Chapter Two: A Total Mystery
Today was Jack's birthday (or the day that had been determined as the probable anniversary of his birth), his eighth. Though, aside from the mandatory cheap gift he had received from the staff and students collectively, this day was unlike any other in his droning, lonely life.
He had already lived in four different orphanages by this time, this being his fourth 'home'. He had been 'removed' from each of those institutions because he had been deemed too dangerous to control. The 'final attack' always terrified them.
~ They were beginning to become a cycle, the stages of these 'attacks'. He was gradually coming to accept them.
First he would concentrate on getting used to a new place, and everything would be fine; he was still a strange and often silent child, but this wasn't too unusual. Once he became accustomed to his new way of life, however, he would slowly become anxious, ill-at-ease. His left eye would start to water continuously, a slow trickle down his cheek. He would become jumpy during his classes, unable to sit still.
His fascination with weapons (an eccentricity he'd possessed for as long as he could remember, coming about when he'd first been able to hold things in his hands) would eventually take over his mind, and all of his energy would be devoted to securing potentially harmful objects and then fashioning them into a more deadly implement of destruction.
The final stage in his vicious cycle was when he would use these crudely made weapons to harm either himself or, far worse to the orphanage personnel, other people.
This was when he would be forcibly taken, literally kicking, screaming and flailing, from his home, placed in solitary confinement in a psychiatric hospital and pumped full of mind-numbing drugs for days until his mania ceased.
And when all of the doctors and nurses thought he was calm and serene enough (oh, but he had been 'cured' so many times!) to once again be trusted to live amongst humanity, he was sent back to the orphanage. But not the same one as before; people never wanted to see him again after the 'final attack' occurred.
He never knew how long he would be kept at a place, and so lived every day of his life as if he might not wake up in the same bed on the next one. ~
His class had been in recess for fifteen minutes now, and he had spent all of them sitting alone under the shade of his favorite tree, one of the few that dotted the dry expanse of land which surrounded the orphanage. He was always alone on the playground, because no one wanted to be near him.
Despite the debilitating circumstances of his birth, he had surprised his caregivers and instructors by possessing an uncannily astute mind, but only in certain areas of study. Though he spoke not a word during his classes and rarely completed any homework, his submitted testing proved that he was what could be called a genius in the areas of mathematics and technological science. These subjects seemed to come naturally to him, and the child would spend hours before a computer (all of the orphanages had at least one, as Dante had been born during the beginning of the technological age, but they were usually older models), tinkering away at mathematical problems and creating mechanical designs that none save himself could understand.
His reading and writing skills were, unfortunately, rather lacking; whether they could have been improved by closer study was never to be found out, as he chose not to develop any interest in the subjects. Subsequently, the only things he could spell correctly aside from his name were small words (such as 'hard' or 'core'), and when he was forced to read aloud it sounded as if he were attempting to speak in another language.
The boy developed a love of drawing as well, if not a great talent for it, and filled the pages of many notebooks with his crude sketches over the years. This artistic streak did nothing to endear him to his peers, however, for the things he drew were foreign and frightening to them. Jack Dante's preoccupation with weaponry crossed over into everything he did, and his drawings were populated with knives, guns, axes, or anything that could possibly be used to harm another being.
The majority of his pictures starred various designs of a creature who possessed the basic shape and form of a human, but was crafted completely out of knives and metal. He had dreamt both in his waking and sleeping hours of this thing for years, and strove to capture it perfectly on paper.
Its construction consumed him, compelled him and controlled him. And no one else could understand this drive. Even he himself did not yet know the purpose of this frantic need to create such a being, but he would soon find out.
In time, everything in Jack's life would click into place. But for the entirety of his early life, the very purpose of his existence was a mystery to all of those around him.
Jack Dante had grown from a pale, skinny infant into a pale, skinny boy. He was all points and angles, with bones jutting through the skin of his entire body and sharp facial features. As his doctors had predicted, he was small, shorter than the other boys his age, and even some that were younger than him. He preferred black clothing, and picked through the boxes of mostly used garments which were donated to the orphanage for this color, regardless of size or style. Thus, the clothes he wore were almost always too large for him, and they hung from his bony frame like shadows clinging to a corpse.
He had plain brown hair (it was neither light or dark, nor did it have any highlights in it whatsoever) that hung greasily around his face and over his eyes; he liked to hide behind it. He refused to have it cut, and would cause one of his scenes whenever one of the staff attempted to force him to do so. They had long since given up on him, and his hair was now gently brushing the tops of his shoulders.
His eyes appeared to have been frozen during a fearful and traumatic moment; though somewhat narrow, they were always opened wide, the pupils permanently dilated, and they were colored such a light blue shade that they looked like transparent spheres of cloudy morning sky. They were haunted eyes, and they frightened the other children, whose desolate situation was not mirrored in their own.
All in all, Jack Dante looked like a lost child, a wild thing. There was a savagery that lay buried in his eyes, and all who recognized it feared the time that it would be unleashed.
For, to know this child, that moment was inevitable. And no one wanted to be there when it happened.
