Alternatively

Somewhere

    Somewhere, there's a boy sitting on his fire escape.

He's staring across the city, out at the lights and shining buildings and rushing cars. The wind is strong from his perch and he settles his chin on the rail, his sigh silent as he kicks his legs in the open air.

He doesn't like the heights, but he hates being stuffed in that tiny room even more. So much clutter, so much of his step father's hoard; even his bed is used to store papers or old computer monitors or used car parts waiting to be shipped out. The boy couldn't think, couldn't sleep, couldn't breathe.

Another sigh wafts through the buildings and his pajama pants ripple in the wind.

He'd like to talk to someone, someone who didn't yell at him for asking questions and someone who actually wanted to talk to him too. At school, he was told he was too much trouble. At home, he doesn't need to be told he's trouble; Gabe will find a reason to prove it true. He'd like a friend, sure, but he really wants a person to think there's more than what he's been seeing.

Horns blare from the streets below and the tires on pavement sound like rushing water. The streetlamps glow gold and he rocks his chin back and forth.

Their hair would be that color, he thinks. It'd be pretty.

Steam was rising from the subway grates and he could hear the sound of trashcan lids clattering to the ground. Stray cats were probably looking for dinner.

I like dogs better, he muses, the bottoms of his feet numb from the cold. I bet they're a dog person, too.

He figures whoever it was out there was also incredibly brave, fighting off demons and bad guys left and right. They'd be down to help him defeat his own monsters. He imagines that their eyes are light and full of life, imagines that they'd be happy to race down the street with him to catch the train or whatever creature the two of them would think up. Somehow, he knows in his gut that somewhere, the person he was thinking of is the start of everything.

     And in that somewhere, a girl bolts up in her bed, blinking rapidly as the boy in her dream fades away.

She doesn't know where he comes from and assumes she made him up, rubbing her eyes at the yellow light seeping under her door. There's a muffled thump and a muttered curse and she pulls the blankets up to her chin with a frown.

He's up again.

When I'm older, she promises herself. I won't fall in love.

He had fallen in love with her mother, and she left him. She left them, left her daughter to watch her father pick up the pieces. It had taken years, he's still pricking his finger on the shards.

Eyebrows furrowing, she grips the blankets tightly.

And now he's doing it again, all the struggle and frustration and pitfalls. This new lady seems nice, but she knows when they're fighting. Her dad pays less and less attention to her, focused on his models and work. Even though he knows how much it's going to hurt when this lady leaves, just like mom did, he can't help himself. All the movies and books and stories; they all say that it will just keep happening to everyone.

So it's hopeless to resist.

Clenching her jaw, she throws her blankets back and stalks over to the window. Her warm breath fogs the glass and she stares beyond her glaring eyes, at the shivering countryside. No.

If I have to, I won't make it easy.

She promises to only like someone...from the city. A big one, like the one miles and miles from her house. That oughta put some distance between them, give her time. And, and, only if they have an eyebrow scar, like that guy on the magazine she saw, but is still nice. Everyone knows people with eyebrow scars are punks and punks aren't nice.

Another thump resonates through the wall and the fridge door opens, the sound of a cork popping making her frown. It's going to be a long one. She doesn't understand what was the use of being upset and falling for someone when you know they're just going to leave you; unless she is absolutely sure they want to stay with her and she can tell them what's on her mind without losing sleep, she doesn't need to be in love.

They have to have gemstone eyes, she decides. Like sapphires or emeralds. And they have to talk to me, really talk to me and not bleh, flirt.

She can't stand flirty people. Besides, how are you supposed to know you like someone if all you ever do is say how pretty the other is? She wants someone to hear her, to notice when she's upset and want to talk about it. Someone who wants to be her friend and like that she's smart because she is smart, someone who she can arm wrestle and trade all the Hershey's candies she got for KitKats at Halloween.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she sat on the edge of the bed. There might be someone like that somewhere, but they sure aren't anywhere near her. And unless that someone comes from that somewhere, she is safe from falling in love for sure.