One Week: The Walking Death Little Brother Wellness Campaign
Day 1
A nice Monday morning, his request for a swap of patrol radius luckily accepted.
Okaze-- no longer an agent of the Matsukaza Agency-- had in that spirit made sure to don civilian attire.
And kept his distance within the delightful lawn of the apartment complex where the children could play or the teenagers make out or do their homework.
The perfect point to spot the subject of this log. Shibuya-- surname as of yet unknown-- throwing a single, frosty goodbye to the villainous Walking Death inside.
In the black and white spring semester uniform for a reputable public school costing a pretty penny. He snapped a quick photo from behind his newspaper.
All the news the same sequence of dull, dull, dull and boorish nothing news.
Shibuya was kept well at his peripheral, who it looked was eating a sorry breakfast of a single bagel. Some manner of box cumbering his hands to open the latch.
And then he startled upwards, the teenager with no warning changing course.
Okaze dove under cover of the comic pages, the Sports section unfortunately lost. The sheer tragedy that was.
He knew full well who had just crushed and mutilated the page underfoot, it was undeniable. Nevertheless he kept his cover.
Kept a steady hand and began to hum, lazily licking his finger to turn the page.
But Shibuya wasn't having it.
Forcing Okaze's attention when he shockingly ripped the whole thing in half.
And on his upturned expression a glare so cold and repulsed even his unassuming, unremarkable cobalt eyes looked to flicker some manner of malicious gleam. Something resembling red.
Okaze was shamed to record, Shibuya's simple, elegant cruelty struck him speechless. Made all manner of grim possibilities-- many bloody-- pass under his eyelids.
With no manner of acknowledgement, no manner of emotion at all he simply grumbled and strode past.
Then-- Shibuya had been spied on before? Tailed before. Then he should have been on file.
Yet observing the careless gait and slouch of his retreating back such a thing seems beneath his notice, an anomaly for someone his age unless...
Unless those who'd stumbled upon Shibuya No Name-- were well and truly dead.
Okaze couldn't stop shaking even as he kept quickly tear-filled eyes on the Room 4155 he'd been held captive in not three days ago.
Day 2
Okaze had foregone any means of concealing his face. He did amend his civilian guise to include a truly ridiculous sports hat, sporting the large and boisterous likeness of a sneering Obake mascot.
Concealing a unnaturally violet color and black length.
7:25.
Shibuya should, well, a student wishing to be on time should come out now.
Unless his brother owned a car? Surely nothing legal.
And perhaps that's why its a non-sequiter. Stalker or no.
Mr. Takeda had not killed him yet.
7:40.
Goodness where was he?
There'd been no disturbance of the residence. The walls could very well be sound proofed. A nefariously clever idea, and all too likely of the devastating Death that walked the city.
So that if Shibuya ever did cry for help-- then again he couldn't quite imagine-- Okaze smiled, feeling the expression wooden on his face, Shibuya would scream abuse and all manner of insult right back.
Of that he could be assured.
He meditated on the comforting idea.
For all of two seconds.
Shibuya!
The ghastly behaved boy had thrown a book at him this time but it didn't matter he was safe and by the looks unharmed. Otherwise he wouldn't so brazenly wear his usual short sleeved school issue clothes.
Once again an icy glare was the only sign Shibuya hadn't perhaps mistaken the strange bench dweller as some hobo or a trash can.
Okaze made a mental note to record the lettuce stuck just below his lip. And fingers coated in some honey brown condiment.
Before inspecting the item having clubbed his head by its sharp corner and now lay at his feet.
A white hardback book, with Shibuya's school's emblem and the title: School Honor Code and Conduct.
Flipping through the pages Okaze set his eyes to eagle vision, finding just a flash.
Code.
Anagrams or a veiled message from himself or the villain!
If it was it was no good code. Hardly usable as he'd circled all of Section Five, security protocols and repercussions in red.
Ohhh, he had circled all the punishments and repercussions in red.
Including, so helpfully lined by smugly smiling chestnut chibi, that school security was armed and permitted to use their tasers should student or staff endanger the property or student body, and the interventions for cases of stalking.
Day 3
Okaze was ready.
Well and ready for whatever Shibuya had planned to make him go away(?)
Force him to talk and spill(?)
That part wasn't as clear.
If he so loathed his presence that much he was certain it would be easy to point Takeda at him and so like the rabid animal he is the Death would comply.
Stiff and legs tucked, hands at his lap he mustered his most neutral expression.
From here he could tell how Shibuya's lip curled.
Alright, there was perhaps no intentional maltreatment or abuse to report in the home. That said, surely his needs as a dependent not-yet-of-age child should have been the responsibility of a friend or a family member, ideally someone paid and non-villainous.
The proof was in the pudding this was not exactly the most stable of, pudding.
Literal pudding.
In a custom crystal dessert plate.
His gaze was no less cold however not as-- revolted?
Okaze smiled.
Graciously taking the offered breakfast.
Too late did he consider either Shibuya had been asked or forced to poison the hero popping in everyday.
Day 4
Yesterday's ill form shall not be repeated.
Okaze swore it up and down.
He swore it from his bathroom mirror to the offending apartment lawn, that became quite the nice rest stop every morning. Until two when he was forced to move on if he wanted to hand in accurate safety and crime witness reports.
This time too, he decided to move position.
Apparently Thursdays and weekends Takeda presented for some job as a contract debugging and cybersecurity expert.
Rather than his normal perch in the sun near the exit, he kept to the shade and shadowed under the balcony of the building's two wings.
Shibuya, unabashedly, made a valiant ruckus.
Forcing out his brother who was done up in respectable work clothes, trying to get a word in only to be silenced efficaciously.
