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]

The paper's starting to crinkle under my hands, and I don't know what I'm supposed to say to her. I'm not okay, I know that, and I don't think I'm gonna be okay for a long time. But if I tell her, maybe she'll ask why, and then I'll have to tell her about Mr. Sawyer and she'll go looking. (And what good's that? The police are already looking, and even they haven't found him yet. Don't think she'll have better luck. If anything, he might hurt her.)

But I'm not supposed to lie, so I shake my head. "Not really," I reply. "But there ain't nothin' people can do about it."

[little_moons]

"Guess that's the way things are, sometimes," I nod, taking another drag from my cigarette and turning away to blow the smoke elsewhere. Turning away to give the kid a little privacy, even though I'm not ready to leave him, just yet.

I know what it's like being a kid and having everything be fucked up, and just knowing there was no fixing it. If some stranger'd sat down next to me when I was his age and started askin' questions, I'd have told 'em to fuck off.

[giveyouthis]

It's not really enough for me to start writing again when she turns her head. 'Cause she's still here. And I don't know why, I guess, which is kinda pulling me away from the letter and more to her. She's not really like anyone I know, and actually, I can imagine my pa pointin' and telling me that this is the kind of woman all us should stay away from. The kind who talk too easy. (Mama never talked easy, and that's why pa loved her so much, I think.)

Pressing my lips together, I give up on the letter for now, just setting it beside me.

"Why are you here?" I ask instead.