Freeform Jazz

Jazz - real name: James Leopold. He was nicknamed Jazz because that's what his parents were listening to when he was conceived. It's a horrifying story he really didn't want to know about, but it wasn't something he could forget. Not when they insisted on listening to jazz music every year around his birthday and got all moon-eyed toward each other. It was disgusting.

But you never have to worry about it again, he thought. You're never going to catch them being all kissy faced and sweaty-rumpled. You're never going to see them ever again.

"Are you all right, son? Is there someone I can call?"

Jazz blinked and looked at the man that had stopped next to his perch on the stone planter. "What?"

There was infinite patience in the brown eyes that looked at him, a sad understanding that made Jazz want to slap the guy just because he could. "Would you like me to call someone for you?" the man asked.

"Why?" Jazz asked, cocking his head.

"Because you're crying."

The man pointed and Jazz realized that it was true. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he hadn't even noticed them start. He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve and thought that he was supposed to be embarrassed. Really, he was just tired. Exhausted in a way that made even breathing seem too hard to take.

"I'm ... I'm all right," he said. "You don't have to call anyone. I'll be fine."

The man didn't look like he believed him, but gave him a nod anyway before heading toward the stone steps. He had a black cane that went with the limp in his left leg. Jazz wondered what had happened to him.

Maybe you just met the real life John Watson, he thought. A smile tugged at his lips, but it didn't last long. Not when he couldn't seem to stop the helpless tears that kept escaping his eyes as he tried not to think about his parents. His tragically dead parents.

Jazz mopped at his face and forced himself to his feet when what he really wanted to do was hug his knees to his chest and just break down. But how lame would that be? A nineteen year old weeping in front of the public library because he didn't know what else to do.

He hated feeling so helpless.