Okaze supposed, in a fondness so unexpectedly grown, this was the Shibuya in top form.
Now that still wasn't great. At fifteen, he'd hazard a guess it should be the older rushing the younger out for work on time.
And why go back inside?
By his watch-- a very good and dandy watch-- it was time for his school to start too.
Okaze remained, for just a few minutes, all senses turned to dog and primed for the archived scent of sweating leather and peppermint breath mint or the scuffing of pristine shoes.
Shibuya, Shibuya he quickly realized then and there never smelled the same any given day.
Because he smelled of whatever meal the brothers had that morning and the lunch the school served.
Just when he came out to the light, did Shibuya find the empty bench.
Though it would be the polite thing to do, Okaze realizes this would be important. He must see what the boy would do now.
His otherwise unaffected mood turned sour and mullishly grim.
Flinging his leftovers in an undignified heap.
The flier in his other hand he glared holes at before tossing in the can.
Okaze set to rectify this immediately, barely catching an angry Shibuya.
Who again, glared at Okaze's smile and the hand so they could formally meet.
At this point it was only decorum.
Else how could or what would he do but eat such a nicely made, heavenly tasting bok choi curry broth.
Day 5
So, coworkers had been asking questions.
His supervisor was getting testy.
That was an unexpected result since as evaluated everything was up to par.
All his paperwork and his patrol duty fulfilled with excellent evaluation across the board.
His supervisor recommended speaking to the designers and support team about some manner of sack or pocket to store food if that was what was needed. Or to the counselor if stress was eating away at his evening hours.
And his vacation days had been untouched for the two years he had formally begun work.
On yet another record, an incident report about a violet haired school boy:
"Did only the mandated time of psychotherapy despite the school and prosecution offering to pay at whatever plan decided upon by family and teachers."
Okaze diverted, only stopping briefly at the brothers' apartment, sticking the notice on the door of neighborhood watch hours. Including his work number to call in emergencies.
This time he perched in the air, eyes manifesting "Scan," on passerby and the coming traffic from intersection.
9:15.
Shibuya would be in just his first class.
Far as he'd known he attended and didn't make a habit of skipping.
"It's five, school is out, and I have no social life."
If he did skip there'd certainly be no place he was interested in going.
Which meant he would just meander before inevitably returning to his home.
12:55
His stomach growled.
The day had somehow been rougher than usual.
Seemed every goon and Henchmen United mob had decided to go out and paint the streets red that day.
And much of the town's underworld was tied with a single entity of bad guy.
So, this was his move.
And was that a threat?
Well if it was...
Then it was imperative that Shibuya be in the good mood and go anywhere else but the sight of imminent butt kicking for once.
Or he could throw some thousand yen at his face. He wondered what it said that the gremlin seemed the type.
Hungry as he was Okaze refused to let the train of thought pass him by, not while he had it.
And then the beam nearly clubbed him.
There was an adult man with horns and a lumbering build, lumbering, toward Okaze who had frantically leap away from the blow.
Oh and look at that behind him.
Seemed people did pick up the little brother on occasion. Who clapped at the goon, in a sardonic manner before sitting right there on the ground with his phone turned sideways.
By what the hero managed to see before squirreling out of there was that, possibly, he did what he liked around the house with his brother's full approval.
And bankrolled by bounty money turned into that night's meticulously planned cake.
Day 6
Saturday
After yesterday where there'd sure enough been a delightfully tart strawberry lemonade cake Okaze had really followed out of a growing inquiry.
Could he so trouble Shibuya and commission a birthday cake for his own mother.
Once he was sure the question would come: did his mother happen to be humiliatingly short or lanky and horse-like, oh and also be made up?
Safe to say it, Shibuya had been late to cram school that day.
And the older brother was in a charitable mood. If charitable meant laughing his buttocks off.
Day 7
It hadn't exactly struck him until now. Not from the beginning of this entire endeavor that had been systematically and maliciously proven for a farce, Shibuya truly had nowhere else to go.
What else could the answer be, when he sat here, beside Okaze and silently offered a bite of some sweet bread from a neighbor.
He'd seen how Shibuya that night had dismissed the woman in his usual sarcastic and disdainful ways.
That went so hatefully ignored. Or so Shibuya would insist upon that nosy old woman.
She was thirty try again.
Okaze didn't dare ask for how long he'd while away his time here. His very important time.
Each time he thought to ask he quickly shut his obtuse, obscene mouth.
He stayed well past his patrol that day, waiting with him until big brother got home.
Just when the idea had come, much too late, would Shibuya perhaps enjoy seeing his agency or a dance club.
He had only just opened his mouth, when Shibuya pulled Okaze by his high collar so he could see what he did.
Takeda frantic in his sultry, humid leather running for home.
Pulling him down to submission as he steamrolled by. His poor abused neck.
Balance Means a Spot of Good, or so Moral Philosophy Would Claim
Soo, the Boy Scout always at that podium and uber anal about the exact dates and technical names to these stringent, ancient 'moral rules,' was going through something.
They'd had a feeling there'd been some instance pricking at his head about this situation.
With a chili pot, chocolate candies, and those God awful marshmallows that could not be quality assured or even treated to not got stale, whoever's job on chemicals that is.
Jaydee figured, fuck mental breakdown, non-violent or supposedly messed up, he could get behind. And the prof surely wouldn't mind today.
So he shambled along with his shoulders, phone light on and recording.
"There are four primary principles of thought in moral philosophy..."
"But here's the thing my little chili babies."
And Jaydee by that point raised their hand.
"I am so sorry," lieee, "but that-- we can eat that right?"
"Was gonna maybe get dinner outta the way now, but fine. Thanks for ruining that, dildo-wad."
Bro.
