Listen To The Silence by Sheryl
Chapter 9...They don't know how to let you in, and I can't let you out...
He sat in the rain, and wished for soap. Proof, he
supposed, of just how far gone his mind finally was, that he could sit here, in the small
hours of the morning, in a stinging, acrid, city tainted rain, a rain that was almost more
mud than water, and wish for soap. More profitable to wish for a place to sleep, or to be
free of attack, to survive till morning, but no. No, his thoughts spiraled in and idled
down to the desire for a bar of soap, to make use of this rain that seemed to be falling
on him simply to spite. He could almost see it, the paper curled back a little, corner of
the bar sticking out, could almost feel it, sticky soft in his hands as the water riled
over it.
"Oh,
what the hell is wrong with me?!"
His
thoughts had been doing this for hours, suddenly careening from one idle, nonsense idea to
another, pinball in his brain.
Sighing,
shifting uncomfortably on the rain soaked bench, he tucked a bare leg under him, gazing up
again into the glittering glass and steel construction that towered over his head.
He was in
there, Jesse knew. In there, safe and warm and protected and dry, while he, no more
unworthy than that rich boy, sat out here at risk of life and limb and probably catching
pneumonia.
"He
won't even help me..."
The
dejection in the thought caught his attention. What was he thinking? The kid didn't even
know him, didn't know he even existed really, no matter what delusions might be running
around his head, so why should he help him? How could he, Jesse, always sane and rational,
sit here and be ANGRY at a person who didn't even know him, for failing to meet his
expectations?
He supposed
it could be nothing more than bitterness toward all people with any kind of security, but
somehow he doubted it. He'd chosen the life he led, he had nobody to fault but himself...
no, he didn't think it was bitterness. More, it seemed that something was jerking his head
around, distracting any serious thoughts he had to ideas about soap, and scratch paper and
the sticky residue left on the inside of a candy wrapper. Any thoughts of the boy inside
almost immediately turned to resentment.
Sighing, unknowing, he shoved a block up inside his head, instinctively shutting out what
his subconscious recognized as an incoming, alien signal, feeling better almost
immediately, the immediacy of his situation once again asserting itself.
He was
alone, in New York City, at 3 in the morning, in the rain, clad in only shorts and a thin
t-shirt, with no friends, no protection, no place to go, and almost no money. He'd very
probably made an entire gangs worth of enemies over the whole heroin thing, and was
probably looking at one of his last nights on earth as anything other than a haunt, if he
didn't get his act together. Shoving rain soaked hair out of his face, he looked up again,
blinking in mild surprise. The unbroken, shimmering dark span was broken now, by a stretch
of light. High up, almost all the way up, a row of windows, suddenly lit, cranking
outward, deflecting rain in disagreeable little spats. Eyes narrowed, a not
unsurprising connection between the window and the boy fired in his brain, and he began,
for the first time, to sense the glimmers of doubt. Was something wrong up there?
********************
Hot hands, brushing his face, his hair, hot...
leaving a burning, itching trail, nettles and fire ants and sunburn.
He pulls
away, turning over, head screaming pain at the motion, wave of nausea , bringing the
burning acid taste into his mouth again. Just beyond his ears, a horror track of slow
motion sound plays endlessly, distorted words from another realm, battering, beating him,
driving the blessed relief of blankness away, shortly, briefly, he's sinking, out of
reach. No air, he can't breathe, the air in here is dead. Eyes forced open, gritty, shards
of glass needling into his brain, he chokes on his words, tries to tell them... he's
smothering. Smothering.
Cool, wet
air in a wash over his face as blackness takes him back down...
********************
...Power... What powers it up, what
makes it fly?
That can't be done...
The boy slept, as his mother looked on, watchful
eyes roving his slumbering form, thoughts dark. Thoughts of power. Power. Power that lived
in her, ran in her veins .So long ignored, so long unused, with the possible exception of
"mother's intuition", that irrefutable ability to know the state of being of any
of her children, at any given time. Power...
Sighing
bitterly, thoughts as sharp on her tongue as the sour tang of vomit and blood that
assaulted her on entry, odors so powerful she had tasted them in her throat...
she let her eyes rest on the face of her sleeping child. Why him? Of all of her children,
why did it have to be him? Why had the taint passed on to him?
