If I Can Say It

No One Asked

This is my second attempt at my original story. It is a rewritten version of Home is where the heart is. Please leave feedback and enjoy!

Third POV: Virgil

Virgil shuddered as cold droplets slipped down his neck and pulled his hoodie tighter around his shivering form, drowning himself in the tiniest sliver of warmth he still held. The rains constant beat echoed within his mind and matched pace with the already violent throbbing of his head ache. 

The faded purple patches on his hoodie where the only bit of colour on his darkened form and he shuddered and pressed himself further back into the brick wall, the small overhang his only protection from the rain. The dim but welcomed light from a nearby street lamp revealed his broken form, tormented by the cold and starved of the very things needed to survive, to live. 

Virgil hugged his knees to his chest and attempted to wring out his mattered hair. In his hands, he held a scrap of bread, thrown to him by a pitying passerby. Cold and slightly stale now after his attempt to ration it. Small bites were all he could stomach as the throbbing in his mind willed his eyes shut and his stiff, frozen body to relax. No one asked.

Third POV: Patton

The shop was closing up, business had run stale and the limited funds he had were starting to run dry. Despite it all, he tried to maintain the place. Cleaning until it was spotless, repairing the broken stove over and over again because money was to tight to afford a new one. Trying to maintain what little he had of his parents. It hurt him, to see the place he loved, the place he grew up in, fall apart. Broken and discarded. 

But he kept his smile firm, his attention unwavering and his head held high. He had to hold on. Just til next week, by then, Christmas would be nearing and people were sure to stop by. People taking a break from frantic shopping sprees and late night explorations, looking for a place to rest their weary feet and enjoy some homemade treats. He just knew it. 

But he was so tired. So, so tired. Of standing, watching an empty cafe, an empty shop. Watching people walk past without sparing him a single glance. Watching his parents dream, his dream, crumble in front of his eyes. He wanted to ask for help but refused to be that person who constantly takes but never gives. No one asked.

Third POV: Roman

He waved goodbye to his acting group, smiling at their antics as he entered his flat and set his bag on the ground by the door. His smile faltered as he watched his friends laugh and talk as they walked away from him. Pushing the thought aside, he moved into the living room and smiled at seeing his best friend asleep over his laptop, essay half complete.

Grabbing a blanket from the couch, left there from one of their numerous movie nights, he covered him and closed his laptop, making sure to save his work. Logan could be terrifying when he was angry. He left and entered his room but not before grabbing an apple and a bottle of water, the carrot cake left over from Pattons visit was tempting but he knew that the career that he was pursuing need him to be fit.

The apple in his mouth turned bitter but he forced himself to swallow. He needed this. This dream, to act, to be seen, heard, was something he had carried with him all throughout his child-hood and he refused to let it be set back by some stupid desire. He slammed the fridge and entered his room, the walls coated in medals and trophies. Certificates stating his achievements and his promising future. Not enough. He needed to be better. He needed to be more then what he was. Even if it broke him. No one asked.

Third POV: Logan

'Therefore, according to the constitution of human rights, the declaration of the recipient cannot be claimed unless valid reasoning is supplied by two or more witnesses in...' He paused, hands hovering over the keyboard. The book, 'Law Reinforcement' and 'Constitutional Rights' were splayed out over the desk, half finished essays and pages of random notes clotted the table in no visible order. 

The bags under his eyes from too many late nights grow deeper and the never ending cup of caffeine has become his sole comfort. He hates law. He never wanted to be a lawyer. He hates learning the difference between laws in America to laws in the US, different governments and different sentences. Hates how everyone expects this of him. Hates how his father, even from the ripe old age of two, pushed this destiny onto him, as if it were the only way he could ever be worth something. 

He was used to being told that he was smart. He knew that. But he hated how people used that as the sole thing to define him by. Hated how even the word hate does no justice to his emotions. The two degrees he had been working toward for the last year and a half stare him in the face, the never ending amount of work that he forces himself through everyday for little to no reward. He can do it but he doesn't want to. His life has never been his own. He wanted to be a historian. No one asked.

Third POV: Virgil

His sleep was interrupted by the shouting of a man, yelling at him to leave before he calls the cops. The anger in the mans voice and the fear it inspires in him is the only reason he found the strength to get up, drag himself from the wall and stagger off into the darkness of the street. The mans yells chase him out of the alley and the dim street greets his vision. 

Grateful that the rain had slowed to a gradual trickle, Virgil crosses the street and enters another alleyway, dragging his hand across the grimy walls for balance. He makes his way down, searching for a new place to rest. The brief sleep had cleared his headache slightly but left him longing for more. His movements are sluggish and slow and his path is crooked and spontaneous.

Curling his hands into fists, he shoves them into his pockets and continues onward. He can never stop. He wonders if he is doomed to be alone, cold and forgotten forever? Because who would ever care to remember him?