In this universe, Burgess is not located in the United States. It's a hot desert town.
Possible TWs: Mentions of scratching self, blood, and sickness. A synopsis is at the end.
I sit against the wall in an alleyway, the cold bricks seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt and cooling my overheated skin. The alleyway is the only shelter I can find from the beating sun. Dark shadows shield me from the heat, and I can finally breathe.
I take off my heavy boots, emptying them of sand and dirt. I can still feel the pesky particles between my toes, but there's nothing I can do about that. Showers cost fifty coins, and I just spent my last bit on a cold water bottle—which is now empty, and no longer useful to me.
I stretch my legs out as I lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes. I can hear the bustling streets just outside my safe haven. Horse-drawn carriages clatter down the stone paths. The sweltering heat causes the scent of horse manure to burn my nose, and I pull my hood up further to cover my eyes.
The streets are quiet in the early mornings. The only interruption of the silence is the occasional carriage trotting past. I look out into the streets. Dirt and sand blow across the earth. As the hours pass, the heat becomes unbearable—even in the shaded alleyway.
I stand up, brushing off my backside. Sand particles fall from my touch. I pull my hood down to cover the better part of my face and grab my emptied water container—no use wasting it.
It's midday, so I make my way to the market. My cloak shields my skin from the burning sun, and I'm suddenly thankful for such a heavy piece of clothing.
"G'day young man!" a carriage trots past me. I glance up to see the coachman tipping his hat at me.
"Ah yes! Lovely weather," I wave at him. He smiles, and I manage to return the gesture before going on my way. The sand crunches under my boots as I walk. I revel in the sound. It's a reminder that I'm still here, I'm still alive, despite everything. I let the sound fill my ears as I walk.
The market is packed full of people. It's hard to move anywhere without running into someone or brushing shoulders—the perfect place to swipe some food from the stands. Everyone's chatter makes its way to my ears, and I pick up on bits and pieces of conversation.
"Oh, this is perfect for Jane!" a lady turns to her husband, pointing at the (totally not fake) holistic stand. She found a remedy for the flu.
"Honey, I think she's too sick to even keep that down," her husband replies. Her expression falls. I step forward.
"Excuse me, ma'am, sir?" I tap on her shoulder. Her dress feels old, ready to fall apart at the seams. The rough texture stays on my hand as I quickly pull it away, wiping it on my pants to try and get the feeling to go away. It never does.
"Oh, can I help you?" My heart races, and I slowly begin to regret my decision.
"I- I'm so sorry, I must have had the wrong person," I brush my hand against my chest, up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Breathe. In and out.
"Nonsense, let us get out of this crowd," she takes hold of my hand and walks me out of the market. Her husband stays behind to continue browsing. My stomach complains. The temporary delay of lunch makes me nauseous and I place my hand back on my chest to try to steady it. I feel my quick heartbeat under my palm and I can hear it in my ears. Even more nauseated now, I instead opt to mess with my hair.
"Oh dear, are you doing alright?" the woman fusses over me, placing her cold (and albeit refreshing) hands on my cheeks. She turns my head this way and that as if inspecting my skin. I try my best not to lean into her touch, but her motherly worry is so new and inviting to me. I can't help it. She looks into my eyes. Her face softens and a small, empathetic smile carves into her cheeks. "Are you hungry, son?"
I open my mouth to speak, but my stomach beat me to it. I feel my face flush in embarrassment, but she just lets out a little laugh.
"Come on, let's get you fed,"
She leads me to a small cabin and gingerly walks up the stairs and opens the door. I stand in the yard, staring at her. She just smiles and tilts her head inside. Her eyes shine with reassurance and kindness, and I slowly step up to the door. She puts her hand on my back and guides me inside, just like a mother would. My heart sinks at that thought, but I swallow the lump in my throat and pray she doesn't notice.
"Make yourself at home, dear," she steps into what I assume is the kitchen.
I put my hands in my pockets and look around. The living room is cozy. It consists of a loveseat and a small chair in the corner. I brush my hand across the surface of the loveseat and instantly recoil. My teeth hurt, and I scratch the palm of my hand obsessively. The feeling never goes away, so I shove my hands back into my pockets and distance myself from the furniture.
A small window on the north wall lets in some natural light, bathing the floor in a hazy warmth. I sit down on the windowsill and feel relieved that I don't have to sit on the floor. The sand outside reflects the sunlight and is almost blinding. I keep my eyes on my feet; I don't want to invade this sweet woman's privacy and look around her home like I have the right to know her life story.
I hear soft, shuffling footsteps and look up, expecting the saccharine woman. But a girl stands there, one hand clutching onto a ratted stuffed bunny. She stares at me with confusion in her sunken eyes. Her face is void of colour, almost as pale as mine. I lean forward and smile.
"Hello,"
She opens her mouth to speak, but the only thing to come out is a fit of coughing. I smile sympathetically.
"Who-who are you?" her voice is weak, shadowed by fatal illness.
"My name is Jack," I move to sit criss-cross. "Who are you?"
"I-I'm Jane,"
"Ni-"
"Jane! Sweetheart, what are you doing out here?" her mother rushes into the room and frets over her daughter. She places the back of her hand on Jane's forehead, but it isn't needed. I can feel her fever from here.
"I.. I wanted to see you," another coughing fit.
"Oh little one, you must go back to bed at once! You need your rest, and we don't want to get this sweet boy here sick."
"Oh I really don't mind," I wave her off. "Besides, it's healthy to get up every now and then."
Her mom looks at me, unsure.
"I want.. I want to stay o-out here. Jack's nice," Jane whispers. Her mom sighs and leans down to kiss her forehead before going back into the kitchen.
Jane curls up in the corner of the loveseat, about two feet from where I am. For a while, we sit in silence. I don't remember the last time I interacted with anyone, let alone anyone this young. It's almost like I've forgotten how to have fun.
"Wh-Why.. are you here," I almost don't hear her soft voice, she speaks so deathly quiet.
Do I tell her the truth? I mull it over for a few minutes, but I'm interrupted when she coughs again; this time, blood splatters on her hand. Her eyes widen and fear strips her face of any childish joy. My heart sinks.
"It's a long story, are you up for it?" she nods tiredly.
"Well..."
Jack sits in an alleyway, hiding from most people and the sun. Eventually, he gets up to go steal some food and pickpocket some people at the marketplace. He overhears a couple talking about their sick daughter and steps forward to offer his assistance, but regrets it and stammers over his words. The mother takes him home to feed him and he meets her daughter, Jane. Jane is deathly ill with the flu and Jack tells her a story.
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