lemonpies
07-28-2011, 06:13 PM
Hey, I've just finished the first chapter of my book and I'm looking someone to tear it apart. The overlying plot deals with things like trans-humanism, paranoia and inner strength. If you can't be bothered reading the whole thing then feel free to criticize the beginning or whatever. Thanks :D
________________________________ ________________________
CHAPTER ONE
________________________________ ________________________
Light rays blazed through the glass like a giant magnifier, warming the cramped room interior and pronouncing the dust that swilled throughout the air. Little fractions of soil danced in the atmosphere, and like a dirty lung in its last stages of giving, the room heaved a heavy cry.
A young Caribbean boy stood atop a feeble bench in the corner of the room. He had positioned himself in a manner that allowed him a full view of the sky outside. He had a gangly appearance, highlighted by his disproportionately large head, as though his stringy limbs were mismatched to the bulbous skull that lay upon his shoulders.
The room had only one window, a small window at that, but the boy made sure it was enough, and even as the hard sun relentlessly bore down on his scratched face, he continued gazing into the vast blue abyss.
He was pondering on many of his issues, big and small. The things that would keep him alive tomorrow, and the things that would keep him alive for the next 3 years. Anything longer than that seemed unrealistic at this point.
His name was Jack, and as far as his memory stretched, he had always loved staring into the sky. He wasn't particularly sure of why he enjoyed such an aimless activity, he could never precisely touch upon what it was. His thoughts on the matter had always alluded him, remaining clouded, and perhaps in that lay his answer, as if the clarity of his sky theater appealed to his indecisive nature.
Jack's eyes watered as he began losing the battle against the blind. He reluctantly withdrew his stare, and with a heavy heart he lept from his bench, landing on the grey carpet below. He did so in a reproachful manner, for he knew that such moments of reflection were a luxury in this, usually chaotic, shoe-box.
The dark of the room swallowed him whole as he edged further from the window, and as his eyes adjusted, he kicked his way towards the bed. Smack, smack, smack. A thin mattress covered in piss and dust. It was one of few things he had to his name, a name that held little respect among the other drone orphans. They didn't like him, thought he was too thoughtful. Jack was surprised they had stringed together the brain cells needed to sustain such a lasting hatred, but they had, and he was too weak, physically and mentally, to do anything about it.
Laying down gently, he closed his eyes and hoped to escape reality, to dream the day away, but his harsh cough wouldn't allow it.
It had worsened in the past few months, to the point where people complained about the racket it caused. The cough had been a catalyst for his irritation of late, but it had remained innocent enough until yesterday. It had become violent, a serious problem, and as he looked at his hands he noticed a thin spray of blood.
Regardless of Jack's lack of recent formal education, he knew a bloody cough was not an acceptable mannerism to possess, even among the dregs of this hellish dump that he claimed as his peers. They smelled the disease, the potential for death, and like a pack of rebellious buzzards they flew as far away from the Grim as their poor little wings would let them.
'An anvil', he spluttered, 'An anvil and a dose of rye'.
Jack's tongue sponged at the thought. He'd need to wait until the other orphans came back though. He couldn't set off to the market just yet. It was his turn, his duty to make sure none stole from the room.
He flipped to the other side of the dirty mattress and stiffened. A solitary tear changed direction on his cheek, gliding towards the corner of his mouth. His tongue peaked out and tasted, salty, bloody, and bloody salty.
The hour hand had struck many a rotation since last he smiled. It had not always been this bleak, this monotonous and cruel, but he had long ago disregarded any semblance of joy, any chance of pride or promise. Was he right to be this pessimistic? The only certainty he had in this shack was that he couldn't be certain of anything. An oxymoron was his single greatest belief. It was tough, but this was the bed he slept on, this was the air he breathed, and this was his own jaded reality. Rotten as it may be, he lived with it, and he thought that perhaps the only chance of improvement lay not in the external, but the internal. Within his mind he could become more accepting, so that every new day would bring a glimmer less sorrow.