But whatever. Jay was too hungry at this point.
Seriously that pink T-shirt was God-awful. They hoped the scratch of where such a hideous article may have came from faded once the chime sounded for lunch break.
That prof may have had a point, Jaydee quickly decided.
Having taken to lazing in the shared dorm's couch as his last two for the day dragged on.
Yeah, guy went on a whole rap about nihilism before some six out of ten blonde in size five had burst in and just held his hand like it was Senior Year 1989. Right out the room.
Jaydee had been hoping to nap after that chili stopped setting his insides black with acid. Completely ruined that, thank you, as they couldn't very well just loiter.
They'd taken the time to peruse some of their books, take a multivitamin and some benzodiazipine cookies laying about in the pantry.
Huh, that thought might have worried someone, Jay certainly shoulda been but goddamn if it didn't feel good.
So, did it really matter? Really, where he got his relief or where the stuff had come from. The kind of people you'd have to see for a discontinued, obsolete little OVC drug?
Jaydee continued reading that book until it was finished, picked up a new one, and finished as well.
Splaying his legs and having abandoned his pants straight when he locked the door.
Falling asleep as the anti-anxiety meds took hold.
And waking to find the door had been kicked in so his roommate could promptly bitch.
Absolute bitch. Last thing they needed right now.
"JD, JD. How are you today-- I... miss you whole lot, Felicity too."
His tongue heavy and scraped to sand they moaned for water.
Glass of water, yeah and surely that would make the headache go away.
Only, that face, it wasn't familiar.
"I need you in my life, I wasn't complete without you," poor young dweeb. Why did such a young person need a degenerate so bad anyway? Who'd failed such a cute looking little kid so badly?
It was not college age, it was hardly a human face at all.
As Jaydee suddenly turned half blind and well and truly out of his body.
Frick, they were not wasting all that time at a hospital.
April 15th, 2068.
Hurl. They were gonna hurl. Real bad and real right now!
"Eb, EBB!"
"JD!" he squealed. And then quicker than bird's wings relieved his overnight bag. Quickly bulged to bursting with gross vomit.
Jaydee was not paying for this!
Oh bollocks though they so were. Couldn't have the new kid, prodigy no less, dragging that trashy basic ass tote to college. To. College.
Wild and disgustingly joyous as Wyatt's pealing cries or tight his hug, it didn't leave his Iridescence to mind how battered they still were.
Having come to the hospital showered in dangerous, cutting burrs of glass and marble tiling or the minute bits of rotted aluminum and tin in the walls or ash places in place of proper fire in a 54th floor containment floor under wraps and out of public view right at the heart of the state's qualified super destruction riots. Hero and villain always at it and never satisfied. "Halfway house," would be the old word.
Those who would just do the job know what bad form it would be to tend and fluff the worn down scoundrel's pillow. Or talk their ear off about their paper flowers and how the now calloused and supple, delightful raw cut hands were doing.
He hated Wyatt's caring or how he'd kept up running commentary through each show running episode of basic base comedy during that peaceful enforced sleep, all a little less.
He cared about stupid Iridescent and his perfect smile or theatrics a little more.
I WAS BOOOORN
Premature, a whole month prior to my expected due date.
This is the story, as I know it by the scant details, of my Mother. Because I'd dare say, she deserves all the credit from hereon in. Of this passage and for some after considering, I was completely to the mercy of two adults. Who spoke an altogether foreign tongue, who in some ways, were still ill-adapted. To this country and this language, this form that I use to communicate.
I was an active child, utterly empassioned and utterly blind to a world that was not myself. Which is why it didn't matter how or which way I kicked. I simply wanted more room.
It was late, dusk would barely crest over the horizon and in a tiny little house with two bedrooms, a kitchen, all on a flat singular floor my Mother was in likely the worst manner of pain.
There was probably fear too, she knew enough I'm sure to realize, had been told, her precious girl, the princess of the family should not be born, not so early not so small.
My parents absconded, without my brother and the brother who was confused and concussed in her own identity. But that is a whole other novel and a much more outlandish title.
They had a babysitter don't worry.
And they were not jealous.
They were not surly.
They welcomed a little sister. They would adore her.
My Mom spent hours in labor as is normal.
Here is, a measure of speculation, my Mother beautiful and warm as she is was in the range of risk. Where the strain of a child may yield complication and risk. And she was four weeks early.
I can imagine there was some scant hour or so of fear. I hope less, it's painful to think, so unbelievably selfish to wonder if she cried. When the doctors had to take her tiny little baby, only just out of her belly and likely screaming already spoiled for her mother's company. Because she was too small.
She was so small that even after pushing ten days worth of formula this tiny little prayer answered and given life, fit in the palm of the calloused, burnt hand. From her Father.
She lived.
She lived and she grew. Grew quiet. For a baby.
Dare it be said she would grow to be contemplative, a little too aware and forthwith for her age.
That said she made wondrous little noises as if casting a spell over those around her.
Her young brothers her knights and vassals often at her beck and call never far from her side.
Coddling with her, entertaining her why she must be special! Just must be!
And her parents well if anything, were weaker to her charms.
What those were I couldn't completely fathom a clue. Especially as her Mother, among eight total siblings herself, soon held another baby in her arms. A boy and the youngest then of one of her sisters.
This boy and this girl, learned in walking and in the enumerated fact that they could, played together quite mischievously and chaotically.
The girl, whose name meant moon, who as a daughter was held in high esteem as if royal, laughed and burbled. She spoke and tended to baby dolls, watched friendly little monsters with a smile on her face.
\\Seven years old//
Some teachers begin noticing.
The small things and the not so small. That though she talked it was... tilted. Somewhat turned in a wholly different direction. Not exactly. okay or right.