Not even Jack.
Today was Jack's birthday (or the day that had been determined as the probable anniversary of his birth), his eighth. Though, aside from the mandatory cheap gift he had received from the staff and students collectively, this day was unlike any other in his droning, lonely life.
He had already lived in four different orphanages by this time, this being his fourth 'home'. He had been 'removed' from each of those institutions because he had been deemed too dangerous to control. The 'final attack' always terrified them.
~ They were beginning to become a cycle, the stages of these 'attacks'. He was gradually coming to accept them.
First he would concentrate on getting used to a new place, and everything would be fine; he was still a strange and often silent child, but this wasn't too unusual. Once he became accustomed to his new way of life, however, he would slowly become anxious, ill-at-ease. His left eye would start to water continuously, a slow trickle down his cheek. He would become jumpy during his classes, unable to sit still.
His fascination with weapons (an eccentricity he'd possessed for as long as he could remember, coming about when he'd first been able to hold things in his hands) would eventually take over his mind, and all of his energy would be devoted to securing potentially harmful objects and then fashioning them into a more deadly implement of destruction.
The final stage in his vicious cycle was when he would use these crudely made weapons to harm either himself or, far worse to the orphanage personnel, other people.
This was when he would be forcibly taken, literally kicking, screaming and flailing, from his home, placed in solitary confinement in a psychiatric hospital and pumped full of mind-numbing drugs for days until his mania ceased.
And when all of the doctors and nurses thought he was calm and serene enough (oh, but he had been 'cured' so many times!) to once again be trusted to live amongst humanity, he was sent back to the orphanage. But not the same one as before; people never wanted to see him again after the 'final attack' occurred.
He never knew how long he would be kept at a place, and so lived every day of his life as if he might not wake up in the same bed on the next one. ~
His class had been in recess for fifteen minutes now, and he had spent all of them sitting alone under the shade of his favorite tree, one of the few that dotted the dry expanse of land which surrounded the orphanage. He was always alone on the playground, because no one wanted to be near him.
Despite the debilitating circumstances of his birth, he had surprised his caregivers and instructors by possessing an uncannily astute mind, but only in certain areas of study. Though he spoke not a word during his classes and rarely completed any homework, his submitted testing proved that he was what could be called a genius in the areas of mathematics and technological science. These subjects seemed to come naturally to him, and the child would spend hours before a computer (all of the orphanages had at least one, as Dante had been born during the beginning of the technological age, but they were usually older models), tinkering away at mathematical problems and creating mechanical designs that none save himself could understand.
His reading and writing skills were, unfortunately, rather lacking; whether they could have been improved by closer study was never to be found out, as he chose not to develop any interest in the subjects. Subsequently, the only things he could spell correctly aside from his name were small words (such as 'hard' or 'core'), and when he was forced to read aloud it sounded as if he were attempting to speak in another language.
The boy developed a love of drawing as well, if not a great talent for it, and filled the pages of many notebooks with his crude sketches over the years. This artistic streak did nothing to endear him to his peers, however, for the things he drew were foreign and frightening to them. Jack Dante's preoccupation with weaponry crossed over into everything he did, and his drawings were populated with knives, guns, axes, or anything that could possibly be used to harm another being.
The majority of his pictures starred various designs of a creature who possessed the basic shape and form of a human, but was crafted completely out of knives and metal. He had dreamt both in his waking and sleeping hours of this thing for years, and strove to capture it perfectly on paper.
Its construction consumed him, compelled him and controlled him. And no one else could understand this drive. Even he himself did not yet know the purpose of this frantic need to create such a being, but he would soon find out.
In time, everything in Jack's life would click into place. But for the entirety of his early life, the very purpose of his existence was a mystery to all of those around him.
Jack Dante had grown from a pale, skinny infant into a pale, skinny boy. He was all points and angles, with bones jutting through the skin of his entire body and sharp facial features. As his doctors had predicted, he was small, shorter than the other boys his age, and even some that were younger than him. He preferred black clothing, and picked through the boxes of mostly used garments which were donated to the orphanage for this color, regardless of size or style. Thus, the clothes he wore were almost always too large for him, and they hung from his bony frame like shadows clinging to a corpse.
He had plain brown hair (it was neither light or dark, nor did it have any highlights in it whatsoever) that hung greasily around his face and over his eyes; he liked to hide behind it. He refused to have it cut, and would cause one of his scenes whenever one of the staff attempted to force him to do so. They had long since given up on him, and his hair was now gently brushing the tops of his shoulders.
His eyes appeared to have been frozen during a fearful and traumatic moment; though somewhat narrow, they were always opened wide, the pupils permanently dilated, and they were colored such a light blue shade that they looked like transparent spheres of cloudy morning sky. They were haunted eyes, and they frightened the other children, whose desolate situation was not mirrored in their own.
All in all, Jack Dante looked like a lost child, a wild thing. There was a savagery that lay buried in his eyes, and all who recognized it feared the time that it would be unleashed.
For, to know this child, that moment was inevitable. And no one wanted to be there when it happened.
Not even Jack.