But even this cautionary hope had been undermined by the blood dripping from his fingers. Even if the doctors could help him, how would he afford such a cure? Was it even possible to rely on petty thievery for something so grave?
Such an act worked at a curious pace in the village of Doljandrun. It operated so that one could steal enough for a meal, but never anything of substance or worth. So if Jack had collected enough loot, enough to cure his heckle, then it would soon be in the hands of those more desperate, cunning or savvy, and Doljandrun had no shortage of hands such as these.
They saw themselves as a clan of Robin Hood admirers, but the reality of it stunk. The reality was a group of flies eating fly ****. A self-sustaining circle of scum feeders, getting exactly what they deserved and not learning from it.
He alternated between opening and closing his eyes, trying to find a difference in the blacks. Coal black, deep black, or midnight black? That was the height of his pallet in this miserable little shack, but maybe that was a disguised blessing, and maybe the skin-crawling living conditions didn't need light shed upon them.
Jack wondered how many other homes in Doljandrun warranted temporary blindness. The main road had similarly built tin-sheds, and even the wooden houses in the hills suffered from rot and mites. It was hard to say which nightmare would produce more sweat, but whatever the case - the homes of Doljandrun were not good for community spirit. Jack wasn't even sure if the place ever had a community spirit, but if it had, it had been brutally and cruelly flayed to the point of non-recognition. This was not a community. This was an elaborate prison designed by its inhabitants, forced through greed, and Jack saw no way out.
He had arrived at the squalor two years earlier on a particularly dark night, and perhaps this is what lured him, or rather, stopped him from taking the long way around. For even the devil has trouble recognizing hell without his fires guiding the way.
And within that one night of innocent refuge, Jack had had everything stolen, including his freedom. The closest settlement to Doljandrun was an estimated 90km walk away, and with no food, no lire, and an infestation of cougars in the surrounding hills, Jacks chances of escape were thin. Thinner than the mattress he slept on and thinner than the roof over his head. He had no chance.
Those two years passed with an unexpected swiftness. Such a dreary lifestyle would warrant a slow passage of time, and at first the days did seem like months, but the repetitive nature of his situation had an odd effect. Every day was similar to the last, with no discernible features, he had no goals, he had nothing to look forward too, but also nothing worth a peak back. He lived in the constant and in the now. Time itself is just a construct used to keep track of things, and what did he need to keep track of? He had no need for time here, and if it weren't for the rising sun and the falling moon, his stay in Doljandrun would have seemed like one monotonous endless Monday. Like being trapped in a 2 year coma, completely conscious of your drab surroundings, unable to dream and unable to smile. Just lying there whilst strangers mull over your lifeless corpse.
He shuddered on the bed and had a sudden urge to move. A tingling sensation, as if his bones were calling to him, like they needed a reminder that they still functioned. He was the comatose patient, but he didn't have to be, and what Jack did next, accidental or not, would wake him from his sleep. For all his pessimism and cynicism, it would have only took one small event to break him from the shack, and he was surprised it hadn't happened earlier, but here it was, and it felt as though he knew it was coming before it even happened.
He sat up suddenly, with his body rising at a quick speed, knocking his elbow against a metallic ornament, a small angel playing the fiddle. It toppled, then crashed to the ground, as loudly as something so small could crash, and the fiddle of the angel separated from the arm.
' ****!' He shouted. '****, ****, ****, ****, ****, ****!'
Such an occurrence wouldn't normally entice such panic, but this ornament was different. It had belonged to Harper, a broadly shouldered girl about three times the size of Jack, and if he thought his life was bad before, he didn't dare think how it would be after Harper was done with him. She had this way of commanding people, using fear, a subtle type of fear, as if every movement, and every act was an insinuation that she was about to hurt someone. There would be no subtleties where Jack was concerned.
And it suddenly dawned on him that his life in the shack was about to end, whether or not a new life would began after remained to be seen. Things would never be the same again.
