and rusty, but what adults said was almost always true, so he hurried and took it off the hook.
(Aim directly at the flame and spray.)
He did what he could; the fire extinguisher was old and his hands were small, but sure enough, the white foam came out in a loud rush and threw itself on the flames, which had spread towards the end of the table. Mommy was still shrieking, but no real words. She did that sometimes, almost as if she were speaking to herself in another language. Donovan kept spraying, not paying attention to her.
(Continue extinguishing until all flames have died.)
Indeed, the fire was done, but he didn't let up until he was absolutely sure that it had been vanquished. The flames were all gone. Donovan dropped the extinguisher with a weary smile. The fireman had been right.
"Stupid boy!" His mother suddenly made herself known again, screaming in very real words. "Stupid boy, look what you've done! You've ruined the kitchen!" Donovan turned to explain what had happened -- sometimes Mommy needed that -- but he was met with the sharp smack of a palm on his cheek.
"Mommy!" he exclaimed, stumbling backwards. There had been absolutely no possiblity that Mommy would have been that angry, but suddenly the possiblity was very real. She was angry.
"Stupid boy!" she screeched, and hit him again.
Forgot about everything
And everyone I needed before
Tryin' to get a handle on a reason to shine
Pickin' up the pieces that are fallin' behind
Takes time
It went on for what seemed a very long time before Mommy had finally come to her senses.
"Donny," she had mumbled, looking confused. Donovan was on the floor in a whimpering ball by that time, sore and frightened.
"It wasn't my fault, Mommy," he choked through tears. Mommy dropped to her knees, reaching towards him. Donovan cringed and curled tighter into his ball. "Please don't hit me again," he sobbed, panic overcoming him. "Please, please, don't hit me, please don't--"
"I'm so sorry," Mommy whispered, and hugged him to her chest. That hurt the new bruises, but Donovan embraced her anyway. It wasn't her fault, he knew -- the Bad Man was to blame.
And -- deep inside -- he knew that the fire had something to do with it too.
Mr. Kerrigan was limp and very heavy, but somehow Donovan and Shay managed to pull him into the safety of the hallway.
"Mr. Kerrigan," Shay said breathlessly. Donovan glanced around madly, trying to get rid of the brutal memory.
(fire extinguisher should be used in case of an emergency)
But the fire was too big for just one extinguisher, and he knew that. It would be better to let the fire department handle it.
(the inhalation of smoke can be deadly)
His mind told him that there was someone else in there. Maybe passed out from the smoke, maybe unable to move. Donovan poked his head back into the room, just to be sure.
(anyone home)
He couldn't see anyone -- the smoke was very thick, but there didn't seem to be any others. He turned to check on Mr. Kerrigan.
(wait)
Something inside desperately told him to wait, to check again, so he did.
(told you)
There was Mr. Steven's Brazilian instrument, the one he seemed to love so much.
("Try and stay with my beat, okay?")
Donovan stared at it helplessly as the flames got closer.
("You got a name?")
So I wonder how I never got the burn
And if I'm ever gonna learn
How lonely people make a life
One strain at a time
And still shine
When capoeira had started, he went into the idea with an open mind. Sure, it sounded like something out of a Bruce Lee movie, but anything would be better than gym class. Besides -- Donovan had always been a little weaker than the other guys, and he couldn't last on his wits forever. There would come a day when a guy like Shay's brother would jump him, and there would be no way of talking himself out of that situation.
He instantly liked Louis.
Donovan really didn't know why. There was just a friendly air about him, and he seemed to be as reluctant as everyone else. He wasn't forcing them to do anything. He wanted them to learn. And, as uncool as it seemed, Donovan wanted to learn.
Oh, and the music had a good beat.
That was another thing. He really liked the music. When he heard the Brazilian chanting that first day, it just... well, it begged to be spiced up. It had potential. Clutching his boombox securely, Donovan had inched closer to Mr. Kerrigan and Louis.
"Um," he said slowly, "could I borrow this?" He held up the tape and shook it for emphasis. "I mean, just for tonight." Louis had squinted at him, but not unkindly.
"Just don't forget where it came from." Some of that trust he had been talking about, Donovan noted, and smiled experimentally.
"Promise." He turned to go, glad that hadn't snowballed into some long discussion about his files. That was the only thing he didn't like: the fact that Louis had the freedom to look into his privacy. But that wasn't his choice either.
"You got a name?" The words were sudden and unexpected. He turned.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "Donovan." Louis had smiled.
"Donovan. I'll see you tomorrow, Donovan." Donovan nodded, smiling too. Just a little one.
