Broken Hands ; mepperfield (historical creepypasta fanfiction)

4- The town's pauper

Only one good roll was all Tim needed today. The boy focused all of his attention onto the small damaged dice in his palm. It was a delicate hand-made piece from one of those pretty packages money game. He couldn't remember nor the game , nor its rule. But it mattered not since he had stolen it. It happened on Mary's 10 years birthday. Kyle had forced him to join the party , and he had found himself amazed by the beauty of the house. Blue flowery wallpapers , a luxurious chandelier beaming in a warm yellow light. A patterned white carpet with no stains, stairs made out of dark wood, and a fireplace in some sort of white stone which Kyle had later on explained to be called marble. The living room was devoid of any alcoholic stench, clean from mites and a piece of fine white silk covered the table where they ate the cake. It was a world he could only witness and never hope to be appart of. Everything was warm , lightfull , safe.  Mary's mother was playing the violin in a blue armchair. On this very moment Timothy had wished the time would stop , allowing him to fall asleep into this secure and pleasant abode. No wind to bite his skin, no threat to be awaken by a bucket of cold water. No whimpers and yelling until the deepest hour of the night. 
But it eventually had to stop. The worst that could happen for Tim after this birthday was to find himself prey to his father's after-drink wrath, angered by his absence of the house.
So in the shadows of the chit-chat , and happy excitations of the guest, he had landed a hand in a tiny oak drawer, letting it grab whatever it would fall on first. Only to find a small but beautiful little dice , one as simple as any other, but glimmering with the aura of the house.
And ever since this day he would roll it as approaching his house , begging him to roll a good number , which meant no harm would be done to him.
The boy wasn't the superstitious kind but as thin as this bit of comfort was , it seemed necessary.

Today the number was a 3 , neither good nor bad. But it was just what the teenager needed to cross the pestering whisky breath of his mother.
He took a quick glance by the kitchen's decaying door's holes to witness her asleep , head sunk into her arms on the table. An empty cup in her right hand , a letter in the other. It had the seal of the bank. Tim frowned and took a quick walk to the stairs , jumping from one plank to another , knowing fair-well which one would make a noise when stepped upon. 
His room , which was more of a ceiling peckered with holes , was the only place he felt safe enough to get his treasure out. The young man displaced a small wooden chest and removed an unscrewed plank on the floor to let appear a stack of paper, a pen and a bottle of ink.
The boy took a sit on the bottom of his bed and started writing. It was anything that would cross his mind at the moment. Every bit of informations he had heard in the day. Sparing apart what he could use or not, what information could buy him a piece of ham when exchanged with the wife of the butcher, which could give him the good favors of the Shoemaker, whom could later on repair a hole in his boots. Anything that could bit by bit take him away from the hell pit he resided into , to a better place.
Maybe it would be with a wife , his dog and kids , a warm and solid home. Somewhere away from mepperfield , he aimed not for a good job , neither for a wealthy lifestyle. But anywhere he would be safe and happy. Maybe he would build a house in the old windmill , with Kyle , and drink a hot cup of tea everyday as they shared what was their day made of. 
That last part was just a distant dream tough , as he perfectly known once Kyle had wedded Mary, he would become a busy man and probably forget about him anyway. There was nothing to be gained by being friend with the town's pauper.
So he would set sail for his last plan's destination. London , where he could find an easy job in the industry , many older child had departed already , appealed by the city where they said the queen had laid her goodwill and gave everyone an opportunity. It had to be a true paradise , somewhere he could have a chance.
The celebration of the train-station would be his greatest opportunity so far , he would meet with the count. It had to succeed. He could prove useful and earn his way into the city. So when the day would come, he would adorn his fanciest smile , and tidy up his hairs under the only hat he owned. He would clean his dusty boots , and hide the patches Kyle had made to his garments with un-matching fabrics. There could be no error , no misplaced words. After all , once the mayor had announced his daughter and Kyle's wedding at the inauguration, Kyle would go on to become independent , then he and Mary would move on to London. It meant no sewing back his clothes , no free bits of food when his parents hadn't cared for his stomach , no shelter from the rain when his father had thrown him out in a sudden anger outburst...And out of all. No bright smile, no comfort to cheer him up. Those bright smile which would persuade him to endlessly try to make his way up the ladder. To try and become a respectable man. A few weeks is all he had left to live up to his friend's assistance and strike a deal with the count. He would convince him to hire him as a junior detective.

A large thud downstairs made its way to Tim's ears. He rose up on his knee, he, was home. Hastily, Tim gathered the stacks of papers and the pen, almost spilling ink on his work. The planks near the staircase screeched. Tim hoarded the material into its hiding spot, hastily replacing the unscrewed plank above them. A serie of heavy steps resounded from the stairs. The young man threw his arms around the wooden chest, sliding it back in place, then turned front to the door, just in time to face him. Tim didn't had the time to utter a single word that a beefy smack sent him flying all the way to the wall behind him. 

-"Where have you been !?" Roared the deep voice of his father. A hellish flame was raging in his eyes, behind the greasy mesh which hid his face. 

-"The fields, i-" The young man tried explaining before receiving another hit, in the shoulder this time. 

-"Why where you in the fields!!? I needed you to keep the sheeps! Why weren't you keeping the sheeps!?" The man barked, foam drooling into his thick beard. He kept on grunting as he tried making his way to his son, reeling with each of his steps. The stench of rhum filled the room, but Tim did not pay attention to it anymore. Its absence he would have noticed, but the putrid odor of rhums , punch, brandys and beers where synonym of John Wright. "Excuses! You're made of nothing but excuses Lord's sake! Who gave me such a slacker of a son!?" He hammered before laying a brawny kick right in his child's stomach. 

The pain waved for a moment, it was deep and loud, everything hurted. Every bone in Tim's body was shaking, tormented by this pain, terrified it would strike once again. And it would. It did. In the stomach once again. Everything was fuzzy. The floor and the wall where spinning, Tim's bed was dancing with the door, the light that pierced trough the roof was funny-sounding. Pain struck a third time. All was red, a taste of iron filled Tim's mouth. He laid his head against the floor. It would pass, he would wait. All he could do now was hoping he didn't pass away, or maybe he wished he could. Maybe death would be gentler than this, maybe it would surround him in its icy dark robe, restfully drawing him in a peaceful slumber. It would hurt for a moment, but then everything would be gone, his parents, the cold, the pain, the blood.. And Kyle... Kyle would discover his lifeless body, it would surely pain him, he was so sensible, too nice and calm of a boy. He couldn't do that to Kyle. Tim braced himself trough the pain. He had to endure it. As long as it would last. 

When Tim woke up, the sun had set for good. A chilling breeze whistled trough the tiles and the white light of the moon shined on the floor. He sat slowly, holding his belly, tough all of his body ached badly. A few pearls of blood dripped from his mouth, crashing on his bruised knees. It wasn't too bad, it seemed like nothing was broken this time around. The door of the room slowly creaked open, revealing the tearful face of Tim's father. Silently he made his way to his son, kneeling down and imprisoning his son in an embrace. 

-"My child, im sorry..." He cried. He wasn't sorry.

-"It wont happen ever again..." So did he say the last couple of dozens of times. 

-"I love you my son, i love you more than anything.." What a weird love language.

-"You must forgive me, im just an old foul.." He would forgive him, he didn't knew any better.

Tim's arms wrapped around his father's shoulder. "Shh, it'll be alright.." He whispered to the drunk man's ear. "Soon enough i'll be gone, far far away, in the big city. And you won't ever beat me again."