Author: Karen The Huntress
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, language, angst, humor, eventual lemon
Pairing: AU, language, angst, humor, eventual lemon
Feedback: Always appreciated and answered
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing, its characters or the song "The Boxer".
Somewhere in New York Part 1
~~I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told. I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles such are promises. All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to here and disregards the rest.~~
*********
I am alone.
Two weeks after my sixteenth birthday my mother died.
Just returned from a graveside service in the city's charity section officiated by Father Maxwell who hadn't laid eyes on me since my christening, I sit in silence.
The plain gray headstone donated by Saint Mary's Church will be forever etched in my memory. No epitaph or remembrance, no comforting scriptures, only a name and dates of birth and death to mark Mom's untimely passing.
She didn't make it to forty-five, although she looked much older, worn out from underpaid labor, too much boozes and hollow hopelessness that festered in her heart.
Isolated in the one bedroom apartment that's been home for two years, I take no notice of the constant commotion of cars, taxies, trucks and buses flowing up and down the street or hear the shrill wail of a siren in the distance.
To guarantee I'd be a bastard, my father didn't bother to stick around so it was Mom and me doing the best we could. I was a latchkey kid, hurrying from a naïve childhood to cocky adolescence with no time in between to realize the mislaid years had disappeared.
I'll admit I was a hellion and surely when Mom went to Mass she lit a candle and begged penitence for my sin-ruined soul.
Even though I got above average grades, particularly in Math and Creative Writing, I'd sometimes skip school to run with an older boy named Solo who believed most things in life were free, especially when locks were easy to pick.
Did my share of drinking, preferring whiskey to beer, brawled in the alley and smoked an occasional joint but steered clear of hard drugs that could've scrambled my brain. Once I paid Shannon O'Connor two dollars to fondle her breasts.
However, my greatest rebellion against what society considered the norm was to never cut my hair. When I was six Mom tired to give me a trim. I threw such a fit she decided it was easier to keep the peace and not have the neighbors callin' the cops.
Now I sport a hip length braid that sets me apart from cookie cutter people and their pathetic desire to conform.
*********
In my solitary contemplation I remember.
Promises were made-life would be better. Preachers on TV said all it took was faith and a generous contribution to their holier-than-thou ministries; the few teachers who actually gave a damn toted education as deliverance from poverty's prison.
Whenever Mom wasn't hung over or depressed she swore circumstances would change then, in desperation, she'd retreat to the bottle or move in the newest boyfriend in a futile attempt to ease her perpetual loneliness.
Was I a fool to believe? Did I hear what I wanted to hear without appraising the truth? None of that matters now. For the first time in sixteen years I'm not bound by promises nor have any unrealistic expectations for a better future.
An orangey glow tinting raggedy sheer curtains is the only clue the sun has slipped below the cityscape.
Bathed in the sunset hues, the television that's useless 'cause we can't afford cable and the threadbare maroon recliner take on surreal features. The water-ringed end tables cluttered with cheap knickknacks, including Statue of Liberty and Brooklyn Bridge snow globes, seem alien. Even the familiar contours of the sofa where I sleep appear strange in the twilight shadows.
I could switch on a lamp but red numbers on the digital clock, counting off dwindling minutes, provide more than enough light to defy the darkness. So here I sit amidst the curious reminders of my past, without direction or any certain course of action.
"You can wallow in self-pity or move on." is whispered as if someone might overhear my one-sided conversation.
Suddenly I'm heading for the bedroom, navigating a memorized maze of each day that was never picked up or put away. The overhead light stabs my eyes, yet, I know exactly what I'm searching for. On the closet's top shelf a ratty shoebox is buried behind sheets, pillow cases and thin blankets jumbled together.
Exhuming the keepsakes, I flop down on Mom's unmade bed. Under the eternally watchful crucifix hanging on the wall, I lift the top with as much anticipation as an archaeologist unearthing King Tut's tomb.
Instead of dumping the contents, I carefully sort the memories. The only picture of my father, in black and white and tattered around the edges, gets a glance before it's laid aside.
Another photo in faded color is Mom in a flowery summer dress and me when I was four, in a striped shirt and gosh-awful shorts, standing on the gray stone stoop of an unidentified building.
Three small white scalloped seashells, a dried pink daisy pressed between sheets of waxed paper, two ticket stubs from an "artsy" theater and a green enamel key ring from the Bronx Zoo are studied in turn. Lastly, a rosary of red glass beads with a silver cross is exhumed from a sheet of tattered tissue paper.
Lastly a manila envelope, wrinkled from being folded and unfolded many times, ends my quest. Inside fifty dollar bills are secured with a wide tan rubber band-the savings Mom had hidden away for that vague moment when the promises would be kept.
I count out loud. Fifty, one hundred, one hundred fifty and so on until the sum of five hundred is spread out on the rumbled bedcovers.
"Not a sufficient amount to make a clean break. Enough for the train, a bit further uptown, and maybe a deposit of a nicer apartment, somewhere you don't have to share with cockroaches." I explore the possibilities, "It's early, why not leave tonight?"
Without taking the chance I'd come to my senses, a battered brown canvas duffle bag is haul from under the bed. The waning of autumn is taken into account as I pack jeans, long sleeve sweaters, socks and underwear. Shampoo, conditioner and other toiletries are sealed in a zip lock bag before being added to the hurriedly horded clothing.
For a fleeting moment I debate about taking my father's picture. Nope, I can leave it just as easy as he left me.
My bankroll, the picture of Mom and me and the rosary are stuffed in my stonewash jean's pocket. One final turn of the key. The ill-tempered apartment manager and the freeloading boyfriends and the persistent collection agencies can go to hell.
Encased in a creased black leather jacket brought at the Angels of Mercy Thrift Shop, I step onto the sidewalk, sling the duffle bag over my shoulder, shore up my nerve and trek off to discover my destiny.
TBC...
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