AN: Doing a bit of writing waiting for my connection to Vangroovy and I thought, why not? So here's to random sparks of inspiration. (and yes, I AM continuing this. No worries!)

Chapter 9

London, UK, December 1988

"Excuse me," The cough he was trying to hide broke through, forcing him to stop. The woman in front of him absentmindedly took a step backwards, trying to protect herself. When he could finally speak again, he managed in a hoarse voice, "What day is it?"

The woman frowned at him, and then, taking in his clothes, turned somewhat pitiful. "It's Friday," She replied. "December twenty-third."

He nodded slightly in understanding and then walked away, his shoulders hunched back against the cold and his whole body shivering. December twenty-third. It was Christmas in two days.

The saddest thing was that he wasn't even sure that he'd live to see that Christmas.

Surprisingly, the medication he got did make him feel better. For the first few days, at least. With every day there was another little improvement, and – perhaps naively – he started thinking it might actually be enough for him to survive.

Then, just like it always did, reality came crashing in.

The morning he finally let himself start thinking that maybe, just maybe, he can make it through that awful cold, he found he was shaking again. At first, he assumed it was the winter - it was around zero degrees, often on the negative side - but as the day progressed, he realised it was more than that. He once again developed a fever, undoubtedly due to living outside and not getting proper medical care. With frozen fingers, he absentmindedly felt his way under his jaw and around his neck, like he saw doctors do in films. He didn't need to be a doctor to find two swollen round organs.

It was nearly time for Christmas, and the streets were filled with people doing their late Christmas shopping. If he weren't sick, it would've been wonderful for him - more people usually meant more money and food, and apparently people tended to be generous around the holidays - but now that he was sick, his cough just caused people to move away. Group after group stepped away from him, and even the ones who felt for him - he could see it in their eyes - and gave him whatever change they had, made sure to keep as far away from him as they could. Nobody wanted to get sick this close to Christmas.

Even the children living in the streets all seemed to be settling in groups now. He wondered if they'd all sit together on Christmas Eve and celebrate, even though they were homeless and had nothing. They probably wanted to feel some sort of a holiday while everyone else were celebrating. He had to admit he wanted it, too. He missed sitting at home with his parents and opening his Christmas presents. They always got him the best presents, he remembered wistfully. Even when they tortured him with their crazy experiments, Christmas was always a time to look forward to.

Well, this part of his life was in the past now. He fought his memories, his sadness and wistfulness; there was no point missing something that would never happen again. They were the ones who left him. That was it.

But still, whenever he saw families walking around together, or even the street children grouping for Christmas Eve, he couldn't help but remember everything he'd lost. And it wasn't even his fault. It wasn't fair.

Then again, like he was coming to realise, more often than not, life often wasn't fair.

He was walking down the street, looking for a place to hide away. It was Christmas Eve, and the stores were slowly closing all around him. People were hurrying to their homes for a Christmas dinner; no one had eyes for a small, lonely boy in ragged clothes.

As the night started falling over London and the street lamps turned on one by one, the sounds of people talking and laughing became louder and louder. He could hear them all around him now, singing Christmas carols, joking about Christmas, talking about their plans for the holiday. From restaurants to hotels to churches, every place was lit up and full of celebrating people.

Occasionally he stopped and dared a peek through a window. It was always for a few seconds, no more, just enough to see the people celebrating, but not long enough for them to notice him. He was certain that if they do notice him, someone will hurry out to force him away. Everything was dangerous for him now.

When he stumbled into a lot full of Christmas trees, he decided it had to be faith. He found his way deep into the lot, and then sat under a tree, his shoulders hunched against the cold and his legs folded to his chest. Even between the trees it was ridiculously cold – he could have sworn it was the coldest winter of his life.

With frozen fingers, he opened his tattered backpack and reached into it. He was shaking as he pulled out half a loaf of bread, a couple of sausages and a candy bar. He hesitated, then found one of his shirts and laid it on the ground, as though it was a picnic blanket. He placed each item on the blanket and then looked down at his little Christmas dinner. It was the saddest Christmas dinner he'd ever seen.

Tears blurred his sight as he reached out to the bread. He didn't think he had any tears left in him, but clearly, he did; once they started, he couldn't make them stop.

Maybe it was all for the best. Maybe he just wasn't meant to be happy. Maybe that's what his parents have been trying to tell him when they tortured him all those years.

