December 1915

The year seemed to pass by in a whirlwind of colours and indistinguishable white noise. Theodore felt like he had been dragging himself throughout the days like he was made of molasses malaise; with time passing by in a dazy blur of days and meaningless months. The worst part of the whole ordeal was that whenever he spared the effort to try and recall anything distinguishable about the events that had happened (save for his arrival in Dallas), he found nothing but haze. There was nothing but a blur of tears, grey days and white noise (a noise which had once brought him comfort, now brought him pain). Days rolled into weeks, that ambled into months and eventually trudged into a year. Every day seemed like a repeat of the previous and sometimes they seemed like far too much effort went into even completing the simplest of tasks.

He didn't talk much in those days, save for a few grunted responses here and there; in fact, when he thought about how little he had talked before and how he never seemed to talk now, he almost would have of considered the former version of himself to be a bit of a chatterbox, it had gotten that bad. It's not that he didn't want to talk, or didn't have anything to say, it was just that whenever he opened his mouth to speak, he felt like his words kept getting stuck in the back of his throat. Like they became clogged in his airways, just like the lump that formed there whenever he was made to interact with anyone, or even venture outside to pick up the mail from the mailbox.

Those first few days had been spent asleep on the couch-turned-makeshift-bed that the Gussmans had set up for him. Occasionally he would skittishly emerge from the safety of the blankets to search the kitchen for food like a rabid raccoon or he would skirt the edges of the penthouse in order to partake in bathroom breaks that never lasted as long as they should have of. Eventually, the nook where Elliot kept his prized controversies (the ones that had now been put away into storage), was where Theodore would make his bed.

A simple washing line was hung up between the two opposing walls so that a curtain could be cinched there, to separate the mopey bed from the rest of the living room. It was something which gave the boy a semblance of privacy that he had sorely been missing; although neither Mr Pennycrumb nor Eleanor seemed to hold any reverence for it, as he sulked beneath the pile of blankets. Elliot, on the other hand, was still a little butt-hurt about losing his "secret stash" even though his things had only been moved to the storage cupboard-turned-dark-room. But he did little to argue against it because, as Theodore had quickly come to learn, Eleanor was rather headstrong and could argue with the best of them (although, not to the same calibre of his parents, thank Lore).

But as much as Theodore would have of preferred to silently wallow in his own misery, it wasn't always possible. Those were the days where he was forced to interact with the outside world (with the Gussmans or the few garden ladies who dared to step inside their little bubble based on nothing more than a few juicy rumours) instead of the somewhat coziness inside his gloomy brain. It was there, safe—trapped—inside his own mind, that he spent many moments very much in fear of himself and the righteous anxiety that filled with him paranoia whenever he thought of being abandoned by the Gussmans if (when) they got tired of him.

Although Theodore wouldn't outwardly admit it, he had become quite attached to the Gussmans over the brief time he had spent with them and he often found himself falling back into old habits, despite himself. Habits, that at the tender age of nine—"Nine and a half, Vera!"—which had made it oh so painstakingly hard to watch his vera walk out of the door each time that she had to go to work; even though, logically, he knew that she would come back (until that one day that she didn't). Although, Mr Pennycrumb's constant—persistent—presence did alleviate that soul-sucking pain a little. It was just nice to know that he had someone (even if that someone was a pug-faced chimaera) there who understood him, even if the Gussmans tried their best.

At times, Theodore thought that Elliot seemed a little estranged from him; not because he did not care about the boy, but simply because he had no idea how to help the grieving boy. Instead, he resigned himself to small and quiet gestures that seemed to be enough to comfort him, at the very least. Eleanor, on the other hand, seemed to have some sort of creepy sixth sense that allowed her to understand his every (unspoken) whim, however strange it may have been to her. The only way he could have of explained it was because of some womanly intuition or matronly instinct that persuaded her to do so. Either way, when she forced him to eat, he ate because doing otherwise meant disappointed & downtrodden expressions that pierced deep, and almost hurt worse than his own sorrow.

And all of that hurt didn't even take into account just how much this old (new) world had shifted around him whilst he had wallowed. Only a couple of months previous, the world had fallen into disrepair as they broke out into war; something so devastating that instigated by something so simple. The papers (and his previously modern World History lessons) told them that the First World War had burst into action on 28th July 1914, thanks to the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, at the hands of 19 year old, Gavrilo Princip. It was an act of premeditated desperation which ultimately led the World Powers into declaring war on one another, all because one person didn't like another.

