Thomas' P.O.V
Is it weird to have two homes?
I know what you're thinking. But no, I don't mean my parents are split up. I don't mean I go to stay with grandparents on the weekends. I don't mean I have an older sibling who has their own place.
I mean two homes.
Not that one of them is necessarily a home. It's a house. It's the place I was born.
But it's not a home.
The other one, well, I suppose that's not exactly a home either.
I mean, I feel more welcome, more comfortable there. It feels more like a home than the place I live. But it's not your typical home.
I'm getting ahead of myself here.
Hello. My name is Thomas Jefferson. I'm fifteen years old and my father hates me.
No. Hate is a strong word. What I meant was he very strongly dislikes me with every inch of his corrupt soul. So, yeah, he hates me pretty much.
Now you're thinking I must be a bad kid. But I don't think that's the case. Because would a bad kid give up his entire life to visiting a homeless shelter?
The shelter is called St John's. And it's the one place where I feel I belong.
No, I'm not homeless. Remember, I asked about the two homes thing.
But the shelter is my whole world.
I have walked through its doors every day after school for as long as I can remember. I always feel a sense of security when I enter. It's a shelter for the homeless, as well as a rehab and a free soup kitchen. But my favourite part to visit is the homeless shelter.
Well, I visit so often that I'm on first name terms with everyone who works there and everyone staying there. Most of them have been in for quite a while, so we've had the time to grow close.
I'm welcomed with open arms and warm smiles every day. Even the people who aren't so fond of me will let me in. And there's one reason for this.
I make people smile. Seeing me makes so many of the residents so happy; something the workers strive to achieve. At St John's, people try their hardest to make the residents feel good, to distract them from everything that's happened in their lives. They just want to see these troubled people relax and feel safe.
And something about me just seems to fill them all with delight. So, there is no choice but to let me visit.
I visit every single person daily. No one ever feels left out or less important than anyone else. My role there is to make everyone feel important and equal.
Sometimes it can be boring, I will admit. Sometimes I wish I could be like the other boys; out playing football, graffitiing stores, getting high in back alleys.
But I wouldn't trade my relationship with everyone at the shelter for anything. We're like the closest family you can imagine. We've been through everything together, and we're always there for each other.
And to be honest, I'd rather know I have a family to turn to if things get tough than a gang of people to smoke weed with at 1 in the morning.
No matter how many times I doubt my decision, I know that what I have at the shelter is unique and I should never give it up for anything.
Even friends...
Friends are the one thing I miss.
I know I said I have the people at the shelter. But it's not the same. Most of them are adults, and those that aren't, are young children. There are hardly any people my age.
So, I don't have the friendships most teenagers would. I don't have friends I can invite over for sleepovers. I don't have friends to walk up to school with. I don't have friends whose houses I can go to and steal all their cookies.
No. I'm Thomas Jefferson. I'm 15. I have no friends.
You're wondering why. You're thinking "he goes to school; how can he not have friends?"
And I have a simple answer to that.
My father.
I already said he hates me. He hates me so much he doesn't let me have friends.
It's not an easy thing to make sure your son has no friends. No. It's very challenging indeed.
But he manages it through a mix of intimidation, pure threats and blackmail.
And they're not empty threats either. When he says he'll get the knife out the drawer, I believe him. When he says he'll punch me unconscious, I believe him.
Because he's done it before.
I'm not going after sympathy here. I'm just putting the fact out there that when he has been particularly drunk, he has hit me.
I'm not saying I have an abusive parent. He doesn't beat me every day.
He's just obsessed with his job and he hates me.
And I mean obsessed.
Not in the way you'd be obsessed with a video game or a new phone. Not in the way you'd be obsessed with a type of music or a hobby.
No. This man opened my eyes to a whole new level of obsession.
Let's put it into perspective for you.
My father is successful. He is the head of senate, well regarded in news headlines. People look up to Peter Jefferson. Everyone knows his name. He's one of the richest men in the state. He's a huge influencer in the media and gets his opinions in every public announcement.