He desperately tried to fit it back on, jamming the fiddle onto the angel's arm, but it was pointless. He knew the thing was broke and he had only two options. From this point forth he could either stay in the shack and take a severe beating, one that would surely send him six feet under, or, the equally risky alternative, he could flee, run as fast as his legs would carry him, hoping for a miracle in the hills.
Jack lay back down on the mattress. His depression had suddenly turned into panic and fear, and in a small way he enjoyed it. It almost felt refreshing to experience these emotions he thought he had lost, as though he'd been shocked back into the real world, with real stakes.
This wasn't the first time he had run into trouble with Harper, or any of his other inmates for that matter. In fact, it would be fair to say that everyone living in the shack had, at some point, laid digs into his frail body. It almost became a daily occurrence in the first few months of his life here, but now it was different. Jack's cough was only the surface of something much graver than he cared to imagine, and it weakened him immensely. He had never been the most physically adept person, always teetering just below average in strength, but recently it felt as though the thieves of Doljandrun had targeted his muscles, stealing every shred of masculinity left in his pathetic body. It was not the thieves obviously, but a much more urgent, terrifying threat.
This threat coupled with a strong smack from Harper would certaintly be enough to push him over the edge. He wasn't completely sure if it would kill him, but the risk was definitely high.
He wondered how much time he had left until they came back from the markets. They usually took a few hours strutting around the stalls, trying to catch out negligent traders, gathering a bevy of stolen goods. Realistically they would be here within the hour, and if he really wanted to play it safe he should go in the next five minutes. Would he even need five minutes to gather his belongings? He could hardly take the mattress, and most of his other possessions would be just as impractical.
That left him with a leather flask, a small length of rope, and some small trinkets of sentimental value. He rummaged under his mattress, trying to find everything. Eventually he had it all laid out before him, a meager spread.
The flask could be the difference between life and death in the hills of Doljandrun, and it would be easily carried in one of his pockets. He wasn't so sure what use he could find for the rope, but it was also easily carried as he could wrap it around his waist like a belt.
As he tied a strong knot in the rope he looked down at the other trinkets. A small bangle, a medal, and a single page from his old diary. The jewelry was given to him by his mother, a small token that he thought nothing of at the time. The bangle only took on sentimental value after he had left his home, and realized that it was the only thing of hers that he still possessed.
The medal was given to him by his father shortly before he passed away. Jack had lost a running competition in school, coming in last place, and so his father welded him his own medal in an effort to raise his spirits and give him a bit more confidence. It worked too, but only temporarily. The death of his father overshadowed any raised spirits. He was only in his late 30's when the cancer struck, slowly edging him out of existence. Jack had long repressed his sadness over the event, but looking down at the medal, at this symbol of a father who cared for his son, it brought it all back up.
Tears shot down his face as he handled the piece of paper. It was becoming blotched and wet, so he wiped his eyes and raised the sheet high up, angling it against the sunlit window, illuminating the words from behind. It read:
'' 27 July 2039,
Pretty good day, we went down to the sand pit and met my frend Dan and all got together for a swim but Dans frends were rough and tried to fight my frends but I wouldnt let them and told Dan to **** off and I didnt like how the wet sand stuck to my feet but then we just went home and watched this old film called Shrek so it was a fun day anway. And after dinner my dad said he'd take me to mountain dante which is New Africas second biggest, I cant wait because Ive never been outside of the village before so it will be exciting''
The letter was about 6 years old. He had written it when he was 9, just around his 10th birthday. Jack knew this from the date at the top but it would have been clear from the poor grammar anyway. It was only in looking back that he realized how far he had come. He had always been a bright child, and even this poorly written diary page was miles ahead of his peers in the New African education system. But this was 6 years later, and Jack had matured considerably. He didn't let expulsion from school stop him from reading, absorbing knowledge, and he had a wealth of commonsense to show for it, but it was looking back on this letter that truly showed him how far he had come along. He had faced anguish and mental war, and still stood before this piece of paper, reading his past. That alone was proof of the man he was growing into.