Her talk few and far between and never a word for those her own age.
She simply drew and read. Desks placed into four, massive truly for such little children.
And providing quite an excellent amount of room for the girl all her lonesome. Who hardly seemed bothered by that in fact. In fact, as these teachers didn't seem to understand she in some ways liked it this way.
Because she was drawing and she liked drawing.
Could she then-- get back to what she was doing?
These questions, these sudden addresses and attention paid to her, were not normal and so she'd like to not deal with the thought if so acceptable. She'd rather not be treated like she was perhaps in trouble or had done something wrong.
She was about certain she knew the rules.
And she knew it was appreciated to be quiet. She herself didn't mind being quiet all that much either.
So, this entire speech pathologist and three hour test time for easy, already burned to paper material had no basis.
Learning disability? Autism?
"Special" needs.
Well yes, I am quite special.
Yet in this way, well, it doesn't make sense. It really, really doesn't make sense.
The River’s Bend Off Ita Walk: Thirteen
Much as the alarm clock, it was the steps on wood flooring that woke Chizome every morning.
Forcing her from blissful, enchanting dreams of knights and video games from all those fancy, horrific corrupting devices called consoles.
This particular day was in the throes of a sweltering, heavy handed summer season where the air rippled like miso or the wide bath of beef bone in a Christmas broth hot pot.
"Sumi. Sumi," called her mother, rapping on the paper of her slide away door.
"Mmhmm," she moaned out, hardly cognizant at that exact moment. "Mmm, mm I'm up. Up now."
With a single band she got her hair in something of a ponytail, slid effortlessly into her uniform, a very drab and brown second skin. With layers. And a pair of mostly useless rectangular reading glasses that made her look completely geekish.
But it was so funny she couldn't help but grin at the sight.
Breakfast was onigiri that morning. Eaten savoring every bite, hoping her mother could hear just how much her daughter loved it, and a solemn prayer of thanks to a kind lordship above once the bowl was empty.
Mother headed off to that mind numbing, evil company of parasitic tech-obsessed drones she called work. What all the adults, called work.
The only fit seat for an imagination like hers was at the window. Her reflection something of a constant, dearly departed companion as she looked out everyday to the barren grounds kicking up dusts and dunes twittering in the air like the desert gales from a treasure adventure game on the school computers. Older models, and less powerfully ensnaring and intransigent.
Setting her bag down she settled for hours of dubiously useful lecture material. However her first course was not the most dull in the world. In fact, even if Ondo would laugh the morning Civics elective could even be fun every sparse occasion.
Her notes were primly organized, meticulously made, perfectly copied when needed. Any fool would dismiss her as a simple bookish girl.
Which was just as they'd agreed things would be.
Life endured on, past the cell tower, past the sea, and from the carving of a mighty river under the main bridge, life continued. For the time being.
At the South end of the building, where her math course was just before lunch was where she could see the structure teasing her.
Jelly pops and Berry phones spying with their camera lenses, her own galaxy cased phone laying heavy inside her own skirt's pocket. Often cold and often going unused.
Constant blabbering or wishy-washiness over the texts on miniscule screens.
She hardly deigned to eat lunch in the classroom. Often wandering the school seeing if she could find a new haunt each day.
Today she found the Ivy Seat nestled away among the charming little tomato and thyme garden. A stone fountain filled to the brim with fresh sugar water for hummingbirds to lap up. The bench old and full of splinters but somehow solid.
A quiet reprieve of the chaos and noise from Infested fools.
She sent a message, certain Hawa would be by her side at once. He always had been.
Since that one world-altering day.
When they had found a discarded "cell phone," in the river.
While chasing a bullfrog.
The wind picked up in a sudden gust, crisp, dogged air hinting at a sharp tinged fall.
Hawa soon messaged back.
\\At your beck and call, strawberry or chocolate to please the fair princess?//
A toad princess.
Obviously strawberry.
Chocolate being much too rich a flavor to settle on the tongue for black bean onpan.
END
*Jelly Pop, an old cell phone model. Flip phone. Look up Operation True Love on Webtoon or the WebToon YouTube channel*
Under the Treetop Tunnel
Emile eventually broke their tender embrace.
Smiling soft with considerable levels of care, "no more tears alright. We'll celebrate," he decided giving one last slap to his shoulder.
Abel pulled on the shoes.
"How about ice cream or candy? Oh no, you don't like that do you? Oh I'm craving something sweet, yeah so we'll make a quick stop. Or, or, to the community center they're doing an escape room."
Only the last sounded remotely appealing. However there was one activity that had popped to mind. One that they had done together as butler and charge.
"The library?" Abel requested.
It took some seconds as he likely had the same thought, until his face lit up.
Great idea, you'll love it, a two floor rustic sort of place and their novelty fairytales are beautiful. And historically accurate."
Emile drove onward on the dirt path that grew then curved into an isolated road.
With a moment's consideration he turned right onto a smoother one clearly meant for cars. The reach and girth of the intertwining branches turned the mass of green into it's own little grotto.
Imposing onto Abel just how much time had passed.
But beyond that point he focused more on the turns and street markers.
Emile tried to coax him into conversation. He engaged as much as he was able, better averting any reason for his captor to be cautious.
"Have you enjoyed the reading material I've gotten you so far?"
"Yes, it's quite fascinating," he affirmed.
"That's good."
"I quite like the history ones you've chosen," Abel continued to elaborate, slowly herding and taking control of the conversation.
A mile marker for the wider town. Ads beginning to crop for some of the historically preserved buildings, doubling as some authentic businesses.
About time he did briefly at least, touch on the topic of allowance for his chores. Or, just what "outside" would mean.
