The House Named Claurece

Six.

               𝕭y the next night, Paul hadn't gotten anything done. He had learned a bit about the children though.

               There was Grace, who was allegedly (Anthony said so) the daughter of mother nature, Penelope, a literal angel, Archie, a forest sprite, Jackie (the girl with the hair that looked like fire. Anthony said it was just the lighting that day) , a telekinetic (I want to wake up in the morning without being strangled by a child's mind), Peggy (the girl who looked like a boy), a 'songbird' (Anthony said she could control people by singing to them), Terrence, the little black boy who was a psychic, John, a shapeshifter, and Matt – look, don't ask me what Matt is because I don't really want to think about it. Okay fine, Matt's the devil's fourteen-year-old kid. See why I didn't want to think about it?

               Paul kept a journal, mainly to remember stuff and possibly feel better, and lately, he'd been writing a lot. Paul sighed. Who was he writing to? Some time scavenger from the future who somehow managed to stumble on the charred remains of Paul's journal under some broken floorboards of the orphan's decimated house? Yes, Paul believed the world would burn. Yes, Paul believed he couldn't get the job done. And yes, Paul believed that if Runcorn couldn't get the job done, he couldn't either. He told this all to his journal, of course.

              Paul, ready for bed, it was about 11:30 (the children had kept him up), collapsed into his bed and almost instantly fell asleep. Tonight, again, Paul dreamed of Runcorn. But this time, Runcorn was not in the guest room. He was running. He was running across a burned stretch of grass, away from a collapsing building. The orphanage. Runcorn was yelling something but Paul couldn't hear him. There was something behind him, coming closer. Paul stepped forward, trying to see what it was. Runcorn's voice finally reached Paul's ears.

             "Run!"

             Paul sensed the panic in Runcorn's voice.

            "Run! Go! They're coming!"

            Runcorn grabbed Paul's arm and began pulling him away from the orphanage.

            "What's going on?" asked Paul, stumbling to keep up with Runcorn. "Who's 'they?'"

            Runcorn took a frantic look behind him.

            "It's the orphans,"

            Paul jolted awake to see John standing over him.

            "Breakfast," said John. "It's downstairs. Latter told me to get you."

            And with that, the boy turned, and left the room. Paul only just realized he was sweating.  

            𝕺kay, thought Paul, I'm going to get stuff done today. He sighed and got up from the dining table. He had waited 'till Latter and the children had disappeared so he could mull things over in private (the children wouldn't let him leave) and, now that that time had vanished, Paul had a job to do. Paul was absolutely terrified.

           The children's lessons were hidden from Paul (Anthony said something about privacy), but Paul used his everlasting luck to listen at the door or slip up the window slightly. In these times, either standing outside the door or crouching on the window below, Paul always wrote stuff down. Anything could help him, anything could help the next person trying to get this job done. If I die, Paul often wrote, I want my mother to know I love her. I'm probably going to die.

         None of the orphanage residents knew what Paul was writing. They didn't know what he was doing during the hours (sometimes days) where he was not in their company. If they found out what Paul was doing, Paul expected his death would come much sooner than anticipated.  

         𝕴 have no plan. I have no clue what to do. How does Hermes expect me to get the job done? Do they expect me to kill? If so, I don't think I can bring myself to do it. I don't kill. Especially children. I feel like my luck will disappear at any moment. Will someone decide to stick their head out the window or go to the bathroom exactly when I get distracted by something? Am I going to die? Will I get the job done? I'm scared. I don't know what to do or say. Sometimes I don't say anything. I don't want to ask for help. I feel like they'll just laugh at me. 'You need help? Pathetic. I could do this job in my sleep.' I wish I knew what Runcorn did so I can at least have something to build off of. I have nothing, no foothold, no square one or zero. I'm alone. All I want is to go home. To my mother.

        "𝕬h, there you are, Paul!" Latter said, feigning (very well) happiness. Paul held back his scowl. Latter and the children's eyes flew instantly to the faint bags under Paul's eyes. Paul had had a terrible sleep that night. Well, he barely even slept.

       "Is Paul going to come with us?" Archie asked Latter. Archie's wings were fluttering with what seemed to be excitement.

       "If he deems it necessary."

       "Where are you going?" asked Paul. Fatigue was hitting him like a boulder.

       "On an adventure,"

       And with that, Paul was swept into the fresh outdoor air and towards the town.

      𝕺n the beach (that is where the children wanted to go), Paul had to hide his feelings of awe and terror as the children ran into what they called 'the ocean'. Paul had heard of it before but he never thought it would be this big. One of his teachers had told his class that people had died in the ocean. Paul panicked at the thought of one of the children drowning.

     "Are you going to come in?"

     Paul looked around and saw the children and Latter watching him from inside the waves. It was Penelope who had asked the question and was now silently begging him to get in. Paul sighed and stepped into the water. It was freezing. Scratch drowning, add hypothermia, thought Paul as the children dragged him further into the waves. Finally, they let go and all charged deeper into the waves. Paul's emotions probably showed on his face because Latter said; "Have you ever been in the ocean."

     Paul shook his head, "I haven't even seen one,"

     "You're not going to die," A.B. Latter assured him.

     For some odd reason, Paul felt like he was.