He thinks of himself as above everyone else. High up on a pedestal looking down on all the other people in the world.
He's a narcissist. He loves himself more than anything.
He loves his job. He loves the fame and the wealth he's earnt over the years. He loves the way people recognise him in the street. He loves the giant billboards with his face on.
He doesn't love me.
I think he regrets ever having a son.
When I was young, he would sit me down and talk to me about politics. He wanted me in his life back then; when there was the chance I could follow in his footsteps and continue the famous Jefferson bloodline.
But it quickly became apparent I wasn't like him. I had no interest in his career. That wasn't the future I wanted.
He practically disowned me after that.
He tells no one he has a family. None of his co-workers know he has a son. I'm just his little disappointment. So, he keeps me hidden from the world of money he lives in.
I'm nothing to him.
And I'm nothing to anyone else.
He didn't even want me to go to school. I had to beg him and eventually he gave in. I remember the exact words I used to persuade him.
"If I don't go to school, I'll be at home all day. Then the men who come over for meetings will see me and find out you've been lying to them."
It made him angry, but it was worthwhile. It got me out of the house.
My victory, however, was short lived.
I soon realised I didn't fit in at school. My father had dressed me in fancy clothes that everyone was jealous of. He'd put a literal bow tie around my neck.
I couldn't handle the attention.
After that, I started dressing myself for school. Even as a young child, I knew what to wear to blend in better.
But there was another problem.
Everyone else seemed to know each other. They had friends. They would sit down on the carpet together and play with the farm animal toys. They would throw water at each other in the paddling pool. They would build sandcastles together. They laughed and played tag.
They fit in.
I sat alone, even in nursery. No one played with me. I sat in the corner and drew. I scribbled random colours onto pieces of paper. I practiced my writing. I didn't talk.
It got even worse as I moved up through school. We'd do partner activities in PE. No one went with me. I got paired with the teachers. I'd end up sat alone on the bus on a school trip. I'd sit on benches reading at break.
I was alone.
I didn't have friends coming to my house on weekends. I didn't have anyone to just walk around the shops in town with.
I had no one.
Because of my father.
I've already mentioned his job. With that job, he got a huge reputation of being a respectable, rich, single man.
That reputation meant more to him than anything.
He didn't let me have friends, because then he'd be associated with them and his reputation might be damaged if they were poor people or anyone he deemed lesser than him. He couldn't have people knowing he had connections with people.
He forced me to be alone to make sure he was admired in the public eye.
I've always been this way.
That's why I visit the shelter. It gives me people to talk to, a purpose, a reason to not just curl up and cry. It gives me a small family. It lets me get away from him.
Today's Friday. School's just finished. I'm on my way over to the shelter.
I always look forward to Fridays because my father has meetings at home in the evening, so he wants me to stay out of the house for longer. That just gives me more time to be free.
He doesn't know where I go after school. He doesn't care, quite frankly. As long as I'm away from him, he's satisfied. For all he knows, I've joined a cult where I go and worship potatoes with a bunch of weirdos in Asda car park.
But if he did find out the truth...
That's a worry that's plagued me for a long time. It's always nibbling away at the back of my mind, tying my stomach into knots, pounding in my chest.
If he found out...
Who knows what he'd do?
I can only imagine the horrors that would unfold. Blows raining down on me, a knife brandished in front of my face, chains tying me to my bed – having to go to the toilet in that spot, food being forced down my throat.
But he'll never find out.
Everyone has secrets. Mine are safe.
The familiar building comes into sight. Its grey brick walls towering above my head, the large windows revealing the faces of some residents. Roger, a young man who was thrown out of his flat after failing to pay rent, waves at me before going back to strumming his guitar.
All the people here love me. Everyone wants to see me.
I push open the door, smiling at the familiar little ping noise the bell tied above it makes.
I'm so used to everything here.
The heat of the radiators blasts out at me, the smell of spices burning from the candles kept on the various desks fill my nostrils.
I walk over to the table, writing my name into the sign-in book along with the time I arrived. I can't help but notice how most of the names from visits are mine.