It was at the crest of an incline that the town suddenly sprawled to life.
The buildings had a homely, picturesque charm to them. Perfectly replicating the photographs of small town, tight knit hospitality and the fruit vendor out in open sun from the one "general store."
Emile parked his car on a rounded section, above most where only a few strong, sturdy trees were allowed to grow and benches lining the edge permitting a truly beautiful view of a city hall made up in New English architecture, deep, bellowing church bells within a steeple, and small, rickety shops.
With a smile his captor so presented the town. "Welcome to Winterset. Quite the sight."
With a cursory look he unlocked the car, coming out from his own side and opening the door for Abel who took the obliged hand.
"Candy store is right over," he looked right down on the railing, "ah, right there."
He pointed just past the sloping pedestrian walkway to the general store building with wooden floorboard and awning thatched roof.
"And then the library is," his gaze wandered, acting turned around and spinning.
"Not on this street?" Abel asked, not truly a question. Else Emile would have just pointed it out.
"Yup," he replied cheerily. "It's down the avenue, and toward city hall, at least, the one near the school is." and made a showy wink. Ah. Obviously. Close to children, much more reason to appeal for children.
"I see then, okay," Abel murmured quietly, heading for the stairway.
"Ah remember Abby--" he never had liked that nickname. And yet never did Emile stop, even under their pretense. "--By me at all times. Don't want you getting lost."
Plenty of people were out at the hour, often with cloth grocery bags overflowing with either produce or the peeking out summer sausages and cheese.
And they all cooed over a new child. Despite a sundry look and all too proper, dark colored clothing.
"How sweet and oh, oh he holds so tight."
"Yes, I know. Well to be honest I sort of have to," Emile admitted with a bashful smile, remorse in his honey gaze.
"A foster child, now he has his issues, poor kids of his kind often do. Especially gifted ones."
Women tried to pinch his cheeks.
And Emile thankfully pulled him away from that.
At the general store there was a man. Tall and lean, not too imposing and a scraggle of greyish-white for a beard down to his chest.
"Ahh nice to see you here again Frau, and with the foster you couldn't stop raving over," he greeted grandly.
"Yes hello, Mr. Haley," he chirped.
Haley General Store.
The man quickly caught on to Abel's unmoving stare, acknowledging him indulgently.
"A piece of candy? On the house for you child."
He opened his mouth, intending perhaps to agree. A lemon jawbreaker wouldn't go unappreciated. And he could ingratiate himself with one adult. Who did not speak at overwhelming volume and unacceptably trite and horning tone.
"No I'm sorry," Emile replied, voice now absent of joviality, "it's a kind offer really but he is grounded at the moment."
"Oh and what for?"
"Please, I'd rather not get too into it, but well just, I believe he wasn't fed or some manner of issue. Before assuming of course--" and then whispered to the owner, "kleptomania."
"Hmm hmm, okay I see. But bring him around some other time, I insist Emile. Let me indulge the child a bit."
Abel shuddered at the idea of being throttled lovingly by yet another stranger, only to find the owner to be quite practiced at gentle head pats.
It felt nice. Overall.
Emile did not leave Abel an inch to work with on his own through the old, creaking floors of the store and their old fashioned shelving and paper labels system.
The trip turned out quite brief and Emile indulging Abby for some sour jawbreakers.
Laughing and petting all the while as he pointed them out for the scoop.
"There you go, say I'll pay and-- just come back quick," he jutted his head subtly towards a section of little toys. Matchbox cars and the like.
Abel wouldn't miss the opportunity, nodding though somewhat slow in releasing the hand holding his. Until he was absolutely certain his captor truly had parted. "Thank you Emile."
"Okay just have fun. But don't be too long!"
The cars were really of little interest and no value of any kind. His Mother had once rewarded his test marks one year with a racetrack. But then he had advanced further from force, friction, and wind resistance.
There were packs of jacks and marbles. And while he's seldom been downstairs all that much they could prove essential.
Only it certainly wasn't wise.
No. Taking up a toy in hand, a toy he would never want otherwise-- it would only lend credibility to these little lies.
Kleptomaniac. Stealing from an emotional desire inexplicable and often heeded to suppress that very desire. Often accompanied by shame and guilt after the fact. So stolen items were often returned.
Though there lay some doubt that such a small village worries or harps about such nuance. It was-- a bit revealing to see they knew what the word meant.
He returned to Emile when there were just one person in front.
Jawbreaker stuffed in his right cheek.
"Don't be so mad," Emile prodded. "Wouldn't be too much of a game if I didn't pull some tricks too."
"You mean lying and speaking of me and in ill terms?" A searing accusation heavy in my tone.
"Yes, utter and horrible lies. Which I don't believe and I know better than think you'd fall for."
"You would be right at that at least."
Boo Radley came to mind from his literature studies that spring.
"Hey, don't blame others too much okay. I mean I am a grown-up you gotta admit which isn't all fair at all," he pouted.
"Grown ups do lie a lot more," Abel reluctantly acquiesced to this unexpected astuteness, "especially for what they want."
And somehow, the shoe is always on the other foot. About Abel being the unfairly deceitful.
****************************
The library was a two-floored and rounded structure, walls painted with large tree leaves and a plastic tree realistically textured blooming off the floor.
On the balcony above them were shelves of books but with small enclaves carved out for pillows and beanbag spaces.
Where the children read or had their parents do so.
"I'll go find us a place. Have fun Abby."
And like that he was left to the first floor.
Rows upon rows of books. And one stand, near a reading area clearly meant for group reading or other shows of fairytales like the Magnificent Marlon or Magic Beanstalk.
Swiveling forward, he came among a squirming gaggle of kids all endeavoring to get the best look, it gave him some odd type of feeling. People his age who could appreciate a good book.