It was also nice to recall his friendships, a concept that simply ceased to exist in Doljandrun. Perhaps if he ever got out of this predicament he would strike new friendships, and lead a life worth living.
These 3 items gave him that boost needed, reminding him of what he had, acting as a carrot on a string. The purest form of motivation that gave his step a new spring. He had to be realistic though, his chances of leading this ideal life were laughable, but at the same time he needed to at least try. At least wake from his sleep.
For all his uncertainties, he did believe in one thing strongly, that he would never have the same life he had before. It was possible to construct a new life, maybe an equally happy one, but he would never again live through a day like the 27 July 2039. These items, the bangle, the medal, and the diary page, were all remnants of a history he had no chance of reconstructing. He thought such a reality would bite him and weigh him down on his journeys, so he let the sheet float, swaying to the ground slowly, nestling between the medal and bangle.
It was a bizarre moment. Something similar to the calm before the storm, but he had a certain inner tranquility that he thought might resist even the most harrowing of weather. His mental acceptance began here, and with it his days would not only have a glimmer less sorrow, but maybe even a glimmer more hope flitting in between the cracks of his brain.
Jack stared back at the angel. It was lopsided, with the body balancing on one of the arms. The innocent face stared up into the black of the ceiling. The moment he knocked it over was the single most important thing he did in all his time in Doljandrun, and for that reason he decided it held the most sentimental value of anything in the room. He would keep it as a reminder of how this shack had been for him. Harper would go ballistic if it was stolen or not, so with a quick movement he stashed the fiddle-less angel into his rightside pocket and made towards the door of the room. Taking the first few steps of the rest of his life with a glimmer of optimism in his eyes.
His feet began kicking through the dark once more. Smack, smack, smack, kicking against the mattresses in the room, stumbling. When he had finally felt his way towards the door he reached for the handle, and just as his skeletal hand hovered over the handle he heard it. A low rumbling of voices from outside. It was their voices. He was too late, he had spent too much time reminiscing, mulling over pointless ideas, pointless because they were all for naught now. Harper would bust through the door in her mannish manner any moment now.
He took a step back from the door. Hundreds of thoughts scrambled in his brain, all trying to get the limelight, none being helpful. He was sweating profusely, and a mixture of sadness and frustration swept over him. This couldn't be it he thought. There had to be some way out of this.
Turning 180 degrees in an effort to break his frozen stance he noticed the window., its light shining brighter than ever. Of course! He could just sneak out through the back window and they'd never know. His small frame would slide through easily with a shimmy or two, and the drop on the other side wasn't half as bad as one of Harper's fists.
He set off on a sprint across the room, not kicking his way through the dark at all. Miraculously he didn't trip, and with a mighty bound he lept onto the feeble bench once more., scurried towards the light like an anxious firefly, and began opening the window.
It unsealed smoothly and sprang open, almost toppling him off the bench, but he steadied himself and began pulling up through the window. His arms were the first to go through, and on them he felt the most gorgeous heat sink down on his skin, a brilliant warmth that filled him with new vigor. He pushed his head and upper torso through the window next. Closing his eyes, only seeing white and indigo blue, the light was blinding, but then suddenly it all went dark like an eclipse.
The complete black relaxed his eyes. Half his body dangled outside the window, so he grabbed the ledge and pushed himself up, trying to get into a better position so he could swing his legs through. He opened his eyes again, wanting to know what was going on. Something big was blocking out the sun, maybe a bus or van? His eyes were still adjusting, and he tried squinting at the object, attempting to ascertain just what the hell it was.
Then suddenly a cold terror trickled down his back. Goosebumps bubbled along his neck, and his insides screamed a horrible wail. His eyes had adjusted to the light and he could see clearly what had blocked out the sun. He dangled on the ledge, his whole body rigid with fear, staring straight into the dark eyes of Harper.