"Sit still, Kevin." His mother instructed quietly. One hand was stroking his hair while her other hand was holding his back in his place, making sure he doesn't move. "It will all be over very soon, I promise."

"But mum…" He tried to object, but lying as he was, with his face pressed against the pillow, the words were lost in the fabric. He turned his head slightly and took a deep breath – as deep as he could, with his chest held down against the bed.

"No deep breaths." His father scolded. "You have to stay still."

"But it hurts," He whispered into the pillow, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Stay calm." His mother kept stroking his hair over and over, as if it would be enough to dismiss his pain. "It won't be long, Kevin, I promise. Just stay calm and stay still."

"Please, no," He mumbled, rolling over to his other side. He was hot and cold, all at the same time. He was lying on something full of bumps, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. Was it his bed? He wondered hazily. It didn't feel like his bed. But then again, where else could he possibly be?

It didn't matter. He'd heard his parents' voices. That was all that mattered. Wherever he was, as long as they were there, things had to be alright.

At least, he thought they did.

"He's not waking up."

"Give him time, Louise."

His mother's voice shook when she replied, her voice a mixture of anger and fear. "The chances were always too low. That's why we've never done that surgery."

"We don't have a choice." His father spoke firmly but quietly. "You know it. Nothing else works. We had to try the surgery."

"And if he doesn't wake up?" His father said nothing. "He's our son, Albert," His mother reminded him angrily. "You can't pretend he's not."

"I'm not pretending he's not." His father suddenly sounded just as angry. "I wouldn't have done it if he wasn't our son. You think I'd have done it to any of the other children? I did it because he's our son."

He moved his head slightly. Everything still seemed so fuzzy in his head. The last thing he remembered was his parents telling him he'll be better when he wakes up. Now they seemed to be fighting over him. Something didn't seem right.

"He's moving!" His mother breathed out in relief. Then her hand gently stroked his forehead. "Kevin, do you hear me?"

"Mum?" He mumbled, his voice hoarse. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see his parents standing by his bed, looking down at him worriedly. Even though his father sounded completely certain he'd wake up, Kevin could see the relief in his eyes. "Dad?"

"Kevin, sweetheart." His mother pressed her lips to his forehead and then sat by his side on his bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay, I think." He shook his head slightly as the images of his parents doubled briefly. As soon as he did, the world went back to its normal state, with one father and one mother.

"Kevin, we will ask you some questions, and you need to focus and reply, alright?" His father asked quietly, pulling a folded paper from his pocket.

His mother turned around to look at his father, and for a moment he thought she'd convince him to leave the questioning for later, but then she turned back to him, looking tired. "It won't be long, Kevin, I promise." She said softly. "But you have to answer all the questions. That's the only way to make sure we haven't touched anything we shouldn't have."

He sighed. "Okay."

There was sudden warmth against his skin, and he rolled closer to the source of it, his eyes shut tightly against the bright light outside. Only then it occurred to him that the source wasn't anywhere near him – it was, in fact, the sun.

How long has the sun been out? He wondered, still not opening his eyes. Where was he that he was feeling it so strongly? His parents usually kept him inside after a surgery or a procedure; did they leave the curtains open? Did they take him outside? Maybe his mother insisted, seeing as she was so worried after the last surgery.

There was a clear scent of grass and trees around, and he came to the conclusion he's definitely outside. And he was still so tired. His head was pounding and he doubted he could see anything, even if he opened his eyes.

Maybe he needed more sleep. That had to have been it. He just needed some more sleep.

He rolled over again, trying to will his mind and body back to sleep. Why couldn't he sleep? He had to sleep. He had to find a way to go back to sleep. That was all that mattered.

"Kevin?" His mother asked softly, gently stroking his forehead.

"Mum?" He couldn't quite tell where she was, but it felt as though she was near.

She breathed out in relief. "Albert, he's awake!" She called out to her husband. Then Kevin felt her sit down on the bed next to him, once again stroking his hair and forehead. "How are you feeling, Kevin?" She asked him quietly, her voice full of concern and fear.

"Tired," He managed, his voice hoarse.

"You're not well," She said softly. "Are you feeling better?"

"I think." He rolled to his side to cuddle closer to her and groaned when pain from his chest filled him. "It hurts."

"I know." She stroked his hair. "But you'll be better soon."

"Okay." He yawned. Even with his eyes closed, the world seemed to be spinning around him.

"Go back to sleep." His mother pressed her lips to his forehead. "You'll be better when you wake up, I promise."

He nodded slightly and let himself drift back to sleep.