So perhaps they could be polite about it, and allow him a good look.
For curiosity's sake. Entirely so.
"E-- excuse me," he said, and while struck by the meandering stutter let it flow away like water down his shoulders.
As all eyes had turned towards him.
Mostly common brown of dark shades and matching hair types. Only two had either grey eyes or an intriguing meld of green and hazel.
"Who are you?"
"Yeah!"
"You look kinda weird."
"Looks all weird too."
"Standing there!" And so they laughed together.
"Hello my name is Abel," he said, "the book," pointing a finger outright.
"You like fairytales?" asked the one who had first inquired. An odd kind of light flashing in his eye.
"Uhm, yes. Yes. I suppose I do."
"Hahah! You talk really funny," the boy chided casually.
And then took his hand straight out of nowhere.
"Lucky you're new, new guy else you'd have to wait a turn till we were done."
He could now see there was a singular girl, with a bob cut, nose up in the air who nodded.
She appeared extraordinarily proud for someone in pink glitter everything. And a unicorn prancing across on her shirt.
"Heya so where is your Mommy?" asked another, head down opposite Abel himself now. He did not need the stool provided on the stand.
He'd been solely concentrated on the delicate brush clearly used, the heavy feel of the pages, and such beautiful illustrations. Taking slow, thoughtful care of the Cinderella story they weaved. Where here the Princess had a bejeweled coif of ember black hair.
So that when he jerked it was much more sudden then could be considered polite. And the question striking completely uncalled for. Unnerving. Unanswerable.
What was this heavy thing?
Homesickness was bile in your stomach, a constant heavy rock protruding from your navel area.
This, this thing lodged right into his throat.
"My Mother, Mother and Father--"
"Yeah! Where are they? You gotta have a grown-up!"
As if that were the most obvious, most dumbest notion to not simply know.
"Are you alone?"
"Woah, do you get to walk to here all by yourself?"
"No, well not allowing," he began. Lie. Lying was the right answer.
"Haha! That's so cool!"
"You're the coolest."
"Yes, thank-- thank you. Thank you." He nodded, and with a stern conviction jerked back for the pages.
Intending to simply graze, see if this were a Grimm version. Would they draw the birds as doves? Or ravens or crows?
Turning and turning he turned to the end.
Each time a suck of warm breath and the whispers of his audience.
For some reason just as taken of what he was doing.
"Thank you," he said, excusing himself.
"Huh uhh okay. You read fast."
"I know."
"Abby!" trilled another voice. Just as eager and at ease. Emile. "Who are they? Hello there, are you all having a good time together? Well we can read here then if you like?"
"I'm sorry no, I don't know them," Abel responded.
"Mr. Abel's Dad?" the leader boy again inquired first.
"Huh." And then his stupefied look became a soft, tittering laugh. Which he had grown so used to hearing. "No, no, well he wouldn't say yet."
And yet this boy had turned completely red, his bob-haired partner pouted, and hackles raised among the rest of the group.
"I gotta go back to my Mommy," decided the one having asked before about Mothers.
Slowly some nodded. Leaving.
"I just don't wanna be here now," and then the leader gave him one last once over. "Bye Abel."
And like that scampered off fast as his sneakers would run.
"They sure are a laugh," Emile mused on, "smart too to be fair. Did they-- say something? You look... sickly."
Abel pointed to a shelf of books.
"Go on, and I've gotten this folklore book. It has all types of monsters. Not real though don't worry."
"You would be scared silly if that were the case."
Emile seemed to break into hives at all things ugly.
"You know me. Like a book."
And clearly he expected some manner of response. A laugh or a pity hum.
Rather he fixed a strong dry glower, face ever set in disinterest and formalities. "Okay."
Abel luckily was right to assume fairytales, he easily found Aladdin, the Prince and the Pauper, Anastasia, any and all books that included a thief character or street child with street smarts. Also in his find was a book of magic tricks, clearly left disorganized, perhaps by the very same group oggling the older aesthetically placed Cinderella.
Not that he would know.
And such minor things were not for him to care.
With a pat Emile proudly led Abel up the stairs into one of the circular reading spaces, privy holes smashed in at random intervals or the beanbags and pillows simply strewn about either way. In a frenzied mess.
He could not imagine anyone in his house being too pleased to see such a thing. Abel was sure not even the head housekeepers or elder maids would hide the disapproval. As Father permitted staff to scold foolery. Including Abel's own if ever need be.
Per usual Emile insisted Abel close. Pressed into a warm, such overwhelmingly large figure. Arms effectively locking him in place to stare up at his head as he began to read.
By page two Abel had begun working on the jawbreakers. Occasionally deciding to taste some of the worms Emile had gotten too.
"Tinker Bell huffed and sniffed with a shudder when Wendy and Peter hugged close to fly."
"Both her brothers were awestruck, grinning as they looped and danced in the sky."
Never?! You've never been with kids and just, played? Not even a brother or the carpenter's son
That-- that's so sad
Am I something of a big brother then? Since you don't-- have one of the little ones Abby?
"Would you have liked one?" asked among one of the many days they spent staring blankly at the night sky on his ceiling, Emile dropped such out of pocket, completely outrageous questions. "A little brother I mean. So cute and fun and you know, they'd adore you. Adore you for being you and being his family, nice to it as you are to me."
_______________________
Hook had tricked Tinker Bell and she was beginning to fade.
And he was slowly creeping for Peter Pan.
Abel couldn't help, as he meandered on such ludicrous, baseless questions, take that arm across his chest and hide himself, just a little bit.
Taking in a sweetly, heavy sort of scent.