________________________________ __________________
END OF CHAPTER ONE
________________________________ __________________
________________________________ ________________________
CHAPTER ONE
________________________________ ________________________
Light rays blazed through the glass like a giant magnifier, warming the cramped room interior and pronouncing the dust that swilled throughout the air. Little fractions of soil danced in the atmosphere, and like a dirty lung in its last stages of giving, the room heaved a heavy cry.
A young Caribbean boy stood atop a feeble bench in the corner of the room. He had positioned himself in a manner that allowed him a full view of the sky outside. He had a gangly appearance, highlighted by his disproportionately large head, as though his stringy limbs were mismatched to the bulbous skull that lay upon his shoulders.
The room had only one window, a small window at that, but the boy made sure it was enough, and even as the hard sun relentlessly bore down on his scratched face, he continued gazing into the vast blue abyss.
He was pondering on many of his issues, big and small. The things that would keep him alive tomorrow, and the things that would keep him alive for the next 3 years. Anything longer than that seemed unrealistic at this point.
His name was Jack, and as far as his memory stretched, he had always loved staring into the sky. He wasn't particularly sure of why he enjoyed such an aimless activity, he could never precisely touch upon what it was. His thoughts on the matter had always alluded him, remaining clouded, and perhaps in that lay his answer, as if the clarity of his sky theater appealed to his indecisive nature.
Jack's eyes watered as he began losing the battle against the blind. He reluctantly withdrew his stare, and with a heavy heart he lept from his bench, landing on the grey carpet below. He did so in a reproachful manner, for he knew that such moments of reflection were a luxury in this, usually chaotic, shoe-box.
The dark of the room swallowed him whole as he edged further from the window, and as his eyes adjusted, he kicked his way towards the bed. Smack, smack, smack. A thin mattress covered in piss and dust. It was one of few things he had to his name, a name that held little respect among the other drone orphans. They didn't like him, thought he was too thoughtful. Jack was surprised they had stringed together the brain cells needed to sustain such a lasting hatred, but they had, and he was too weak, physically and mentally, to do anything about it.
Laying down gently, he closed his eyes and hoped to escape reality, to dream the day away, but his harsh cough wouldn't allow it.
It had worsened in the past few months, to the point where people complained about the racket it caused. The cough had been a catalyst for his irritation of late, but it had remained innocent enough until yesterday. It had become violent, a serious problem, and as he looked at his hands he noticed a thin spray of blood.
Regardless of Jack's lack of recent formal education, he knew a bloody cough was not an acceptable mannerism to possess, even among the dregs of this hellish dump that he claimed as his peers. They smelled the disease, the potential for death, and like a pack of rebellious buzzards they flew as far away from the Grim as their poor little wings would let them.
'An anvil', he spluttered, 'An anvil and a dose of rye'.
Jack's tongue sponged at the thought. He'd need to wait until the other orphans came back though. He couldn't set off to the market just yet. It was his turn, his duty to make sure none stole from the room.
He flipped to the other side of the dirty mattress and stiffened. A solitary tear changed direction on his cheek, gliding towards the corner of his mouth. His tongue peaked out and tasted, salty, bloody, and bloody salty.
The hour hand had struck many a rotation since last he smiled. It had not always been this bleak, this monotonous and cruel, but he had long ago disregarded any semblance of joy, any chance of pride or promise. Was he right to be this pessimistic? The only certainty he had in this shack was that he couldn't be certain of anything. An oxymoron was his single greatest belief. It was tough, but this was the bed he slept on, this was the air he breathed, and this was his own jaded reality. Rotten as it may be, he lived with it, and he thought that perhaps the only chance of improvement lay not in the external, but the internal. Within his mind he could become more accepting, so that every new day would bring a glimmer less sorrow.