"Hi Thomas."
Eliza's sat at the desk, dressed in her uniform, a smile on her face.
I wouldn't consider Eliza a friend. More of a close acquaintance. I don't really know enough about her to be seen as a friend.
I know she's a volunteer here, as well as going to my school. I know she's also 15. I know she has two sisters; one who's a volunteer, and one who has a full-time job.
But the only conversations we have are about the shelter. Sure, we get along well. But we've never hung out outside of this building. We don't talk at school. We don't just have regular friend conversations about whatever random stuff we feel like.
We're not friends.
I think she only tolerates me while I'm in here because I make the residents happy. That's why she ignores me at school.
"Hi Eliza." I say back.
She smiles at me, "Want a sweet?" She asks, holding out a bowl of sweets.
"I'm good, thanks." I say.
Her face falls slightly, "Are you back to visit?"
I nod, "How did you know?"
She lets out a clear, bright laugh and her face bursts into a grin again, "Well, be sure to give everyone my love."
"I'll try and remember." I laugh too.
The power Eliza has over people is weird. She's just always so happy. She's one of those people who always says the right thing to make you smile. She can put anyone in a good mood with that contagious smile.
Her younger sister, Peggy, has this talent too. She's just always giggling and bouncing around with an energy that never seems to run out. I think it's because she's only 13, but everyone finds her adorable and innocent.
Angelica is different. She's tougher, fiercer. She's a fighter. Very intelligent and snarky, always has some comeback. Ready to fight anyone for her sisters. She has the darkest sense of humour; enjoys seeing people suffer. She's known for slapping faces without a thought.
But they're all really nice. I've known them for years now, and though I wouldn't think of us as friends, I would say that I'm closer to the three of them than anyone else.
Sometimes I wish I could say something. I wish I could ask Eliza if she'd be my friend and chat at school. I wish I could tell Peggy how I'm sad she's not my sister. I wish I could stand beside Angelica in a fight against bullies.
But I can't face the rejection. And anyway, there's always the risk my father would find out. And if the Schuylers' dad isn't good enough, he'll hurt me.
"Thomas wait!"
I turn back to Eliza.
"What is it?" I ask, my hand poised to open the door that separates the lobby to the rest of the shelter.
"I have some exciting news! Completely slipped my mind before!" She says, "Someone new moved in today and I think it'd be nice if you could go and welcome them. Losing a home is a traumatic event; it would be comforting to have someone to talk to about it."
This is interesting. The last new resident we had was Jake Dillinger several years ago after his house was burnt down.
"Which room?" I ask.
"1776."
...
The corridor seems so long. I've never noticed before, but now it feels endless. I think it's the anxiety. See, I'm absolutely terrified to meet this new person. I know I come across as quite confident, but when it comes to new people, I'm useless.
I don't know what I'll be able to say around them. I don't know what triggers them. I don't know what they like and don't like. I don't know their situation and I could say something upsetting by accident.
I don't even know their name.
Or their gender. What if I use the wrong pronouns?
There are so many ways this could go wrong.
I shouldn't be the first person visiting them. I could give an awful first impression. Eliza should go instead.
Yes. I should go back and ask her to find out some things about them. Then I'll go see them.
That sounds like a much better plan.
"Tommy!"
I swing my head around, alarmed by the sudden noise. But as soon as I give myself a moment to use my brain, I recognise that high pitched, excitable squeal.
"Hey Theo." I say softly.
Theodosia rushes out of her room, wrapping her tiny arms around my legs.
"Did you bring food?" She asks.
"You know that's not allowed." I chuckle, "You have mealtimes for food."
She pouts, sticking out her bottom lip.
"But I did bring a cookie." I smirk.
She squeals again, hugging me tighter, "Thank you Tommy! You're the best!"
She snatches the biscuit out my hand and runs back into her room, jumping onto the bed.
Theodosia is one of my favourites here. She's 5 and she literally thinks I'm her big brother. I play along with the act, but I'm scared that when she's older she'll realise it can't be true and she'll ask a load of questions.
