children, your time is done; if you say it's done together

[confidenceman]

When James Ford woke up that morning in an unfamiliar building, in a bed larger than the one in his house and a room so bare that it almost reminded him of the hospital, he didn't panic. Most things seemed unfamiliar to him, those days. Places that had once been familiar, like his grandparents' house, like the classrooms in his school, or even the pews of his church, never seemed the same anymore. The world had wrapped itself in velvet, almost, something dark, heavy, and against which James couldn't push very far, keeping him from feeling much of anything of the outside word. Keeping him trapped in his own thoughts. Wherever he was, it didn't matter— he was sure that someone had put him there for a reason, and that someone would find and whisk him away again before long— and so James simply slid his legs off the side of the bed and dropped to the floor.

Whoever had dressed him for bed hadn't done a very good job. The t-shirt that he wore was several sizes too large, and his underpants were just about falling off. Tugging them up as well as he could, James quickly stumbled over to the large dresser in the room, pulling every drawer open until he spotted a few plain t-shirts that looked like they'd only be slightly too big, and a pair of jeans that could be held up well enough with the aid of a belt. Wordlessly dressing himself, James peeked around the rest of the room, a faint voice in the back of his mind reminding him that today was the funeral date.

(And the thought alone brought tears to his eyes, but he shook his head vigorously; mama wouldn't have wanted him to cry.)

He pushed past the curtains of the room, unseeing. Pushed into another room, where a projector was playing cartoons in the background, where a bookshelf was piled high with books. Spotting a pen and pad on a nearby table, James looked carefully around before sliding them off with quiet hands and tucking the pad under his arm. He passed through a kitchen filled with sights, sounds, smells, but it didn't matter— he wasn't hungry. Standing in an empty hall, James looked down both ends, before turning left, to the doors marked as an exit, quietly pushing one just a fraction before he stood under the brilliance of the sun, a porch and steps in front of him.

Peeking around again, James pressed his lips together, walked forward to sit himself on the top step, and laid the pad across his knees. Now that he was alone, he could do this.

Dear Mr. Sawyer, his pen scrawled in uneven writing.


[ Eight-year-old Sawyer, after a night spent in the dorms for easier access to the showers, is now sitting on the front steps of the Compound and writing his famous letter. ST/LT more than welcome, no limit on threads. Replies will come from giveyouthis. ]

Comments

[giveyouthis]

He's a boy in too deep, he's a boy who's taken on the entirety of the world when he hasn't even known responsibility, and it shows in his eyes, manifests as fear that holds him at a distance. But still, he holds his shoulders back, raises his chin, keeps himself resolved as he stares back at this girl, trying to ignore how beautiful she is— but that's the sort of thing that you always notice, no matter how stricken with grief, no matter how angry. Beauty bleeds through every single time. The hold he's held on his pen loosens slightly as he hides the breath in his lungs.

"I'm gonna find him," he says, and although every bone in his body behaves in a way so unsure, the words are the opposite. "I'm gonna find him and give it to him. I'll— I'll watch him read it and everything."

[hightail.livejournal.com]

She has a mind to ask whether it's worth the effort, writing it all out when the message will be delivered in person regardless, but it takes not a second longer for Kate to realize the merits of his approach. Although she isn't an especially shy girl, she is far from open, and conversation often invites the sorts of questions she can't always answer. Sharing anything of herself, from the harsh details to the downright trivial, encourages trust in a way she may never be ready for. Sometimes, writing things down is just easier, the voice too easily catching along the way, betraying one's true emotions. "Who's it for, then? I take it he's not from around these parts."

[giveyouthis]

She's young enough that maybe... maybe, James thinks, it should be okay to tell her. Because what his mama told him was that Mr. Sawyer was the kind of man who went after women who weren't happy. She didn't say anything about girls. And this person, she's definitely a girl, even if her eyes look a little older, look a little scared, like the way that his mama got when pa got back drunk. More than anything else, though, it's probably best to get his name out there. So that people don't get fooled. If any of mama's friends had told her about Mr. Sawyer, James considers, there'd be no way that she'd stick around for that.

So he sighs softly, kicking and scuffing his shoe against the porch. "His name's Mr. Sawyer. I don't know where he's from, but... he was 'round here for a while. And now he's gone."