saints and soldiers » klance

1: The Great Disappointment

While I waited I was wasting away
Hope was wasting away
Faith was wasting away
I was wasting away

The garage door was pried open, a crack appearing at the bottom. Light spilled in across the floor as it went up, inch by inch. The opening lent clarity to the shouts that had been sounding outside for three hundred twenty-seven seconds.

Bright lights flooded the formerly pitch-black space, and Keith looked up, blinking rapidly, blinded. The shouts intensified and the sound of running feet assaulted his ears as his eyes adjusted. He was too tired to be too surprised.

Too experienced to assume that this might actually come to anything.

When he could see again, he saw dozens of people. Some were scurrying about the front yard or shouting to each other, but a substantial group had clustered in front of the now-open door. Countless hands were reaching toward him, little more than silhouettes in the brilliant white light.

His eyes caught on one.

A boy, maybe his age. He was wearing a blue cotton t-shirt with jeans. The arm extended toward him was golden-toned. Messy brown hair topped his head, over a gorgeous face.

"Come on," the boy was encouraging, inching steadily closer. Keith didn't move, even his face still set in stone, though his eyes tracked the boy's every move.

When others began to follow the first boy's lead, starting toward Keith, he finally moved, flinching back and shifting further back into the shadows. They froze, and Keith felt a whole new hollowness open up in the pit of his stomach. Even the ones with good intentions only found pain and inconvenience around him.

He was worthless.

That one boy- that one stupid, stubborn boy- kept coming. "Hey, it's okay," he said soothingly. Like he was talking to a spooked horse. Keith guessed that was close enough to the truth.

A new set of shouts joined into the chorus, this time from upstairs. Keith's head snapped up, and he saw all the people outside the garage jump at his sudden movement. He wanted to scream at the impression they'd already formed of him, but he did nothing. Like always.

He recognized the voice emanating through the house. It was him. And he was angry. Keith felt his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists.

The shouts moved through the house. Going down the hall now. An answering shout- just as incomprehensible- as they began to descend the stairs. A third voice joining in as they made their way down the echoing hallway.

And then the voices were outside.

Keith's insides froze as his head swung around to track the source of the noise. He watched without blinking until he saw him. He was in handcuffs, being escorted to a squad car by two armed policeman. He was still screaming when he turned and saw Keith.

His face contorted to a whole new level of rage, one that in the past Keith had been the only person ever to see.

Not anymore, he guessed.

"You son of a bitch!" the man raged at him. "What did you do? What the fuck did you do?" Keith didn't shrink back as the numbness inside returned automatically. He hadn't shrunk away in a long time.

The shouting quieted as he was forced inside the car and it took off into the night.

The people on the front yard were multiplying. Keith's eyes skimmed over everything carefully, absorbing every detail. What looked like news vans had arrived. Police cars were parked at the curb and driven carelessly onto the lawn. Various other vans and cars, marked and unmarked, littered the driveway and the front yard.

At the garage door, the boy was still moving forward and speaking soothingly, not noticing or not caring that Keith was hardly paying him any attention anymore.

Keith eyed the hand that was extended toward him. Long, thin fingers, soft skin. This was not a boy accustomed to hard manual labor. The boy was only a few feet away now, his hand within easy reach. That was a bad move. If the boy were reaching toward someone dangerous like that, if he was this close, he could be dead in less than two seconds.

Lightning-fast, Keith grabbed his hand.

Gasps echoed all across the yard and a dozen guns were cocked. Keith ignored them all and pulled himself to his feet. The boy tried to talk to him, but Keith was already walking out of the garage, confidently striding onto the driveway, into the glaring lights, like there weren't forty people staring at him with mouths gaping open in shock.

He found the nearest police cruiser. That was where they were going to put him anyway. He opened the door and climbed in, reaching for the seat belt and sliding it into place. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared straight ahead and waited for them to come.

The silence that had descended outside broke as the flurry of activity resumed. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw policemen herding reporters away, saw first-response charity workers clustering to discuss the events of the night or piling into their vans and pulling away with the flock of news vehicles.

Directly ahead was a huddled group of charity workers. The boy was with them. Talking earnestly. Gesturing with his hands. Blue eyes opened wide. Face urgent.
Keith looked away.

A minute later, two officers climbed into the car. They tried to get him to talk and failed. He almost felt sorry for them. They had no idea yet, not really, how hard it would be to get him to talk. He excelled at silence.

His face remained perfectly apathetic as they pulled away from his dilapidated prison of six years.