She was found on the street as a baby. The little girl was wrapped up in a blanket, asleep inside a cardboard box next to a bin. There was a sheet of paper attached to the box that said, "Theodosia. Female. 5 months. Please look after her."
Her first memory is probably of me smuggling treats in for her.
I've always had a soft spot for Theo.
When she was brought in, I took it upon myself to give her the love her parents hadn't been able to. I've always been with her.
I walk over and sit on the end of her bed. She shuffles closer to me and climbs on my back, beginning to braid my hair.
She gets bored quickly, flopping off my back and onto the bed. She lies down whining, "Tommy, read to me."
I sigh heavily.
This girl honestly has me wrapped around her finger. I will do anything for her. Heck, I would even take a bullet for her if it came to that.
I grab some random book off her shelf and start reading.
"A rainbow is full of lots of different colours. There's red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Red is the colour of roses and blood. Orange is the colour of tangerines and Donald Trump. Yellow is the colour of the sun and the president's wig. Green is the grass and trees and mouldy food. Blue is the sea. Indigo and violet are both purple. We should just get rid of one of them with a nuke or something. And what do you get when you put all these colours together? Skittles. Taste the rainbow. Also known as big gay."
I'm seriously surprised I haven't been scolded for my editing of children's books yet. Theodosia doesn't notice, and kids' books are just so boring I can't help but changing them slightly.
She enjoys my versions. I don't think she understands half of what I put in there, but it still manages to entertain me so it's worth it.
I look over and see Theo's fallen asleep. What can I say? Books about Donald Trump and gayness are magical. If you aren't reading to your kids like this, you're a terrible parent.
I rise silently from the bed, tucking the covers up to her chin. I press a soft kiss to her forehead, getting a little smile from the sleeping girl, and walk out of the room.
I'm going to 1776.
I want to see this new person.
As I walk, I feel worry rising in my chest.
Who would be in the room?
A young child? An old person? Or...
Or someone my age...
In my heart I long for a friend. I want someone to care about me. I want what everyone else at school has.
A friend. Someone I could tell all my secrets. Someone I can trust with everything. Someone I could just joke around with. Someone who would treat me like a normal human being.
But at the same time, I'm scared to make friends. There's always the fear that my father will find out about them. And anyway, I don't even know how to act around a friend. I've no experience.
I would mess it up. It's best I stay alone.
And besides, what are the chances of this person even being my age?
I can't wish like that. Wishing only wounds the heart.
The metal numbers on the door of 1776 glare at me as I stop outside them. I feel like they're challenging me to knock. They don't think I have it in me.
They're right.
I don't have the courage to raise my hand to the wood. I don't have the strength to go in that room. I'm not ready.
Eliza should go instead. Not me.
Not me.
I can't do this.
I can't.
"What the hell are you doing Thomas?"
I turn rapidly. Angelica's scowling at me.
"You're really pale and sweaty. And you're shaking. Do you feel ill?" She asks.
I realise that my whole body is trembling. I can't control it. I'm so scared. And I don't know why.
I can't be scared of meeting new people. That's just weird.
"I'm fine Ang." I say, not sounding at all fine, "Just need to get in this room."
She nods, "Okay. You can go to Dr Charlotte after if you feel sick."
"Where are you going?" I ask.
She gives me a funny look, "To do my job. I've got to file some papers."
She brushes off her light pink skirt and winks at me as she starts to disappear down the hall.
"Ang, wait!" I shout, not even aware of the words coming out my mouth.
She turns, "What?"
"Do you mind – could you possibly – could you come in with me?" I ask quietly.
She laughs loudly, "I don't believe it! You're scared of going in there?"
I nod weakly, my knees feeling weak. I do feel sick now.
"Please."
She laughs again, "Okay, just this once. Do you need me to hold your hand too?"
"No. Stop laughing at me." I frown.
Angelica puts a hand to her mouth to smother the laughter. I guess it's better than nothing.
She knocks on the door.
My heart is racing.
It opens slightly.
A woman's face pops into view.
"Hello?" She asks.