Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Newsies, not LOVE. NOTHING!
Title: Violence Recovery
Author: Buttons14
Genre: Drama
Rating: M (subject to change)
There is no pleasure in life equal to that of the conquest of a vicious habit.—unknown
Chapter 12—Skittery
The air is crisp and thin. I am sitting on the front porch, watching the traffic lights change and shifting the camera's weight in my hands. Two boys, about my age, stumble by on the sidewalk, walking crookedly and speaking in drunken slur. The front door opens and Skittery is standing behind me. He watches the boys retreat as if he's going to be sick.
"You'd better get inside Spot," he says, "it's getting dark." His voice is distant and wandering. His eyes still follow the boys.
"Do you know them?" I ask.
Skittery blinks, his eyes focusing in on me. "No. but I knew many kids like them. Many kids like…" he trails off. "Never mind," he mumbles.
The light from the house is soft around Skittery's hair, making his curls appear angelic and his face soft. Our breath grows between us and drifts away with the breeze. Skittery turns around and walks inside.
0o0o0o0o0
It is late at night when I wake up. My feet are cold and the window between Blink's bed and mine is frosting over. Outside the moon cuts in a crisp white crescent. My throat is dry so I roll out of bed and cross the room to the door. Blink's breathing is deep and even. He breathes in his nose and out his mouth. The way we're taught to breath in gym class.
There is a light at the end of the hall, near the staircase. It glows, advancing upwards. I tiptoe to the bathroom, past Boots and Racetrack's room, the chalkboard on the door smudged, distorting their names. Past Crutchy and David's room, the door slightly open so that I can hear Crutchy snoring from within. And Jack and Skittery's room, which has a light on inside.
In the bathroom I get myself a glass of water straight from the tap. If I strain my ears I can hear Jack and Skittery talking next to the bathroom.
"It's hard Jack," Skittery is saying, "so many kids just like him. I don't want them to go through it too. Their families and friends, no one thinks about it."
Jack shifts, his bed creaking louder than he predicted it would. "I know Skitts."
"Kids abusing alcohol and drugs. And each other. How can they stand themselves?"
They pause and I hear only Crutchy snoring across the hall.
"Drugs only make us suffer. I wish I could…I wish I could…" he stops. "When he hit me he was laughing. Like we were playing. His eyes were red and diluted and his movements were quick and thoughtless."
I shiver.
Jack's bed creaks again. "Skittery, your brother was your abuser, I know," his voice is barely a whisper, "and it's a terrible thing, but you need to recover before you can help others."
There is no answer for a few minutes. I fill another glass of water.
"Goodnight Jack," comes Skittery's voice, quietly, like a secret.
"Goodnight."
When I walk past their room again the light has been turned off.
0o0o0o0o0o0
I have learned to love mornings. They are new and fresh. My hair is sticking to the side of my face and Blink's arm is hanging over the side of the bed. His face is scrunched up in a concerned expression, as if he is dreaming his way through a complicated math class. His eye patch is riding up around his forehead, his hair standing on end in the back.
Someone walks by in the hall outside the room, the floorboards creaking with every footstep. Seven footsteps before they reach the stairs.
After a moment of lying still in bed I climb out and find my way downstairs. The front hall is bright in a way I never could understand, in a way that allows the hall to be bright without the help of any windows. I think it's the glossy reflective surfaces of the pictures that line every wall.
The kitchen is alive as Medda rushes about, scrambling eggs and buttering toast. I help set the table with Andra. I notice now that her hair looks less…perky in the morning. Usually it is full and fifties-esque, but in the morning it deflates and hangs limply around her shoulders. But I'm a fine one to talk, my hair is messy and dreadlocked because I haven't brushed it in three months.
The clock on the wall reads seven thirty and the calendar indicates that it's a Monday. Time for school again. And sure enough, five minutes later Mr. Seitz enters the dining room and helps himself to a piece of toast. Everyone else is making their way downstairs, clad in their pajamas, rubbing sleep out of their eyes and yawning widely.
We eat, the cutlery clinking softly, soft conversation floating around the table in that sleepy morning sort of way. I down three glasses of orange juice and a pile of eggs, toast and bacon before cleaning up and heading back upstairs.
The rest of the house is eerily silent; empty. Upstairs the rooms are warm and my bed looks inviting, but I pull a pair of ripped jeans out of the drawer, my purple graphic tee from the Salvation Army and my old, newly washed, black hooded sweater, from when I first came to VRCT. Blink knocks on the door and opens it without waiting for an answer. We change without words, Blink into a pair of olive green corduroy pants and a plain white shirt that has a whole on the bottom cuff, measuring about an inch in diameter. He puts on a red sweater and we sit across each other on our beds, pulling our sock on each foot. Me: my left first, him his right.
I leave the room and head for the stairs. Coming straight from his room, Skittery falls into step with me. He is wearing light jeans and a long-sleeved grey and green rugby shirt. For the first time I see a scar that rides the ridge between his nose and his lip. It is white and soft, barely noticeable.
"Get a good sleep Spot?" he asks me.
"Yeah," I say, remembering my bathroom eavesdrop from the night before. "How 'bout you?"
Skittery doesn't answer.
End Chapter
((Yay! Guess what everyone? I'm not dead. Wow. You would have thought I was, what, with the amount of time I took to update!)) ((ALSO! I don't know if anyone noticed, but all of my song fics have been taken down. Yes, this is terrible. Even Travelin' Soldier. This sucks.))
Shoutouts:
Coin—My dad came over to Toronto when he was eighteen and my mom is Dutch/Irish mixed, so I'm kind of in the same boat as you in terms of the Thanksgiving thing. But we still have a dinner. I like turkey and stuffing.
Erin Go Bragh—I like coming back home after a long trip. Like just this weekend I was in New York (Buffalo area) for my sister's soccer tournament and I was so happy to get back home. There's just something so oddly comforting knowing that the last person who slept in your bed was you and not possibly some naked fifty year old. Ew.
C.M. Higgins—Wow. It's official people, I have written the best story with meaning ever! Well…maybe not ever, but on this computer, at least.
itsasledgehammer—(Chapter 1) I am trying to fit every newsie in, but they may only make short appearances in or be mentioned later on or only referenced. Sorry!
Nakaia Aidan-Sun—Oh no! That means that you're leaving in two days! I hope you get to read this and review! Bon Voyage!
SpellBell—No! Please don't kill me! See? I updated! Wait…(thinks) do you even know where I live?
Shooter O'Brien—Well, I'm glad that you don't smell and that you're surprised about what I like to call the 'Jules Factor'. Yes, I did just make that up now.
mistymixwolf—(Chapter 2) Yes, you had better keep reading! And reviewing!