But even this cautionary hope had been undermined by the blood dripping from his fingers. Even if the doctors could help him, how would he afford such a cure? Was it even possible to rely on petty thievery for something so grave?
Such an act worked at a curious pace in the village of Doljandrun. It operated so that one could steal enough for a meal, but never anything of substance or worth. So if Jack had collected enough loot, enough to cure his heckle, then it would soon be in the hands of those more desperate, cunning or savvy, and Doljandrun had no shortage of hands such as these.
They saw themselves as a clan of Robin Hood admirers, but the reality of it stunk. The reality was a group of flies eating fly ****. A self-sustaining circle of scum feeders, getting exactly what they deserved and not learning from it.
He alternated between opening and closing his eyes, trying to find a difference in the blacks. Coal black, deep black, or midnight black? That was the height of his pallet in this miserable little shack, but maybe that was a disguised blessing, and maybe the skin-crawling living conditions didn't need light shed upon them.
Jack wondered how many other homes in Doljandrun warranted temporary blindness. The main road had similarly built tin-sheds, and even the wooden houses in the hills suffered from rot and mites. It was hard to say which nightmare would produce more sweat, but whatever the case - the homes of Doljandrun were not good for community spirit. Jack wasn't even sure if the place ever had a community spirit, but if it had, it had been brutally and cruelly flayed to the point of non-recognition. This was not a community. This was an elaborate prison designed by its inhabitants, forced through greed, and Jack saw no way out.
He had arrived at the squalor two years earlier on a particularly dark night, and perhaps this is what lured him, or rather, stopped him from taking the long way around. For even the devil has trouble recognizing hell without his fires guiding the way.
And within that one night of innocent refuge, Jack had had everything stolen, including his freedom. The closest settlement to Doljandrun was an estimated 90km walk away, and with no food, no lire, and an infestation of cougars in the surrounding hills, Jacks chances of escape were thin. Thinner than the mattress he slept on and thinner than the roof over his head. He had no chance.
Those two years passed with an unexpected swiftness. Such a dreary lifestyle would warrant a slow passage of time, and at first the days did seem like months, but the repetitive nature of his situation had an odd effect. Every day was similar to the last, with no discernible features, he had no goals, he had nothing to look forward too, but also nothing worth a peak back. He lived in the constant and in the now. Time itself is just a construct used to keep track of things, and what did he need to keep track of? He had no need for time here, and if it weren't for the rising sun and the falling moon, his stay in Doljandrun would have seemed like one monotonous endless Monday. Like being trapped in a 2 year coma, completely conscious of your drab surroundings, unable to dream and unable to smile. Just lying there whilst strangers mull over your lifeless corpse.
He shuddered on the bed and had a sudden urge to move. A tingling sensation, as if his bones were calling to him, like they needed a reminder that they still functioned. He was the comatose patient, but he didn't have to be, and what Jack did next, accidental or not, would wake him from his sleep. For all his pessimism and cynicism, it would have only took one small event to break him from the shack, and he was surprised it hadn't happened earlier, but here it was, and it felt as though he knew it was coming before it even happened.
He sat up suddenly, with his body rising at a quick speed, knocking his elbow against a metallic ornament, a small angel playing the fiddle. It toppled, then crashed to the ground, as loudly as something so small could crash, and the fiddle of the angel separated from the arm.
' ****!' He shouted. '****, ****, ****, ****, ****, ****!'
Such an occurrence wouldn't normally entice such panic, but this ornament was different. It had belonged to Harper, a broadly shouldered girl about three times the size of Jack, and if he thought his life was bad before, he didn't dare think how it would be after Harper was done with him. She had this way of commanding people, using fear, a subtle type of fear, as if every movement, and every act was an insinuation that she was about to hurt someone. There would be no subtleties where Jack was concerned.
And it suddenly dawned on him that his life in the shack was about to end, whether or not a new life would began after remained to be seen. Things would never be the same again.
