A/N Special thanks to everyone who has reviewed!! ^_^
Chapter Six ~ The Fire.
For years to come that night would haunt Jack in his dreams forever. When he closed his kohl lined eyes all he could see was the orange flames consuming every thing he cared about, his ears filled with the roar of the fire. And all memories of the day before were just a distant blur.
He stood by the docks with Rosie and Bill, when a commotion coming from the town forced them to look round.
"Look, there's smoke!" Rosie gasped. "Some place must be on fire!" She said, excitedly. The three ran to join the crowds, heading towards the smoke.
Rosie put her hand over her mouth as she began to choke over the smoke fumes. Bill looked concerned, as he watched her stuttering.
"Maybe you should go home."
"I wouldn't miss this for the world."
"Rosie it's not some peep show, someone could be dying in that fire!" Jack chided her. He was surprised at himself, he usually would catch the excitement of the crowd, and enjoy such an occasion. If someone had died, it would add to the tragedy, but also the excitement. But tonight he felt different, weary even. He remembered the fire the trio had started earlier in the day, fire wasn't something one should play with. He swallowed as he thought how easily, him Rosie and Bill could have been caught by the flames.
But as they got nearer, a dread began to settle in his stomach, and his face went white with fear. It was his own house that spewed the flames. The fire roared from the roof, windows and door, the house seemed to be glazed in an orange blaze.
Jack ran forward with a cry, but Bill and Rosie grabbed his arms to stop him.
"Jack. . ." She breathed, in disbelief as the fear gripped her.
Bill opened his mouth to say something, but the smoke choked his lungs, and made his eyes water. But he did not release the grip he held on his friend.
The town's people were in desperation, Marcie was a beautiful actress, the symbol of everything they held dear, and Ronaldo Sparrow. . .good ol' Ronaldo Sparrow who wouldn't hurt a fly. They made several attempts to try and get inside the house, eventually two men, managed to enter the front door.
Jack watched agonised, as the seconds turned to hours, pinned in between his two friends.
After about five minutes, the men emerged carrying a spluttering figure. Jack broke free and ran forward.
"Marcie!" He shouted, but as he came nearer his voice dropped.
It wasn't Marcie, but Ronaldo Sparrow, gasping for breath, still clutching the Bible.
"Where's Marcie?" One of the rescuers demanded.
"Up. . .upstairs. . ." Jack stuttered, in the confusion.
"Come on." The rescuer indicated to his mate, and they set off back towards the house, but just as they got there, the complete upper floor blew up in a blaze of orange and yellow flames.
The roof caved in, and the house fell to the ground in a heap of ash, burning wood, and ferocious fire. The men had to hold Jack back as he tried to run at the flames. "Marcie!" He yelled.
Rosie and Bill put their arms around him, and tried desperately to lead him away. He refused to cry as they led him to his favourite spot. The old fortress was a castle like structure, a stationary position for the English soldiers. It was a haunted place, where brave men ventured only when they had too. But Jack loved it there. He would perch himself against the stone wall and stare out watching the sea, for hours at a time. But now the lapping waves did little to ease his pain.
The roaring of the fire still raged in his ears, and the guilt burned in his heart. His eyes watered, but no tears dropped. Marcie had taught him not to cry long ago. And the principle stayed with him, it wasn't right to show a weakness.
Bill and Rosie were scared, scared of what Jack might do. They didn't know what to say, so just sat one on either side of him, in silence.
"Jack, me lad." A man said, approaching them. He had a worn face, and his eyes held the tale of sadness. He lived in the town, and Jack recognised him as a regular to Marcie's shows at the theatre.
"Your pa be awake, an' askin' for ye."
Jack looked down, and breathed hard, he bit his lip to stop the tears from leaking from his eyes, before pushing himself. Rosie and Bill followed suit. They walked behind this man, this fan of Marcie's as he led them back to the burnt shell which was once Jack's home.
The smell of putrid smoke, and scorching flesh met their nostrils, and all but Jack felt repelled. Jack walked, his eyes downwards, staring at the ground, it was almost as though he was numb to the pain, to the atmosphere, to the horrific sight that met his red eyes.
They were led past the burnt shell of the past, to the doctors surgery, the home of Dr Shinel. Jack was led in, Rosie and Bill made to wait outside.
And there on the bed lay the feeble figure of Ronaldo Sparrow. With his last breath, before falling unconscious he uttered three words. Three words which would haunt Jack for years to come, far more then the old fortress haunted the townspeople, or the obligation to avenge his father haunted Bill.
The doctor scurried the young boy from the room.
"He should be better in the morning, it's the smoke fumes you know." He told him. "Stay with your friends tonight."
Jack walked back out into the cold of the night, still numb to the chilly Caribbean winds, and putrid acidic smell.
"I want to be alone." He said, as Bill and Rosie made to follow him. Rosie was going to go regardless, but Bill pulled her back.
"I know what it's like Rose, maybe he is better on his own,. Just for a while." He told her.
She shook her head, uncertainty reigned in her mind, but she stayed with Bill.
Where Jack went that night, no one is sure, he did not resurface until the morning, and looked very rough and tired. However one thing is certain, he didn't get much sleep. Those three words haunted his mind, filled every one of his thoughts as he lay staring up at the sky, oblivious to the rain, and wind. Three words uttered from his father's rasping, religious voice. Three words of blame, and guilt. How could an eleven year old boy handle all that? He could not get it from his mind, and as the wind gushed passed it seemed to be mocking him.
"You killed her." The wind called, "You killed her."
A/N Okay, I can't believe I just did that!! I killed Marcie. . .or did I?
