Not Just A Fantasy (Angel)

The Fire

Gerard woke up to the sound of screaming. That was normal for him. He heard his mom's voice, his dad's, and something about the store and chicken.He rolled his eyes.This argument was at least better than last nights, when they had argued about who would go outside to the mailbox to get the mail, which was literally ten feet from where they were. That argument had resolved when Gerard had accidently walked into the room, and had been sent out to walk the incredibly long walk to the mailbox. Gerard quickly changed, grabbed his bag, and tried to walk as silently down the stairs as possible, to avoid having to go to the store. But his mom caught sight of him.

"Gerard!"

He turned around slowly, wincing. "Yes, mom?"

"You're going to the store after school, understood?" His mother strode toward him, a grocery list crumpled in her curled fist.

"Yes, mom," Gerard murmured, head down.

"Hey!" His mother roughly pushed his chin up so Gerard's hazel eyes were level with her narrowed ones. "Look at me when you're speaking to me!"

"Yes mother."

"Get everything on this list. Don't come back until you do." His mother shoved the paper into his pocket, and turned away.She was being nice this morning, which was strange. Gerard nodded, even though he had her back to him, and started to shuffle to the door.

"Son!" A voice yelled. Gerard, bracing himself, turned around. His dad was walking toward him, hand raised. Gerard closed his eyes, knowing what was coming next. A flaring pain burst from his cheek as a large, cruel hand hit his face, the boy didn't dare move. Gerard could smell alcohol on his breath as the big man leaned down to his level. "You want to leave for school without saying hello to your dad?" Without waiting for an answer, the man poking Gerard's thin chest with a thick finger. "Get beer." Then the man retreated back into his room, allowing Gerard to finally escape the house, and start walking to school, which Gerard dreaded more then the house. But it was Thursday. Thursday were good, because it was almost Friday, and after Fridays he got a whole weekend away from the building.

* * * * *

Frank woke to the sound of the big clock chiming seven. He yawned, opening his eyes, the makeshift shelter that he had began building years ago above him, a bed of blankets below him. A new day. The boy stretched, yawning again. Today, he knew, the blueberry fields at the edge of town were in full bloom, and he planned to sneak in and grab a couple buckets. That would last him a couple days. It was the middle of summer, but he knew that winter could rush in unexpectedly, so he should plan to look for blankets, pillows, winter clothes. He needed to start stocking up for the cold season ahead.

With that decided, he had breakfest- some bread with the edges blackened that he found outside of the bakery, and some corn he had picked from a farm a couple miles away.

Frank was fit- he had to be, because he didn't have the money to waste on a train or cab. He ate well, he ran or walk miles a day, carrying supplies in the backpack he had found a couple years ago. He had made this little camp at the edge of town, in an abandoned, run-down shop, when he had first been abandoned, when he was seven. At first, he hadn't known what to do.But he slowly learned to look in the trash bins, in the alleys where richies dumped their trash. Their trash that was life to the boy. His first winter, he had nearly died. But he had survived, against all the odds, the weather, the random people that were against him. He only looked out for himself. He only relied on himself. And he was perfectly fine with that. He had seen the people who looked so sad, because of other people. Other people were what made life hard. Alone, his life was good. Not perfect, but not horrible either. And he was fine with that.