He desperately tried to fit it back on, jamming the fiddle onto the angel's arm, but it was pointless. He knew the thing was broke and he had only two options. From this point forth he could either stay in the shack and take a severe beating, one that would surely send him six feet under, or, the equally risky alternative, he could flee, run as fast as his legs would carry him, hoping for a miracle in the hills.
Jack lay back down on the mattress. His depression had suddenly turned into panic and fear, and in a small way he enjoyed it. It almost felt refreshing to experience these emotions he thought he had lost, as though he'd been shocked back into the real world, with real stakes.
This wasn't the first time he had run into trouble with Harper, or any of his other inmates for that matter. In fact, it would be fair to say that everyone living in the shack had, at some point, laid digs into his frail body. It almost became a daily occurrence in the first few months of his life here, but now it was different. Jack's cough was only the surface of something much graver than he cared to imagine, and it weakened him immensely. He had never been the most physically adept person, always teetering just below average in strength, but recently it felt as though the thieves of Doljandrun had targeted his muscles, stealing every shred of masculinity left in his pathetic body. It was not the thieves obviously, but a much more urgent, terrifying threat.
This threat coupled with a strong smack from Harper would certaintly be enough to push him over the edge. He wasn't completely sure if it would kill him, but the risk was definitely high.
He wondered how much time he had left until they came back from the markets. They usually took a few hours strutting around the stalls, trying to catch out negligent traders, gathering a bevy of stolen goods. Realistically they would be here within the hour, and if he really wanted to play it safe he should go in the next five minutes. Would he even need five minutes to gather his belongings? He could hardly take the mattress, and most of his other possessions would be just as impractical.
That left him with a leather flask, a small length of rope, and some small trinkets of sentimental value. He rummaged under his mattress, trying to find everything. Eventually he had it all laid out before him, a meager spread.
The flask could be the difference between life and death in the hills of Doljandrun, and it would be easily carried in one of his pockets. He wasn't so sure what use he could find for the rope, but it was also easily carried as he could wrap it around his waist like a belt.
As he tied a strong knot in the rope he looked down at the other trinkets. A small bangle, a medal, and a single page from his old diary. The jewelry was given to him by his mother, a small token that he thought nothing of at the time. The bangle only took on sentimental value after he had left his home, and realized that it was the only thing of hers that he still possessed.
The medal was given to him by his father shortly before he passed away. Jack had lost a running competition in school, coming in last place, and so his father welded him his own medal in an effort to raise his spirits and give him a bit more confidence. It worked too, but only temporarily. The death of his father overshadowed any raised spirits. He was only in his late 30's when the cancer struck, slowly edging him out of existence. Jack had long repressed his sadness over the event, but looking down at the medal, at this symbol of a father who cared for his son, it brought it all back up.
Tears shot down his face as he handled the piece of paper. It was becoming blotched and wet, so he wiped his eyes and raised the sheet high up, angling it against the sunlit window, illuminating the words from behind. It read:
'' 27 July 2039,
Pretty good day, we went down to the sand pit and met my frend Dan and all got together for a swim but Dans frends were rough and tried to fight my frends but I wouldnt let them and told Dan to **** off and I didnt like how the wet sand stuck to my feet but then we just went home and watched this old film called Shrek so it was a fun day anway. And after dinner my dad said he'd take me to mountain dante which is New Africas second biggest, I cant wait because Ive never been outside of the village before so it will be exciting''
The letter was about 6 years old. He had written it when he was 9, just around his 10th birthday. Jack knew this from the date at the top but it would have been clear from the poor grammar anyway. It was only in looking back that he realized how far he had come. He had always been a bright child, and even this poorly written diary page was miles ahead of his peers in the New African education system. But this was 6 years later, and Jack had matured considerably. He didn't let expulsion from school stop him from reading, absorbing knowledge, and he had a wealth of commonsense to show for it, but it was looking back on this letter that truly showed him how far he had come along. He had faced anguish and mental war, and still stood before this piece of paper, reading his past. That alone was proof of the man he was growing into.
