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 Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2015 7:58 pm
six
He's only six years old when his mother tells him that Jake Maserati will be his new daddy.
Jake Maserati is a thin, reedy man with glasses and scruff around his neck and jaw that's too wispy to be considered an actual beard. His glasses are round and smeared with some sort of cloudy substance that makes his eyes hardly visible behind the glass, and Chance has to squint to see the watery blue irises. There are callouses on his hands, which he says are because he works with a lot of rough materials, and the veins in his neck stick out prominently whenever he speaks.
Chance doesn't want a new daddy, and he definitely doesn't need a new daddy, especially since the last new daddy he had was much cooler looking than this one, even if he wasn't really very nice. And the daddy before that was the one with the dogs, even if he wasn't allowed near the dogs. He doesn't understand why he can't just stay with mama and that's it; they don't need a third person in their family, it's just fine with the two of them.
Mama says that New Daddy will be best for them; she pats his head and ruffles his curly hair, and whispers perfume-soaked promises that they will be very happy together, and that he should just be a good boy and let them do what they need to. Her breath smells sickly sweet and sticky by his ear, and when she lets go, he can see that her face is all painted up the way she does when she is going out.
He tries to tell her again that they don't need a new daddy, but she leaves before he can say another word.
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Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2015 8:33 pm
nine
He can hear them arguing outside of the room.
Chance's bedroom is more or less a closet; the space is hardly big enough for a bed, so there's just a mattress on the floor, and a dresser squeezed in beside it, with nothing else, not even a window. Originally he had shared with his mother, back when he was younger - but that had proved to be a problem the older he got, because that was when she started bringing men into the apartment; candidates, as Chance called them, because every time his mother brought someone home, she would tell him all about the man that was going to be his new daddy.
Chance stops calling them that after the second one. Then they just become "candidates," because he doesn't even really know what the word "daddy" is supposed to mean.
The argument goes on for several hours; there's lots of yelling and screaming, and sometimes a smash every now and then that makes Chance think that one of them has probably thrown something. He sits on his bed and reads a book about old presidents of the United States and tries to block out the sound of their voices with headphones that don't actually plug into anything, because he doesn't have something to listen to music with.
He's on Theodore Roosevelt when the door opens; a hand grabs his arm, yanks him roughly up, and Chance stumbles out of his bed, falls half on the floor and tries frantically to regain his footing. There's not really any time, and he doesn't really get the opportunity, because the hand holding him pulls hard, and he finds himself being thrown abruptly onto the living room floor.
"Timothy! Timothy!"
His mother's voice can be heard somewhere to his left. Chance rubs at his eyes, blinking rapidly, and tries to figure out what he's done wrong this time. Everything seems to be moving around him in rapid motions that confuse him, and he can see the hulking outline of his mother's boyfriend looming over him.
Candidate Six, Chance thinks to himself. Timothy Spelling. Auto mechanic. Likes that beer with the red label.
"Timothy, I told you, I'm sorry - "
His mother's voice again.
"Shut up, b***h, I ain't talking to you."
Timothy's voice is jeering. There is a cigarette clenched between his teeth, and the smoke curling up out of it smells rancid, like he's been sucking on it for too long. His thin lips are curled upwards in an expression of disgust, but his eyes look far too greedy, which makes a sharp - and dangerous - contrast with one another.
"Little s**t," Timothy mocks, and grabs Chance roughly by the front of his shirt. His mother makes a sudden movement, like she's going to step in, but then she fades backwards, against the wall, and just presses a hand to her chest.
She doesn't step in. She never does.
"Thought I told you to clean out my car," Timothy snarls, and Chance just stares up at him without saying a word, because it's useless, because whatever he says will be the wrong answer, anyway. His thoughts are still working furiously to catch up, to try and mute the growing feeling of fear welling in his stomach.
Teddy Roosevelt. Twenty-sixth president of the United States.
"Next time I tell you to do something," Timothy says, and his face is close, too close; his breath stinks of beer and cheap cigarettes. "I expect you to do it."
Chance nods mechanically.
Teddy Roosevelt was a mechanical engineer.
