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Christopher Boxly

Christopher Boxly

Christopher had been young when his parents left- about six. They had been deep in debt from borrowing money from Samuel Framond, president of the Gray Falls bank and rumored money launderer for South American drug cartels. No one ever accused him of anything, though; everyone was too worried for their own behind- Christopher's parents included. They had spent many hours working like crazed people, panicked at the thought of Samuel Framond's imaginary goons coming after them. Because of their [long/grueling] hours, they never spent much time with Christopher, so it probably wasn't too hard to make the deal that bound Christopher's life to the Framond's. He still remembered his mom, in her Sunday best and his father, constantly reminding him to sit up straight, as they sat in Bank President Framond's office.

President Framond had perfectly-styled gray hair, in an expensive suit and Italian shoes. He had an eased smile, but his eyes were hard. He looked up past the crisp papers Christopher's parents had put together, to stare straight at Christopher. Christopher stared back.

"What would I want with a child?" He asked slowly, never moving his eyes.

Christopher's Father spoke with a faux-confidence that trembled, "He will work hard." As rehearsed, Christopher nodded, trying to make himself seem older than he was under Framond's calculating gaze.

"Very hard!" Christopher's mother piped up. His father squeezed her hand to say "Quiet" and she fell silent once more.

President Framond's mouth became an unamused line, very obviously on the verge of saying no. Christopher's small hands clenched when his father shot him a glare, somehow thinking this was his fault. There was a painfully condescending silence in the room, until the quiet, middle-aged man who had been standing by the door walked forward and whispered something in the President's ear. Mr. Framond's eyes lit up as he looked at the young boy and a sly smile slid across his face. It made Christopher nervous.

"Thank you, Mr. Rickens, that will be all." The man bowed and scooted out of the room. The rest of the conversation was a blur, with the adults forming their deal. He vaguely remembered his mother hugging him tearfully, but he always thought the tears were meant to make her feel like a better person. It was settled.

Christopher was to train for a year, and if he came back bodyguard material, he wouldn't be thrown onto the streets or killed- most likely killed. Mr. Rickens, the man from the office, was chosen to train him- and train him he did. Once every two months, Christopher was locked in a cellar and made to walk down rickety steps. Down, down, down, into darkness where things of an unbelievable nature took place.

Now, for Christopher, these things were quite normal- almost like a visit to the doctor's office. You don't want to go, but you have to. This huge cellar, full of boxes floating in water, had been sealed off from the rest of the mansion, because Mr. Framond did not care enough about it to maintain it. As a result, it was flooded, dark, eerily quiet, and only Mr. Rickens and Christopher knew its secrets. There was a corner of the cellar, that looked much the same as the rest of the place, except for when Christopher stepped into its water.

This pool of water was different. When Christopher bathed in it, its pale green light shone and it gave him strength. The kind of strength that set his body alight with searing pain. The kind of strength that made his footsteps heavy. The kind of strength that allowed him to protect the President's Granddaughter to the utmost of his ability. Mr. Rickens taught him how to force the power inside his body, so that it hardly looked muscular at all, and how to control and use it. Any other child would have found it amazing, but for this somber boy, it was just another part of duty. However, he would often steal away to the cellar and sit in its shadows. It felt comforting to sit in a place that somehow knew everything about him.

The next year, he was approved and immediately shown to Miss Clarice's room. She had long blonde hair in pigtails and a rosy face. She was kind, bouncy, energetic, and adorable. Everything Christopher had not expected her to be. She had taken to Christopher like a bee to a flower. Although he had tried to remain aloof, as Mr. Rickens had ordered him, Miss Clarice had never let him do his job properly. She often reminded him of the sibling he never had. He didn't find it hard to want to protect her. When they were children, and Miss Clarice had nightmares, she'd sneak into his room and he'd be forced to sing her to sleep. While he was singing he was always acutely aware of the fact that Clarice's grandfather, his boss, would never have done this for his heiress, and it made him sad, almost angry.

But now, it was summertime and Christopher was exhausted. He had spent the whole year fending off lovesick boys and jealous girls as Mr. Rickens had instructed. Worst of all, Miss Clarice was growing more and more rebellious and distant. She seemed especially antsy for this summer, always listing the activities she had planned, talking about which boy was cutest and wondering whether they thought she was cute too. Christopher trained harder and harder because of the dread he felt growing in his gut. The school year was over now, and Christopher was only hoping Miss Clarice didn't do something stupid. Dear God.