Day Four - Morning

     Daylight glows grey through the bedroom window. It's a bright grey, testifying how the storm had abated during the night. What remains of the rowdy tempest is a gentle shower and chalky clouds that'll burn off with the sun.

     The boy wakes grudgingly. He had enough of the waking world yesterday, thank you very much. He'd rather stay in bed today and not worry about food, or Myr, or finding shelter from bloody rain that never stops. He'd rather he didn't think about food at all. The reminder dredges up his aching appetite from wherever it had been buried in his sleep. His stomach growls loud enough to be heard from the kitchen next door.

     He recognizes the routine that has defined his time here. (He’d be an idiot not to.) He wakes, aching and hungry. He sneaks to town for the food and compassion he needs. He sneaks back full of neither, having just enough of both to keep him alive another day. He circumnavigates around Myr, lest he suffer his wrath, before fatigue knocks him out for the night.

     Is this how his days will go? Is this all there is to his life?

Day Four - Midnight

     The boy stirs. The movement is sluggish, uncoordinated. Eyes blink open briefly, seeing but not registering anything. He isn't awake. He merely looks that way. His body is running entirely on autopilot. He sits up. His head dips. Eyes close again, then open before he relapses into true slumber. He sits a little straighter as he looks around.

     He's back in his room, the one with three beds. Even with the window, there's not much light to see by, not with the storm still raging outside. Sheet lightning splits the darkness and vanishes the next instant. The flash serves as the boy's candle. A minute later, the silence is similarly pierced by growling thunder.

     The boy belatedly reacts. He shifts to face the window and the tempest expressionlessly. He doesn't twitch at any spark or roar the weather makes. Later on, the storm settles and is content with spitting at the earth in torrents. Fifteen minutes more and the boy slumps where he sits. His eyes are half-open. He's asleep. It takes another minute for gravity to topple him forwards onto his pillow. The impact rouses him. He yawns and stretches. His eyes close. He curls into the faded quilt, into himself, and drifts into proper dreams.

<== Day Three - Evening     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day Four - Morning ==>

Day Three - Evening

     It's raining. Still raining. Has it let up for a second today? Every spark of warmth and comfort the boy soaked up from the pub's fire is immediately washed clean from his skinny frame. Perfect. Abso-bloody-lutely perfect. Better still, he's got a full hour of slogging uphill to look forward to. He doesn’t bother putting on his shoes. What's the point? They’ll only slow him down.

     The cloud cover ushers in premature nightfall. It makes it look later and darker than it should be at this hour. It's why the boy got his times wrong and left sooner than absolutely needed. He wish he'd stayed, but he didn't, so he uses the extra time to fight the downhill slide of the decayed trail. In hindsight, he's glad he left when he did.

     Ash grey clouds crash into each other. The sky grows thick, heavy, and as friendly looking as a lead pipe. The boy scampers out from underneath it to avoid getting hit, gaining as much ground as he loses to gravity and the soupy earth. He screams his rage into the storm. Thunder joins his chorus and roars with him as a flash of gold sparks mere feet away. He braces his arms in front of him. It’s a futile defense against lightning’s fury and he knows it, but he does it anyways. What else can he do?

Day Three - Afternoon

     Alicia’s surprised to see the boy. From the moment he’s at the door, her expression wavers between shock and distress. He hasn't done anything, so why is she upset?

     “Jeezus, kid. I thought you had more sense in you than to come in this weather… Well don't just stand there! Get in, get in!” She ushers him inside to the crackling hearth.

     The boy gratefully plops beside the coals. He sets his shoes out to (hopefully) dry. Even if they're still wet by opening, by his eviction, they'll be warm for a few sweet seconds. He points his pruney toes hearthwards and relishes the feeling coming back into his frigid feet. Hands hover above feet, also enjoying the heat, though it makes the sores on his fingers ache in new ways. He’s comfortable until Alicia places a gentle hand on his shoulder. He recoils at the unexpected touch. Her hurt look convinces him that she didn't mean anything by it. Satisfied, he goes back to staring at the hearth. He hears Alicia sigh beside him. He hears her go to the kitchen. He hears her ask Gerry to be generous with the servings.