Chapter Six ~ The Fire.
For years to come that night would haunt Jack in his dreams forever. When he closed his kohl lined eyes all he could see was the orange flames consuming every thing he cared about, his ears filled with the roar of the fire. And all memories of the day before were just a distant blur.
He stood by the docks with Rosie and Bill, when a commotion coming from the town forced them to look round.
"Look, there's smoke!" Rosie gasped. "Some place must be on fire!" She said, excitedly. The three ran to join the crowds, heading towards the smoke.
Rosie put her hand over her mouth as she began to choke over the smoke fumes. Bill looked concerned, as he watched her stuttering.
"Maybe you should go home."
"I wouldn't miss this for the world."
"Rosie it's not some peep show, someone could be dying in that fire!" Jack chided her. He was surprised at himself, he usually would catch the excitement of the crowd, and enjoy such an occasion. If someone had died, it would add to the tragedy, but also the excitement. But tonight he felt different, weary even. He remembered the fire the trio had started earlier in the day, fire wasn't something one should play with. He swallowed as he thought how easily, him Rosie and Bill could have been caught by the flames.
But as they got nearer, a dread began to settle in his stomach, and his face went white with fear. It was his own house that spewed the flames. The fire roared from the roof, windows and door, the house seemed to be glazed in an orange blaze.
Jack ran forward with a cry, but Bill and Rosie grabbed his arms to stop him.
"Jack. . ." She breathed, in disbelief as the fear gripped her.
Bill opened his mouth to say something, but the smoke choked his lungs, and made his eyes water. But he did not release the grip he held on his friend.
The town's people were in desperation, Marcie was a beautiful actress, the symbol of everything they held dear, and Ronaldo Sparrow. . .good ol' Ronaldo Sparrow who wouldn't hurt a fly. They made several attempts to try and get inside the house, eventually two men, managed to enter the front door.
Jack watched agonised, as the seconds turned to hours, pinned in between his two friends.
After about five minutes, the men emerged carrying a spluttering figure. Jack broke free and ran forward.
"Marcie!" He shouted, but as he came nearer his voice dropped.
It wasn't Marcie, but Ronaldo Sparrow, gasping for breath, still clutching the Bible.
"Where's Marcie?" One of the rescuers demanded.
"Up. . .upstairs. . ." Jack stuttered, in the confusion.
"Come on." The rescuer indicated to his mate, and they set off back towards the house, but just as they got there, the complete upper floor blew up in a blaze of orange and yellow flames.
The roof caved in, and the house fell to the ground in a heap of ash, burning wood, and ferocious fire. The men had to hold Jack back as he tried to run at the flames. "Marcie!" He yelled.
Rosie and Bill put their arms around him, and tried desperately to lead him away. He refused to cry as they led him to his favourite spot. The old fortress was a castle like structure, a stationary position for the English soldiers. It was a haunted place, where brave men ventured only when they had too. But Jack loved it there. He would perch himself against the stone wall and stare out watching the sea, for hours at a time. But now the lapping waves did little to ease his pain.
The roaring of the fire still raged in his ears, and the guilt burned in his heart. His eyes watered, but no tears dropped. Marcie had taught him not to cry long ago. And the principle stayed with him, it wasn't right to show a weakness.
Bill and Rosie were scared, scared of what Jack might do. They didn't know what to say, so just sat one on either side of him, in silence.
"Jack, me lad." A man said, approaching them. He had a worn face, and his eyes held the tale of sadness. He lived in the town, and Jack recognised him as a regular to Marcie's shows at the theatre.
"Your pa be awake, an' askin' for ye."
Jack looked down, and breathed hard, he bit his lip to stop the tears from leaking from his eyes, before pushing himself. Rosie and Bill followed suit. They walked behind this man, this fan of Marcie's as he led them back to the burnt shell which was once Jack's home.
The smell of putrid smoke, and scorching flesh met their nostrils, and all but Jack felt repelled. Jack walked, his eyes downwards, staring at the ground, it was almost as though he was numb to the pain, to the atmosphere, to the horrific sight that met his red eyes.
They were led past the burnt shell of the past, to the doctors surgery, the home of Dr Shinel. Jack was led in, Rosie and Bill made to wait outside.
And there on the bed lay the feeble figure of Ronaldo Sparrow. With his last breath, before falling unconscious he uttered three words. Three words which would haunt Jack for years to come, far more then the old fortress haunted the townspeople, or the obligation to avenge his father haunted Bill.
The doctor scurried the young boy from the room.
"He should be better in the morning, it's the smoke fumes you know." He told him. "Stay with your friends tonight."
Jack walked back out into the cold of the night, still numb to the chilly Caribbean winds, and putrid acidic smell.
"I want to be alone." He said, as Bill and Rosie made to follow him. Rosie was going to go regardless, but Bill pulled her back.
"I know what it's like Rose, maybe he is better on his own,. Just for a while." He told her.
She shook her head, uncertainty reigned in her mind, but she stayed with Bill.
Where Jack went that night, no one is sure, he did not resurface until the morning, and looked very rough and tired. However one thing is certain, he didn't get much sleep. Those three words haunted his mind, filled every one of his thoughts as he lay staring up at the sky, oblivious to the rain, and wind. Three words uttered from his father's rasping, religious voice. Three words of blame, and guilt. How could an eleven year old boy handle all that? He could not get it from his mind, and as the wind gushed passed it seemed to be mocking him.
"You killed her." The wind called, "You killed her."
A/N Okay, I can't believe I just did that!! I killed Marcie. . .or did I?