"Margie, I gotta show this little s**t here some proper discipline," Timothy drawls out, and he drops Chance to the floor with a loud smack, crouching down beside him. Chance's arm is tingling where his elbow was hit, and he stays exactly where he is, not daring to make a move.
Teddy Roosevelt won the Nobel Prize. He used the money to promote peace.
The cigarette is removed from Timothy's mouth. Chance watches the smoke curling upwards towards the ceiling, and his eyes slide sideways towards her mother; he doesn't beg, or plead, or ask for help, because he knows she won't give it to him. He knows what she'll say if he does.
"It's okay, Chancey boy, it's okay, don't worry. It's all for the good, it's 'cause you've gotta listen better, okay? Mama is right here for you."
Teddy Roosevelt was blind in one eye because of a boxing accident.
Timothy's voice cuts into his thoughts. "Listen to me when I'm talkin' to ya, ya little s**t," he snaps, and Chance jerks his gaze back to the man in front of him. His arm is yanked to the side, shirt jerked upwards so that his thin ribs are visible, and Timothy's hand holds him in place. His other holds the cigarette close to Chance's skin.
"This is for you're own good," Candidate Six says, just before he presses the cigarette against Chance's side.
Teddy Roosevelt once scaled the Matterhorn, Chance thinks.
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Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2015 8:42 pm
thirteen
"So, uh. You want some drugs, or something?"
The boy can't hardly be older than eleven or twelve. Chance lowers the book in his hands and raises an eyebrow, looking a little curious, though not about the drugs.
"I don't think that's really how you're supposed to deal them out," he says with a laugh, and the boy blushes all the way to the roots of his dark hair. He gets up in a haste, the chair knocking over with a clatter, and clenches his fists together. He looks a mixture of embarrassed and angry, patches of red appearing on his pale cheeks.
"Screw you, then!" he says shrilly, and runs down the street, rounding a corner and disappearing out of sight. Chance watches him go for a long moment, vaguely amused at the attempt, and trying not to laugh. Maybe he could have gotten a little more money if he'd decided to get into the drug business; but after seeing the police storm his and his mother's tiny apartment and drag Candidate Nine out kicking and screaming, he had decided against it, even if it could have gotten him a little bit more savings.
Chance flips to the last page of his book, where he keeps a tally mark of how much he's made; right now it's at around four hundred dollars, all from doing miscellaneous work where he can get it - mowing a lawn here, walking a dog there. Whatever it takes to get what he needs, he'll do it. He keeps the money safely hidden away in the pages of another book, underneath a floorboard, where neither his mother, nor any of her candidates, will be able to find it.
Just a few more years, he thinks, propping his elbow on his leg and resting his chin in the palm of his hand. Just a few more years and then I can leave.
Then I can be free.
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Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2015 8:50 pm
fifteen
He leaves at night, not because he's ashamed or trying to sneak out, but because he's always liked the dark. In the dark, he can't see all of his old scars, or the new ones, or anything at all except the stars above his head and the slow drifting of the nighttime clouds. He likes the sanctity of the twilight moments in which the sky seems almost surreal in its painting of colors across the horizon, and sometimes he'll sit out on the front stoop and just stare up (Candidate Seven had always hated that habit of his).
He leaves without saying a word, and without taking almost anything at all except a small bag that holds a change of clothes, an old notebook that he's been using to draw in, and the tightly bound book that contains all of the money that he's saved up - nearly a thousand dollars. It won't get him much, but he'll keep saving until he has enough; keep working until he gets to where he needs to be.
His mother is sleeping. Chance doesn't say goodbye, but he does leave a note, and all it says is:
I was never afraid of the dark, but I think you were, because you sacrificed me for the sake of saving yourself.
Bye.
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Posted: Sun Jan 18, 2015 9:08 pm
sixteen
Jackson Keller is tall and muscular, for a seventeen year old; the build of a professional swimmer, with blonde hair and blue eyes and a smirk that sends everyone in the home into fits of cooing and awing at just how handsome he is, just how friendly he is; how all the ladies must love him at school. Jackson is considered one of St. Clarence's Home for Boys best boys, always helping where he can without having to be asked, always volunteering in the kitchen, or offering to take care of the younger ones when there are visitors.
Chance discovers that Jackson is, in fact, truly that nice, but he does have some vices.
