❝ TOLD YOU . BEEN CLEAN FOR OVER A YEAR NOW , DICKBAG . ❞ this is almost true , except he’d almost relapsed once , tried to take one too many happy pills than the psychiatrist had prescribed him . but it was only an – almost – . parrish had tugged on his clambering fingers & screwed the cap shut again , tossed the orange bottle away and beyond his sight . ‘ look , it’ll be fine . i’m here now , & i’m not going to let those nut - job doctors to take you away back to juvie again , i’m here , yeah ?’
———-except parrish couldn’t save him on the night of the murder . and elliot did not blame him either , even god couldn’t have helped him in the situation . or was he ever present in his life ? there certainly was nothing but terror that night . it had swelled , expanded , then burst into an ever - lasting maw of darkness that drenched at his ankles , attempting to drag him down until he would drown through it’s muffled silence .
( & for a moment , he’d seen it reflected clearly through the hollow stare of his father’s eyes . then he ran . ) ❝ —– &i’ve got a place to go to already . ❞ as if to understand the intent gaze settling over the scarred blood & ruins on his face , he swings his face away , raising a hand to cradle the cut of his jaw in quiet apathy . ❝ so , go away .❞ the man was extending a hand for help , something he might have been in dire need of now , but the glowering suspicion within him had already spiked , had its hackles risen like a threatened cat . there was nowhere to stay , no place was ever safe enough to stay for a long time . it would only be a limited amount of time before the cops would begin their searching & sniffing through the cities as well , & he would have to cross to another city — , another state maybe . tonight , he would find home in the empty chapel , glared upon by jesus on his crucifix , unwelcome & shunned from his home like a sinner . the next night , he could easily hijack some bummer’s car , & borrow it just for the night .
❝ you chase me down , demand for my story . know where parrish is — , but won’t tell me where . then offer to help . remind me why i shouldn’t pull my knife back out . ❞ it’s an empty threat , & he knows it too well . he was far too exhausted , fatigue burning though his muscles for another street - brawl or a dirty fight . but he continues on , thumbing for the switchblade again while keeping a steady , leveled gaze with the man again . ❝ your name . don’t care if you give a fake one , just give me something that i can tack to your face , — so whether i decide to gut you or trust you , i’ll remember you . ❞
“Dickbag, huh? Well, bitch face, while we’re exchanging insults, let’s keep that sobriety up, cool? You’re not fucking overdosing in my bathroom. Trust me, I’ve been burned before…” He gave a lop-sided smile, tilting his head to th eside and allowing the joints in his neck to crack with a series of pops.
“You can keep callin’ me dickbag if you want,but traditionally I tend to go by Isaac Moreau. I know, I know, my name probably precedes me, right? I used to be hot shit, way back when. Got my name in the papers, for good things. Scholarships and shit. Yeah, this guy was a fucking academic. Good at it, too.…Guess I buried that goody-two-shoes bastard in the ground.”
For a moment, the smile fades, and he’s staring off somewhere, just beyond Elliot’s head, but not looking directly at him. There’s the flicker of a memory, of a reflection he used to see in the mirror, a younger him, with skin clear of tattoos and his hair once neatly combed back and styled. His voice was unmarred by smoke, and he sat straight-backed at a family table, listening to his father lecturing,his mother pushing him to do better in school, you think you’ll get by with grades like this? If you don’t get those As, you don’t get dinner. Followed by a slap on the cheek when he dared open his mouth to speak out of turn.
He’s snapped out of the trance by a passing truck’s loud and obnoxious horn, and he remembers just why he’s here in the first place. Freedom. That’s what you wanted, right?
“You’re free,”Adam said to him once, when the lights were low and there was little to say between them that didn’t involve the shedding of tears or the reliving of past mistakes. “But are you any happier here than you were there? What’ll it take to make you happy again?”
“Look, Mister Stubborn-Ass McGee, wait right here for a second, okay?” He turns away from Elliot for a moment, watching the streets outside of the alley with a careful eye, setting his sharp gaze on a passing hotdog vendor, who was shouting something unintelligible and waving around a bottle of water. He fast walks over to the man, practically throwing a few crumpled dollar bills in the harried man’s face, walking away with the bottle, soundtrack of the man’s frustrated shouts accompanying him as he walked back to Elliot.
“Here, dumbass. At least take some water. If you still wanna stab me, go ahead, I see the way you’re just itchin’ to bring that fucking cereal box prize knife out again. When I go down, I’ll drop the key to my apartment, so it’ll give you some place to go. Because we both know you don’t have anywhere, at least not somewhere that’s not a shady, disgusting shelter where who knows what’ll happen to you. I know, how can a creepy stranger like me’s house possibly be safe, right?”
He pauses, watches a stumbling man in shabby clothes crossing the street against the light, nearly being hit by several cab drivers who all beep at him in unison. The man simply yells a few expletives and wearily holds up his middle finger, and finally comes to the sidewalk, where he promptly vomits, gripping a street sign for support.
He jabs his finger in the direction he’s walking (more like shuffling), saying rather frankly, “But it beats slummin’ it with the dirty bums and the fuckin’ whores who roam the streets and prey on desperate, homeless kids. Trust me, I know how hard it is out there. In the shape you’re in, you’re dumber than I thought if you think you’re gonna last another night facing the gangs that roam around, dying for some little angel-faced babe to sink their un-brushed teeth into.”
“What’ll make you happy again, Isaac?” he hears Adam’s voice ringing in his mind, faint, but still there, despite all the time that had passed between them.
“Helping kids like me avoid what I’ve done to my life. Guess you might as well start calling me Peter Pan.”