Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Newsies, not LOVE. NOTHING!
Title: Violence Recovery
Author: Buttons
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13 (subject to change)
A/n: Thank you everyone who reviewed. This second chapter is just Spot's first day and such. I'm sorry to update so late, but I was trying to make it long. I can't even get online! In fact, I'm not even updating this! My good friend Almatari is!
You never see the bad days in a photo album, but it is those days that get us form one happy snapshot to the next. –Anonymous
Chapter 2—Cameras Capture Emotions
Denton has an old red Plymouth sedan. I sit in the passenger seat, next to him. Out the window the dingy streets fly by, unstopping and depressing.
We pull up in front of a run-down building. The shop front is grimy and the heading over the door reads 'Salvation Army'.
Once inside Denton hands me forty dollars.
"Use it on clothes," he says, "I won't try to influence your style, but choose sensible things."
I tuck the bills into the grungy pocket of my jeans and head for the racks.
The pants are all freshly washed, pressed and identically hung. There is a whole table covered in neatly folded t-shirts, as well as a bin filled with hats.
Pants are five dollars, shirts are three and hats are fifty cents apiece.
I scour the racks. Cords, hideous plaid pants, pinstriped slacks and old jeans.
I take off pairs of pants, doing the math in my head. Four pants if twenty dollars, two hats for one dollar, six shirts and I'll have a dollar left for a belt.
I hoist clothes off the racks and throw them over my shoulder. A pair of black slacks, jeans with holes in the knees, a plain black shirt, a deep purple shirt with graphic design, a green one, a red one, a thick black leather belt—a few inches too long—and two knitted toques, one black and one grey.
Denton is talking to the cashier. They seem to know each other. I unload my arms onto the countertop and smile sheepishly.
We wait.
"Mr. Denton," I say after a while, "how did you know I was a...victim?" I ask.
He shrugs and watched the cashier bag my clothes. "Simon, I've been doing this for years. I can tell when a kid is in trouble. I can identify it. It's the way you sit, hold yourself. Compare the others to kids you see on the streets. Something's dead in their eyes, but something else is born. A hatred. A thirst."
0o0o0o0
The house was quiet, but for soft murmurs of voices below. Denton and I descended the stairs. We passed the large downstairs kitchen, which was attached to the dining room and through the dark hallways, closer to the voices.
Ele was sitting in the hall between two closed doors wearing a navy blue long-sleeved sweater and scruffy jeans.
"You OK Ele?" asked Denton lightly.
She looked from him to me and nodded. "Just getting some quiet," she said in a soft voice.
Denton pushed one of the doors open and we stepped inside.
The boys were sitting at desks. The room looked much like a preschool class with bright colours and large pictures. There was an older man at the front. He had long white sideburns and a round, red face.
The class stopped.
Now that everyone had changed into their day clothes the room looked ironic. Most of them dressed in dark colours. Boots wore black sweat pants and a grey t-shirt, Crutchy wore brown—slightly tattered—pants and a heavy black sweater, David wore probably the only colour in the room, a blur dress shirt and neat black slacks. Blink still had his eye patch, as well as dark jeans and a dark army print shirt. Worse was Racetrack, who wore a pair of those plaid pants, a tweed vest, and a black t-shirt.
I could feel their eyes on me.
"Hello Mr. Seitz, this is Simon," said Denton brightly.
Mr. Seitz smiled. "I trust you'll be joining my class then?" he asked.
I wasn't sure, but I nodded anyways.
Denton explained that Mr. Seitz was the hired teacher for the boys and Medda worked with the girls. "I only went to school for psychology, whereas Medda attended school for teaching."
I nodded again. We stayed a talked for a while, putting the lesson on hold while we spoke to Mr. Seitz, who I have decided is a nice guy. He is cheerful and likes kids. Then Mr. Denton let me go to my room and put away my clothes.
I also changed while I was there. I put on one of the jeans and the green shirt. I pulled the belt through my belt loops and buckled it up. After a while Blink came up.
"Hi," he said, flinging a notebook onto his bed. He picked up his camera from his dresser and fiddled with it. "Got new clothes?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.
Awkward silence. But really, what am I supposed to say to him?
"Denton'll find you a camera too," Blink told me, turning the lens on me and adjusting the zoom.
"So," I asked, "you all have cameras?"