     The boy smirks. It's not everyday he gets to be doted on. He savours the feeling while it lasts. As happy as he is to laze about the hearth, he has a job to do. He rubs his hands in front of the fireplace one more time and gets up. It's time to earn that meal.

Day Three - Midday

     It’s a miserable slog in the pelting rain. The path downhill decays into sliding, gravel filled muck where the road isn’t overrun with weeds. Thank goodness the weeds seem to be the majority. Nonetheless, the boy comes close to slipping several times due to his oversized, soaked shoes. They slither on and out from under his feet. It’s like walking on eels. After almost skidding into a shin deep pothole puddle for the umpteenth time, he loses his patience. He yanks his shoes off, ties the laces together, and slings the muddy mess over his shoulder. His feet are marginally colder and wetter bare, but his footing is leagues more sure. The change pleases him. Pity it doesn't do a thing about the downpour.

     He arrives at Glenholm town, surly and shivering, an hour later. He breaks into a run the moment he transitions onto proper cobblestone lanes. No more mud until he makes his return. Fingers crossed the rain will stop by evening. Then again, who’s to say there’ll be a return voyage at all? Alicia's offer of shelter seems a welcome alternative. No idea what she has in mind, but anything is better than boarding in the madhouse he calls home. He'll have to ask her later. His shift isn't until the afternoon and if he comes too early, he runs the risk of looking desperate. Besides, he's got another item on his to-do list.

     He sloshes through the town square, onto the main road, and past the pub until he reaches the post office. The door of the latter is then promptly blown down.

     There’s not a soul to be seen inside; nobody's manning the register. The smog from last time is still hanging over the counter, though it’s thinned some. The air doesn’t make him dizzy this time, but it’s still fragrant. The boy doesn’t want to lollygag. He's seen what the drugged smoke will do to people. Hollowed out by addiction is a bad way to go, not that the resident druggie is complaining, judging by the state of things.

     The boy spots a bell on the counter. He rings it. He rings it again. And again. And again and again and again and-

     Something groans from behind the counter.

Day Three - Morning

     The boy is awoken by his empty stomach. He curls up, clutching his sore belly. A combination of hunger and pain culminates in a rude awakening. The sun's barely up for crying out loud! He groans, rolls over, and waits for his stomach to unclench so he can resume sleeping. The ache abates without vanishing. Respite eludes him. He digs his head out of the pillow. Like it or not, he's up and he'll stay that way. He rubs at dry eyes, stretches feeling into heavy limbs, and dashes on his shoes; he's put them on the wrong feet. A melodramatic sigh as he puts them on right.

     Hunger’s made him cranky, meaning he's got less patience than usual for nonsense like this. Not that he has much to begin with on a Monday morning.

Day Two - Night

     The boy ascends the slope's overgrown, corkscrewing track while light still dusts the sky. It’s lovely and bright now, but the sun faded so quickly yesterday. Best not to loiter lest he's left to wander among the trees in the dark. He won’t risk another shortcut while the night bears down on him, nipping at his heels. He can’t see it yet, but he feels it a short half hour out of sight, eager to clutch him and never let go until the far off dawn beats it back.

     A branch breaks. The boy freezes. Are there wolves in this forest? He’s never seen a wolf before. He doesn’t know much about them either, save that they eat boys wandering in the woods. Alone. At night.

     He swallows around the knot in his throat and strains his ears harder than he ever did. Harder than the many times he hid from a bobby after being scapegoated. Harder than when he picked the lock to and pilfered the pantry of St. Andrew’s (or was it St. Anthony’s?). Harder than this morning with his pockets weighted down with guilty silver. He listens and he waits.

     He doesn’t hear anything. Not a cricket. Not a breath of wind. He takes off running regardless. He runs from hot eyes on his back he’s likely imagining, but, real or not, he doesn’t care. And he runs. And runs. And runs from the night, from swelling shadows hiding wolves and god knows what else. He runs the whole way to another home that isn’t home.

     Sunset splatters the manor in scarlet strong enough to make the church's windows look pink in comparison. The boy wonders if he took a wrong bend somewhere and arrived in hell by mistake. The sun dips over the earth’s edge a minute later and the house turns back to its decrepit, old self; caked in dust, veiled in its permanent shades. Home, sweet home.