Oh, she'd
known... known... a year ago, when stress and illness drove him to the solace of his own
mind, knew when his eyes took on that dreamy faraway glaze, lips moving soundlessly in
response to voices she couldn't hear... She'd known. He'd found them, found those others,
and they'd answered him. She'd known and she prayed and she'd hoped that he would be
spared, that the power would abate as the stress leveled off, as the illness resolved.
Determined not to admit that the powers may have driven the illness away. No, she'd
watched, waited, as his psychic activities escalated, as the headaches and nausea became a
daily way of life, as his eyes consistently looked inward, picking up the glow of
limitless energy, the shadows of a guardian... watched... and to her relief saw the
activity fade, fade, gradually dulling and dimming until only the guileless blue of a
young boy's eyes stared back at her. Her relief had solidified as a year passed, with no
return of the power, no inward focused unblinking gaze, no mumbled words as his mind took
him elsewhere... and now...
She sighed again, watching him as he slept on, unmindful of the rain that occasionally misted him from the open window. He'd wanted the window open, wanted, she knew, to feed on the life out there, replace what he'd burned out of himself.
Terrifying, that sudden awakening, knowing without doubt
that he was in trouble, forcing herself not to run, opening the door, taking in the
scarlett gore on the bed, on the floor, the thick coppery stink of blood filling the room,
mixing with the sour taint of vomit, her son half hung in tangled sheets, partly on the
floor, partly in the bed, eyes rolled back showing only whites.
Panic surging in her, hand moving to the phone to call 911, hesitating suddenly, stopping,
pulling back as senses she'd thought long dormant picked up the trace energies in the
room, the mental smell of burnt out channels, the bitter zing of backlash, like biting on
tinfoil.
She'd gone to him then, careful at first not to wake him, taking in the source of the
blood, the monumental nosebleed that often came with such an overuse of power, tapered to
a trickle... no longer dangerous. No longer vomiting, no longer conscious... and beyond
the reach of any doctor.
She'd shaken him, then, wanting to rouse him, wanting to be sure his mind had survived the
ordeal he'd put it through, senses firing as though they'd never slept in her, finding and
holding the pattern of the one who had done this to him, who had put the blocks in his
mind she could now sense, that he had foolishly, inexpertly tried to break through. And
oh... oh in his mind, channels of thought and energy that should have been glimmering
silver smooth, instead charred and pulsing... blown open, burned out.
His response to her had been to pull away, moaning, crying, and she knew it hurt, KNEW it hurt, but hadn't been able to stop, not until she got a clear answer from him, any answer, she didn't care what... and it had come, finally, thickly, choked with blood and acid, asking for the open window, and she'd understood. Understood his need, air redolent of life and growing things, energy he could use to replace what he'd lost... but it would take so long... so long. She'd opened the window, dragged his bed under it, and let the rain hit him, reaching into her own mind to try to bolster his flagging strength, halting immediately as the touch of her mind hit burned channels, making him hiss in pain and roll away from her. Couldn't help him, COULDN'T help him, and her sense of doomed futility had nearly overwhelmed her.
She'd waited again, until he quieted, quietly bringing in warm water and towels, cleaning him up, making him at least look comfortable, watched as he sank into real sleep, and now... now... she knew what she had to do.
He couldn't stay here. She'd found the traces left by whoever had sabotaged his mind. Dangerous. He'd somehow found those people, those people she'd known so long ago in her youth, those who'd taken her in and taught her what she was, and how to live with it. They'd shown her how to protect herself, and now they'd have to show him. She couldn't touch him, he was her son. Some unwritten but instinctive law told her it couldn't be done, they were too close. But something was after him, or after them and using him... she didn't know. Didn't care. She only knew he had to be protected. Her glimpse into his mind had shown her how frighteningly much he already knew, as well as the lethal amount he did NOT know. If she wanted him to live, and keep his sanity, he'd have to go to them.
Resigned, she leaned forward, chin in hand, nails digging gently into her upper lip. Could she do it? Send him away, into the danger and heartbreak of those gifted few who took upon themselves the wellbeing of worlds? Could she do that to him?
Sitting back, she chided herself gently, soft voice
breaking the raindripped silence.
"The
question isn't can you do it to him, the question is, how can you not?"
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