"Uh huh," said Blink without surfacing from behind the body. "It helps us unleash our frustration into something creative and productive. For example, one of the first pictures I ever took was of a fire escape, symbolizing my feeling of entrapment, like there was no getaway from the world I was in. As we are here longer we become more secure and the type of pictures that we take change. Denton and Medda can relate with us when we put our feelings into pictures and it's easier to explain ourselves."
I nodded. So we were kinda like graded on our pictures? The only pictures I ever took were at birthday parties and stuff like that. How was I supposed to find symbolism for what I'm feeling?
"It's easier than you think," Blink told me.
0o0o0o0
Denton called me down to his office. It is in the basement and is bright.
"I like the light," Denton told me. "Nothing should be left out in the dark."
This made my skin crawl.
He passed me a change of pyjamas, a heavy—but worn—coat, and a weighty camera. The camera had sharp metallic switches and gleamed in the light of his office.
"There is film in my office, I'm always fully stocked, just help yourself. Feel free to post your pictures anywhere around the building, but respect the others' space too. The darkroom is down the hall and you need to book hours at a time. There is a time table on the door, just sign your name up."
I nodded.
"Your first roll of film I want to see. It will help me get an idea of who you are and how you feel, OK?"
Just like Blink had said. I nodded again.
I clutched the pile in my hands. They were warm and the room was hazy in the bright lights. The fabric of the pyjama bottoms was soft and smelt of detergent and the coat was tough and sturdy.
"Thank you so, so much sir," I whispered.
An image of my brother lying on the floor flashed before my eyes. I shut them and wished it away.
"Dinner is in ten minutes," Denton said, though softly, having noticed my cringe. "Go drop those off and meet in the dining room."
0o0o0o0
On my way upstairs I stop in the hall. The pictures on the wall are various. Some are in black and white, some colour. Some are blurry, others sharply focused and others still wispy and artistic. There is a picture of a subway grate, a broken window, a tree recently struck by lightening, a busy construction zone and a fire escape. Blink's fire escape.
It is in colour, the background the solid red brick wall, and the metal escape harsh and black. It is looking up at an angle, making it longer and unending. The feeling of suffocation reaches my chest, but disappears when I look away.
There are many photos of random, but meaningful things. Of fire hydrants and abandoned factories, but none of people. No one in the house is displayed on the walls. Not Denton, Medda, Jack or Skittery. None of the kids, not Mr. Seitz. I run my hand over the photos, causing them to scatter and ruffle. They'll post their feelings of entrapment, mistrust and judgement, but not of relief, rejoice and safety? Aren't they happy to be here? To be found and rescued?
I guess so, but no one has been taught what it's like to be loved. So I guess they wouldn't have been taught how to display it.
0o0o0o0
Dinner is loud. I didn't think it would be, but by the end of the day everyone has given up being defensive and has begun talking. It is at this time that I am reminded of a summer camp.
There is a thin cloud of heat hanging over all the food. There are hot buns and pasta and steamed beans and potatoes. Everyone is chattering to others and digging in. Except for Autumn. She stares at her plate and doesn't talk.
"How was your first day?" asked Jack, shovelling potatoes onto his plate.
I shrugged. "OK."
I notice that the girls don't eat much, but that the boys are unwavering in their appetites.
"I booked the darkroom after dinner, but you can use it if you want," Sapphy is saying to Coin, who is wearing a black-and-white polka dotted skirt and a black t-shirt.
We are like a mix of medias. Some of us look like artists, like Andra or Sapphy, others could be bookworms and studious, such as David and Skittery. Coin and is the trend-setter and Racetrack is so behind that it's cool. Charley is the withdrawn rocker and Autumn is the misunderstood beauty. Ele and Boots are hard to read, but always there and constant. Crutchy is the optimist and Blink is the support system. In a strange way, out mosaic makes us stronger. The girls don't all trust us, but us being here helps.
All of a sudden I know what I want my first picture to be of.
End Chapter
((I know everyone probably expected this to be longer, but too bad! No, I'm joking, the real reason is that couldn't get on the computer or online. I have written twenty-eight pages, but they are all over the place so it wouldn't make sense to type them all up and add them. No way anyone would understand them.))
Shoutouts
Once again, I couldn't get online and therefore I couldn't read reviews and therefore I couldn't write proper shoutouts. (sigh)
C.M. Higgins
Sapphy
Erin Go Bragh
Utopia Today
Shooter O'Brien
Inquisitive
Coin
Nakaia Aidan-Sun
Dreamer110