And hadn't that been a huge kick in the teeth? To escape one world ending, only to end up in another. Theodore was well aware of what was to come, but even then at that point in time, it seemed like a far off thing. At least that was the opinion of many not currently involved with the newly-minted war; in the States, things were tense because people feared the resurgence of the Slavic Empire. Although there were a few who wanted a war, if only to break from the monotony of day-to-day life, or the lingering effects of the Influenza Epidemic that many suffered from. Even if it was a sad fact; war created jobs, money and opportunities that one might not find in peace time.

But again, that was a far off thing and since the war had yet to land itself on the American back doorstep, people more or less brushed it aside; it was a thing happening over there and none of their business (although there was some tightening of the belts as those few products imported from Europe, now found themselves unable to be transported across the Atlantic). Not that that sense of "your monkeys, your problem" would last forever, because deep in the back of his mind Theodore knew that if he thought his future looked bleak now, then it was nothing in comparison to what was to come (he was just glad that they lived in America, because if they had not, he was sure terrible things would have of awaited them in Europe).

Now fourteen years old, the young teen knew that he would likely find himself adorned in battle fatigues sometime in the near future as many boys (an alarmingly severe amount whom were underage) went off to war, to fight for God & Country. But in the meantime, he was content to swaddle himself in the childishness of warm hugs, of the mundane life of a vintage child and to have a proper life here in the past. Even if the near constant threat of the ever-approaching Mogadorian witch hunts and the wide-spreading World War hung over his head, he found himself almost enjoying his time in the mid 10s. Even with the near constant devil's advocate on his shoulder who he tried his best to ignore. With that whiny little voice in the back of his head who spoke whisperings about the ever-present fear of losing himself like he had done the last time he had lost his vera. What would happen if he lost someone again? What would happen if he REALLY let go? What good would it do to endanger MORE people? Hadn't he hurt them enough? Hadn't he lost enough? Who would love a monster like you?

It was hard and it wasn't much compared to what he was used to, but for now, it was home. And for the most part, Theodore thought he might be able to see the end of this dark & grey tunnel he called his mournful depression. At least that was until another fear, one much closer to home, struck him deep. One day, when he had felt particularly cheerful, he had tried to picture his family's faces in his mind and a heart aching terror had plucked at his heartstrings when he found that he couldn't.

They (the Gussmans) had put ads in the paper, asking after whomever had lost a boy; describing Theodore to a T, but no one had answered. At first, Theodore had held out some sort of hope that maybe one of his family members might be here in this era with him and see it, but that hope soon died as the days wore on with no response (deep down, he knew that there would likely never be one). But it was only when he had begun to forget the faces of his (extended) family—when he couldn't picture their faces, couldn't remember their voices or their personalities, other than some predetermined notion of who they had once been—that he decided to write down as much as he could remember. Funnily enough, it was such a project that seemed to bring both Theodore & Elliot closer together, despite its rather morbid content.

Names went to crudely drawn faces, labels were pinned to those faces and chicken-scratched descriptions were stamped beneath each member; all of which was pinned to a noticeboard that Elliot had gifted to him from the stash which had been moved to the storage cupboard. Even a year later, it still hurt too much to put actual names to faces and Theodore likely reasoned that it probably still would in the years to come. So, instead Theodore simply labelled each family member (excluding Vera) with their own respective number, even going so far as to name himself "Cero" [Zero] because he was nothing and everything; an infinite loop that would never end. Over time, Theodore knew that he would forget those first names of theirs and his mind's eye, they would simply be those numbers. Ent [One], Zvee [Two], Drey [Three], Vie [Four], Fën [Five], Sich [Six] & Vera.

As Christmas wreaths adorned doors and a white dusting of snow coated the grounds, Theodore finally called his first full mind-bending year in the past, to an end. Faced with what was now his reality, Theodore could only hope—could only wait & see—that the next year would be much better than the last. And as the mouth-watering scent of chow mein and wonton soup drifted on the air, pulling him out of the warm confines of his bed; silently hesitant footsteps leading him over towards the kitchen table where a simple spread had been laid out for the three of them, Theodore couldn't help it as his lips twitched upwards into a small smile.

One that was reciprocated by the somewhat tipsy Elliot, who cheered his entrance with a raised glass that sloshed sticky manischewitz onto his hand and the bustling Eleanor, who had pulled out a trio of paper crowns made from old newspapers, for them all to wear. Yes, Theodore thought as a stiff paper crown was tucked atop messy curls and he pulled out a chair to sit & eat with the joyous two, Next year will be better than the last.