It was also nice to recall his friendships, a concept that simply ceased to exist in Doljandrun. Perhaps if he ever got out of this predicament he would strike new friendships, and lead a life worth living.
These 3 items gave him that boost needed, reminding him of what he had, acting as a carrot on a string. The purest form of motivation that gave his step a new spring. He had to be realistic though, his chances of leading this ideal life were laughable, but at the same time he needed to at least try. At least wake from his sleep.
For all his uncertainties, he did believe in one thing strongly, that he would never have the same life he had before. It was possible to construct a new life, maybe an equally happy one, but he would never again live through a day like the 27 July 2039. These items, the bangle, the medal, and the diary page, were all remnants of a history he had no chance of reconstructing. He thought such a reality would bite him and weigh him down on his journeys, so he let the sheet float, swaying to the ground slowly, nestling between the medal and bangle.
It was a bizarre moment. Something similar to the calm before the storm, but he had a certain inner tranquility that he thought might resist even the most harrowing of weather. His mental acceptance began here, and with it his days would not only have a glimmer less sorrow, but maybe even a glimmer more hope flitting in between the cracks of his brain.
Jack stared back at the angel. It was lopsided, with the body balancing on one of the arms. The innocent face stared up into the black of the ceiling. The moment he knocked it over was the single most important thing he did in all his time in Doljandrun, and for that reason he decided it held the most sentimental value of anything in the room. He would keep it as a reminder of how this shack had been for him. Harper would go ballistic if it was stolen or not, so with a quick movement he stashed the fiddle-less angel into his rightside pocket and made towards the door of the room. Taking the first few steps of the rest of his life with a glimmer of optimism in his eyes.
His feet began kicking through the dark once more. Smack, smack, smack, kicking against the mattresses in the room, stumbling. When he had finally felt his way towards the door he reached for the handle, and just as his skeletal hand hovered over the handle he heard it. A low rumbling of voices from outside. It was their voices. He was too late, he had spent too much time reminiscing, mulling over pointless ideas, pointless because they were all for naught now. Harper would bust through the door in her mannish manner any moment now.
He took a step back from the door. Hundreds of thoughts scrambled in his brain, all trying to get the limelight, none being helpful. He was sweating profusely, and a mixture of sadness and frustration swept over him. This couldn't be it he thought. There had to be some way out of this.
Turning 180 degrees in an effort to break his frozen stance he noticed the window., its light shining brighter than ever. Of course! He could just sneak out through the back window and they'd never know. His small frame would slide through easily with a shimmy or two, and the drop on the other side wasn't half as bad as one of Harper's fists.
He set off on a sprint across the room, not kicking his way through the dark at all. Miraculously he didn't trip, and with a mighty bound he lept onto the feeble bench once more., scurried towards the light like an anxious firefly, and began opening the window.
It unsealed smoothly and sprang open, almost toppling him off the bench, but he steadied himself and began pulling up through the window. His arms were the first to go through, and on them he felt the most gorgeous heat sink down on his skin, a brilliant warmth that filled him with new vigor. He pushed his head and upper torso through the window next. Closing his eyes, only seeing white and indigo blue, the light was blinding, but then suddenly it all went dark like an eclipse.
The complete black relaxed his eyes. Half his body dangled outside the window, so he grabbed the ledge and pushed himself up, trying to get into a better position so he could swing his legs through. He opened his eyes again, wanting to know what was going on. Something big was blocking out the sun, maybe a bus or van? His eyes were still adjusting, and he tried squinting at the object, attempting to ascertain just what the hell it was.
Then suddenly a cold terror trickled down his back. Goosebumps bubbled along his neck, and his insides screamed a horrible wail. His eyes had adjusted to the light and he could see clearly what had blocked out the sun. He dangled on the ledge, his whole body rigid with fear, staring straight into the dark eyes of Harper.
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END OF CHAPTER ONE
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