In the city people were no bigger than gnats from up in a high-rise penthouse. His room, he knew, bigger than most housing layouts for the typical nine to fiver.
Abel had always been aware he was a cut above. In many ways better than most and with privileges.
Not always, necessarily told.
A trait often appreciated in the presence of their parents' circle.
Many times among the decided upon holidays or hands-on days did he get to sit in on another monolith of metal and glass. Father's company soared upon the city and watched the entire sprawl below. From the very top office in a fine, professional atmosphere and very large and soft chair.
Father, like his tutors, imparted his lessons.
Standing straight and with an impassive expression toward the window.
Abel copied him.
Always receiving the same short, stinted humm of approval. "Do you realize why you are here? Here with me rather than at home or at your mother's lap?"
Abel made eye contact. And then thought but could not come up with a satisfactory answer. None at all.
"It is because you are a cut above the rest Abel. You are a prodigy and that is something you must never forget."
"I see and why? Is it so important?"
Father had never disapproved questions.
Never. Not of any kind.
"You have been afforded a gift, a gift neither I nor your Mother gave you, it is all your own so you may rise higher than I've ever been capable of."
It was a fact of life.
As his Father's son, Abel would inherit the company to do with as his brilliant mind decided was best.
____________________________
"Magic tricks, lock picking too," Emile said once they left. "You're so smart Abby, but no."
He'd have to rip out the respective pages then.
Abel breathed a bit deeper than normal.
Easily written off, when he would throw the vandalized books to his captor's face.
The locked door.
It would make a nice starting point to practice.
Wrap You Up, Beautiful, Wondrous Child
Though it is dark and though a bit ominous, how it catches firelight with shadows black and obscene.
It swallows the light, perhaps as it so despises it's glare. Or is it jealous, silently rotting green and putrid beneath such rich, drowning beauty.
Wrap yourself, for it is often in fine material.
Silk and thick downs, smooth and fluid as the water, thick and lined soft as a sheep's tangles of fur.
Lock and Hem, aconite and all a witch's berry shaded brews. Dyed in such mysterious, alluring, so fatal shades.
Almost black some could say it is charred.
Worn to war and worn in the throne rooms.
Forgive then, if it has some patches, if perhaps the hems of this color are a bit burned.
Through it's wear, through long years exposed and bullied by the winds and scorching sun.
It's color remains-- as if by magic-- unknowable and regal.
Look, how in a long cloth it buries you up. Gently holds you, protects you.
How the people stare on but don't dare speak.
Stay silent, stay abound in their stupor when you walk.
Clothed in such fine things.
Hooded your face, look how the color makes your skin all the more spectacular. Or how the tufts of hair that peak out, their own lustrous flower.
Keep it child.
Such a rare color.
Worth the cottage, worth thy whole forest, and worth only the prettiest words and highest airiest compliments.
Worth the most unique, the most beloved treasure.
A child.
So unique and wondrous as you.
Will you do magic? Will you smell of the dust on books and have nails painted by quill ink?
Tell the seamstress for this fine, royal dye.
Stars to the sky?
Or simple silver to leap across fluttering waves?
This Karma of Evil,
Is not yet over.
And so it went.
The good receive good paid forward.
The bad receive only what they've put into the world. Souls stained dark and so their lives would be in this world we lived in.
Where evil paid unto evil.
A God somewhere above indifferent or perhaps ignorant to nuance and how complex each action and inaction truly was. For there was no black and there was no grey.
I'm sure even the thought is traitorous. Promising another rain of hot coals and spiked shoes.
\\I don't think... I'm that awful a person//
Head bowed I was careful to keep to my space, wary of bumping anyone. For good reason. Some looking surly, others smiling from ear to ear, happy and glimmering with pink and cobalt little gems stitched onto their clothes or glittering their cheeks in healthy, almost magical glow.
I couldn't say, why they looked the most grotesque of all.
In the Diner with the Neon Sign
Hadn't even made it to adulthood.
A terrible, awful, heart-breaking mess to clean up to boot.
Where'd it all gone so wrong?
A whole lot really. And those notes that turned into something of a manifest, explained the whole thing. In detail. It was no 13 tapes however, absolutely not. The one named Daniel had had quite a few friends and acquaintances and people who knew him and who even his stupid, defective depressed mind knew would be bothered when he left.
However, that life, those people they hardly mattered anymore.
And the road he walked this time to the other place beyond reach was different as well.
And had a different name.
The Sweet Hereafter.
Which sounded quite fifties and all too delightful if he was quite honest.
Or were those the scabby, wretched hands of his old life's sorrows?
Did he, perhaps deserve nice and sunset aesthetic? What a beautiful popping pink sunrise.
And the sign still red, jutted from the dull green metal roof. In that life, in this moment he could only hold his stomach at the memory. His old life had never permitted him a burger. Only viewed milkshakes in audition roles and the brief filming. Before his poor character was hung as an ornament and he'd relax each Thursday night to watch the rest of the gruesome, mutilating show take shape.
For brief rivulets of flowing time eyes glowing green, all too clear and knowing met the eyes of a dark-haired, alluringly destructive boy. Who opened the door with a wry, mischievous quirk of his lips.
And for a moment cotton stuffed his head. His mind whirling and briefly insane.
Cheeks flushed and the bell signaling the door shut, he wondered if perhaps he would fancy boys in his next life.
There were some whispers, there were some smiles.
There was lust in the girls' eyes. Only that was wrong. These girls, were imagining a picture show on the hood of gleaming thunderbird cars or picnics at the park or the river for a cooler, crisper breeze coloring their lovesick cheeks even pinker.
The boy sat down.
He shook hands with a football player in a vintage varsity, realized he was wearing plaid and an indie band shirt six sizes too big for a fit, slim waist, and ordered his burger with limitless refill fries.