"Okay."
He had meant that, too. He wanted to go to this class, he wanted to learn. That was majorly uncool, but Donovan wasn't sure if he even cared what cool was anymore. The classes were great, as the students slowly fell into the same beat. Donovan loved playing the drums. Rhythms were his specialty, and he could keep up with anything that Louis played. The field trip to the coast was purely awesome, even though it had ended awkwardly. He didn't understand why Silverio couldn't just get his head out of his ass. But maybe, Donovan mused silently, it had been so far up for so long that removal was impossible.
But, overall, he was happy.
Class was great, school was improving, and he was actually having fun with other people. As long as dear old Mommy got stoned enough to where she fell asleep on the couch before he got home, Donovan's day would be perfect. And that was the product of Louis. He had given Donovan what no one else had: a second look and a second chance. Hope, trust, a future. Donovan would always be grateful for that.
And I wonder how I never got the burn
And if I'm ever gonna learn
How lonely people make a life
He stared at the flames helplessly. That stupid stick was special to Louis. Donovan might be able to repay him for what he'd done.
"I'll be right back, Shay," he shouted. Shay looked up, frowning in confusion.
"What's wrong--"
"No!" Donovan shook his head. "No, just stay with him!" Those words on his lips, he darted into the room.
"Are you crazy!?" Shay left Mr. Kerrigan's side to yell after Donovan, but he had a mission. He pushed past the billowing clouds of smoke and looked around wildly.
(there)
Donovan stumbled forward, the fumes stinging his eyes and making them water.
(it's right there just grab it)
"I've... I've got it," he mumbled to himself, reaching towards the instrument. But he lost his footing and fell forward. His knees hit the floor with a painful crack. Undaunted, however, Donovan crawled towards the instrument. The smoke was thick now. His eyes watered and his throat contracted painfully, demanding oxygen. But he had to repay Louis. And he had to face the fire.
The moment he grabbed hold of the stick, voices filled his head.
("Look what you did, Donovan!")
("100% gen-u-ine.")
("You got a name?")
Donovan turned and looked helplessly at the door, where Shay was still yelling for him.
("Light Mommy's cigarette for her, would you?")
("Skittish little guy, isn't he?")
("Just don't forget where it came from.")
"Donovan!" Shay cried, trying to see through the smoke. "Get your ass out here, man! The whole place is goin' off!"
(can't)
Donovan coughed hard. The smoke was all around now, and the flames were closing in.
(fire all over)
("STUPID BOY!")
("I said it was pure, didn't I?")
("I'll see you tomorrow, Donovan.")
He tried to call back to Shay, but his throat contracted painfully and Donovan was launched into a coughing fit. His grip on the stick slackened.
(gotta get out the fire)
A sudden, unexpected pile of flaming debris rained down from the ceiling, and his escape route was blocked.
(oh crap that's not good)
"Help," Donovan gasped, but that only let more poison smoke into his mouth. Images came now instead of voices: Daddy's back as he disappeared out the door; Mommy's glazed-over eyes as she took a snort of the magical white powder that took away all pain; the Bad Man's rotting teeth; Louis's kind eyes and smile.
("You got a name?")
Donovan's vision swam. Painful tears flowed from the corners of his eyes, but he could do nothing to stop them. Because now the fire was getting closer, ever closer, and he could feel the heat.
("LOOK WHAT YOU DID!")
(but I didn't do anything)
He clawed helplessly at the floor, feeling his strength ebb.
(what did I do?)
The stick was forgotten; Donovan knew his plan to thank Louis had failed. Like most of what he did.
("You got a name?")
(help me)
Donovan let his head hit the floor with a painful thump. The images flew by with frightening speed and the voices all blurred together.
(fire I don't like fire it's the fire's fault)
Except two.
("You got a name?")
("Yeah. Donovan.")
The flames closed in and brought pain with them.
("I'll see you tomorrow, Donovan.")
(no I won't)
Donovan surrendered to the fire and the smoke. He could still hear Shay calling faintly, but the two voices in his mind were still strong.
("Just don't forget where it came from.")
("Promise.")
And then what he felt wasn't the pain or the fear. It was a sense of pride. He had been taught, he had learned, he had become more than what was expected. Louis had taught him that.
(Thank you, Louis.)
There would be no thanks to Louis for all he had done. That was the biggest disappointment -- that he would never get to thank him.
(I'm sorry.)
Donovan closed his eyes for the final time.
(I tried.)
And all this time I wonder
How I never got the burn
And if I'm ever gonna learn
How lonely people make their life
One strain at a time
And still shine