Learning to be Strong Alone // Jeraphina Fanfiction

Chapter XVII: The Son She Never Had

"You can never know
what power you hold
when you don't remember
...anything, ig."

...............
[Small disclaimer: I don't actually believe the headcanon/theory that Valerie is John's mother and it will not be in this story]

Third Person POV

Alden's hand slowly tapped on the windowsill.

Tap...tap...tap...

He had lumped himself in the armchair that was given for Valerie's daily visits; it sat just beside the window. She was two minutes late—which didn't seem to be very like of her, he thought.

A plastic cup stood beside the hand that tapped away on the white-painted wood. There was a little of the orangey-yellow liquid that sat at the bottom from when he was given it earlier-not much.

A nice scenery of a day in the city was painted for him through the window—people passed by occasionally . . . not that he ever recognized their faces. He tried to, but his memory of anybody who looked vaguely familiar just never really clicked.

The boy turned his head—deadpanning over the room and twisting both the arm, and the chin that lay on that arm to face the door-covered halls. Footsteps could be heard outside the bland and boring door. They never normally stopped at his room, though.

Only sometimes to bring him food or clean clothes.

Just as that thought passed through his deeply lethargic and fatigued mind, the handle jerked and the door was pushed open into the room.

"Hello, Alden," she said, "you seem to be making quite the speedy recovery," using her head to point out the fact that he had clearly been up and standing without opening his newer stitches.

Alden nodded quickly, moving up off of the chair with the plastic cup now in hand, and pushing himself quietly back to sit on his own bed.

Valerie's legs stepped into the small doctor's room; lab coat no longer covering her black suit and tie, hair in a small ponytail at the bottom of her head, a white notebook and blue pen in hand.

That notebook she held in her hand was maybe half-way full. Alden never knew what secrets of him it contained, but she seemed to write quite a lot, quite often, too.

She grinned at the boy, seeing that another cup of mango juice had apparently vanished into thin air. "You seem to really like what we're giving you. That's your third cup so far, I believe."

The boy turned his head, mouth removing itself from the white plastic to stare at the lady who wandered past his bed. "Yeah. It's orange juice, right?" he asked her for confirmation, lifting the cup to make his eyes level with the top.

Valerie sat herself on the muddy-green armchair beside his bed, closed notebook and pen resting on her lap. "Close, but no," she told him, "It's actually mango juice."

Dubiously, he tilted his head, thoughtful as he looked at the cup. "It's orange, it's juice, I say it's orange juice," he patently stated. The last swig of the orange liquid was then taken down his throat and the cup placed on the small table beside him.

She shook her head lightly—not quite in a disapproving matter of his rather witty words. "At least you remember your colours," she half-jokingly said, flicking her wrist to begin writing something on the fresh page present to her.