_____________________
So that when he was born again the salty flavor of greasy fries clung to his mouth.
And it would be the vague snatch of pastel pink that would form his first memory.
Slowly fading, slowly receding into a new life before he analyzed what was between his legs.
He'd be a boy again.
When he was eight is when he heard of a terrible suicide on one of the city monuments.
Despite the blood being cleaned and flowers placed, all respects paid, the thing was considered grim and macabre.
It fascinated the boy with too bright eyes all too clear and all too knowing.
The ladies in the orphanage wrote him off as dumb. For he did not speak a word.
Because he knew there was one task required, from some old storybook or some old friend he could have never met before.
There was once a very wise, very old man who spoke sly in his ear once who had said, "babies forget their past lives." Is how the law went and how it very well should go. "When they say Mama for the first time."
Well then it was very lucky he had neither a Mama or a name.
The ladies of the orphanage wore black and grey. It was some mandatory dressing.
Just about the furthest thing from his favorite color. Pastel pink, a close second to electric blue.
Just like a volunteer whose eyes were sunken and the electric part all whittled and gone. So they looked more grey and decrepit as her pale, sallow face.
When she'd first decided he was to be hers he wasn't completely sure he'd understood.
He also didn't quite remember, six years old, if it was that he could not speak or did not choose too.
However he knew very well it was important he did not.
When she'd decided and asked of him; "would you accept me? As your Mother."
The boy put his hand in his mouth. Silent and staring.
Though the girl's lips were usually chapped and dry, the day she'd adopted him she wore a pastel pink lip gloss.
Mother spoke quite a bit. Too much, she was tempting him! Way too much!
And though she never raised her voice, never dared do anything but smile he began to be a little antsy the more time she would patiently teach him about letters and sounds and speaking and family.
"Madame," asked Daniel ten years old, "why did you name me Daniel?"
In many years and many conversations they'd compromised. His Lady's grandmama was French, and had shown him all the beautiful, elegant scripts of her home land. Her language and tongue that often represented love itself.
He much loved this lady he should be calling Mother.
But he'd not forgotten.
No, rather he remembered more and more. And he just needed...
The one more piece. One more before he and she could both move on.
"Your name?" she asked, his Lady ever gentle and ever caring for his every wish. "I named you after a dear friend, someone I loved once very much. He didn't get the chance to grow up."
And quite often he asked about her as a girl, when she was his age, when she was older. Why it seemed their town, all nice and attentive of him, didn't seem to like her.
Often there would be tears in her eyes. But she would smile anyway. Slightly chiding, "now don't worry about such things. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said."
"Maman, if you could have that friend back, would you tell him? Tell him just how much he meant?"
"Daniel."
Joseph
His story is my favorite. Well, okay, when animated by Disney and Vision Video(find their content all on YouTube). When done for the general audience it's really a captivating watch full of character depth and nuance.
Some that I certainly feel should have been included in the book proper. LOLZ. First time ever the movie did it better.
But really, in any reality, in any time historians could pore over the story of the beloved youngest son, set to some grand destiny and so is overtly favored by his Father that his elder brothers grow jealous. And it isn't like they ever have anywhere to go rather than home where they have to watch. It becomes, understandable. Well, almost. And that wasn't even adding in the prophetic dreams this spoilt, overly arrogant boy couldn't explain quite well if movies are to be believed.
Without realizing the story really touches on themes of parental favoritism and how even without malicious intent, when you're blinded by some grand expectation of one child, you begin to put them on a pedestal they don't deserve. It deals with how those bonds between brothers at their strongest are degraded over time stewed in envy. A story that as a writer, itches to be modernized and considered from a more literary angle.
I for one, want to know what happened in Egypt with Joseph, Benjamin, and their Father now in the know. Benjamin was there when his brothers confessed and prostrated themselves to their brother! Youngest Benjamin was the only one who could "rejoice," that his brother was alive and not eaten by wolves! The lie that had been told to their Father and now thrown back at their faces from the brother they'd also lied to.
Chapter 4
At first opportunity Tyler did something he had never done before.
He apologized, genuinely and as Sammy could be concerned, without the guile of servant's necessity. No, instead he approached as a friend who genuinely wanted to make amends.
And was such motive present? Possibly. However he'd like to not lie to himself if possible.
Once again he had shattered Sammy's expectations, but this time, in a positive manner.
"So why-- why do such a thing? Despite... des--pite."
He choked, struggling to find words. Or perhaps, he didn't feel safe turning the sentiment to words.
Perhaps he had not only created a wound, but exposed old ones. Realizing this gave Tyler an unpleasant feeling, one he wished to have never learned the name of. Guilt. He may have tried to prevent himself, but, he found he liked to see Sammy in a more carefree manner.
He assured Sammy then, that he knew what he had done was wrong. While including that until now, that fact had honestly eluded him. The statement did as expected, piquing Sammy's curiosity, leading to further, more probing questions.
Ones Tyler answered with honesty.
Frowned upon as such notion was back home.
________________________
After the initial exchange as Sammy so obliquely allowed himself to be led... led to witness as Tyler's reservations completely crumbled.
Over the next few days Sammy had a very clear idea of his friend's formerly secret background. Only such things were not secrets.
Unless one could count secrets of mutual silence.
The dreadfully jaded, eventually lonely existence described violence from both humans and his own kind.
And Sammy may even then, have still disregarded the information. Clever half-truths and half the context, only Tyler had answered too many unasked, unlooked upon silent questions. Even more surprising, being told outright what Tyler's intentions were in sharing such secrets.
For Sammy to sneak out with him to the vampire village. It had been the twisting realization of his own ignorance that decided him.