"I still don't get it."
The smoke from the cigarette filters through the closet fills the air with its acrid scent. Chance waves a hand in front of him to get rid of it, wrinkling his nose a little; he still can't bring himself to actually smoke, but he's become much more accustomed to being around other people that do.
"Get what?" Jackson asks, peering around him, and Chance leans back to see him more clearly, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Get what all the girls see in you," he says, and Jackson laughs, the sound slightly rough (he really does need to stop smoking).
"I guess I just have a nice face or something," Jackson says with a shrug, and Chance snorts in amusement. "I dunno, but whatever it is, I wish I didn't have it. I don't need a girlfriend right now, I just want to finish school and get out of this place."
"That, and you don't actually like girls," Chance points out, and Jackson's laugh is warm in his ear as his arm around Chance's waist squeezes a little. He thinks idly that it could be nice to have someone to laugh with all the time; but his heart just isn't in it, and he can't work up enough emotion to care. Truth be told, if Jackson disappeared tomorrow, Chance would be mildly disappointed, but there is no underlying emotion that ties him to anyone else. They're just providing some entertainment for each other in a place that doesn't have much else.
It's probably a problem, but he doesn't see as such. It's just how it is. People are people, and they come and go as easily as the changing weather. Jackson is nice and all, but that's it.
"So," says Jackson, and stubs out his cigarette on the floor, brushing it away so that he can put both hands on Chance's hips, tugging him so that Chance's back is pressed against his bare chest. "I think we've still got about fifteen minutes until curfew..."
Warm lips are pressed against the nape of his neck. Chance laughs, shaking his head as he twists around.
"I don't get wanna risk getting caught," he says, which is the truth. He and Jackson both have a spotless record at the home, and it's what they both need in order to survive; in order to make it out of here without too much trouble.
Jackson lets out a groan, but he understands. They both get dressed, fumbling and laughing in the dark, and Jackson kisses him once more before they leave, sloppy and messy. He disappears first, looking as collected as always, and Chance waits about five minutes before he edges out of the closet as well. Ten minutes later, the two of them are sitting on their respective beds in the communal sleeping area, Chance reading a book, and Jackson playing a game on some handheld device.
They don't talk to each other. They never do.
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Posted: Wed Jan 21, 2015 7:46 pm
nineteen
He sits on the edge of his bed and paints his nails a dark blue in color. Blue has always been his favorite color; it reminds him of deep nights filled with clouds and whispers of mysteries, and water that touches his toes with its cold fingers, and a star-strewn sky full of majesty above his head. A part of him wonders vaguely if his landlord will give him the same sort of disgusted look as he did the time that Chance came home wearing a skirt, but he finds he doesn't really care either way.
(To be fair, the skirt was very comfortable, and he'd borrowed it from a co-worker when he'd spilled his Gatorade on his jeans.)
When he's finished, Chance sets the bottle aside and fans his hands out in front of him, giving them a little shake to make them dry faster. He gets to his feet and pads across the hardwood floor (he really should get a rug or something for the winter, so that it doesn't feel quite so cold in here when he's not wearing any socks or shoes) to where his desk is.
He's got his sketchbook pulled out and is about to draw, but there's a knock at the door that prevents him from actually starting. Chance glances at the clock, which reads 10:33 PM in red letters, before getting back up and making his way over to the door, unhinging the locks and slanting it open.
"Marie?"
It's one of his co-workers, as well as the one who'd lent him the skirt. She smiles coyly up at him.
"Hey," Marie says. "I thought you might like a drink."
She holds up a bottle, and the expectant, almost eager look on her face is curious. Chance wonders if he's ever looked like that about anyone at all; certainly, he's had that same sort of desire in relation to the stars and to space, but when it comes to people, he just doesn't understand them.
That part of him is broken, he knows, and it's rather doubtful he'll get it fixed anytime soon.
The feeling inside of him shifts from one of curiosity to mild pity; he can't give her what she obviously wants, because Chance Bones is incapable of feeling those sorts of complicated emotions, but it doesn't mean that he doesn't find her interesting - even if he's not sure if he'll find anyone that interesting.
Maybe I truly am not really human, Chance muses, and he steps aside to let her in.
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