Chapter 1 Arrival

The Heartless boy

The moonlight inched across my brow seeking its prey. I could feel it squirming just beneath the surface of my skin, an embrace from my closest friend to the depths of my heartless cavity. Outside the dark clouds barely reflected its wondrous light as I sailed over them. The small not quite square window provided most of the light to the body of the plane. Behind me, I knew there were a handful of reading lights and the dimmed but ever-present running lights echoed on. The plane itself was uncomfortably uniform, sterile. Everything was made of cheap beige plast1ic as if it was no more than a child’s toy and would break just as easily. I’ve never been one to feel nervous during an air trip if anything I tend to feel comforted. After all, if anything goes wrong the odds are in your favor for a quick death as opposed to a slow lingering one.

My other’s steel razor coated voice interrupted the thought, “If that’s all you’re looking for.”

I should mention my name is John West; at least it was at the time, though it will change later. My other was by all accounts my second oldest friend. The first being the night I glided through. It came second; it always offered its advice and gave its desires words. It was a necessary evil, one that kept me safe.

I was alone in the row, a rarity in my experience with air travel. The seat I was in dwarfed my small frame, I always felt like a runt in those days. I was fourteen at the time, dressed in blue jeans, and a light blue button-down shirt. A pair of brown boots adorned my feet. I was short for my age and slender. The flight was a minor hop from Atlanta to my next residence. I had been sent away, there is no better way to describe it.

I was born in the US, raised in Manchester, then a few years in Florida then the world tour year; 4 months in Queens, 4 in a nowhere town near Boston, and another 4 months just outside New Orleans. My current predicament was the direct result of my parents impending divorce, which was most likely the first good thing to happen to them.

I always aimed to prepare for any situation. In my pockets I had a wallet with maybe 400 dollars and a few now useless library and rental cards in it, a pen, a small knife (during those day it was permissible to carry one on board), a well-worn book, and a handkerchief. My jacket, a stonewashed unlined Denim was draped across the seat beside me along with a backpack. All of my essentials were in the pack; which was mostly books, a couple of scarves, a portable cd player, and all the music I owned. I had a reasonably sized duffel bag checked which contained clothes, my football, and a few more books and the money stuffed into my trainers which I had “borrowed” from father’s more illicit activities. I always had some need of starting capital and the level of treatment and edible food allotted to me was very much in question.

Unable to sleep (a common problem for me) I reopened the Newspaper; I’d bought in the shopping mall that Hartsfield-Jackson seemed to be. I had reread it a dozen times by now, but I had little else to do. The only other option available to me was to consider my plight.

Allegedly my Aunt, Grandmother, and Sister would be waiting for me at the airport and I would be staying with them until my mother followed suit at a later date. This seemed horribly unlikely after all my sister was eight years older than I and had been sent away prior to me having memories of her. The reason she had been sent away had been discussed in hushed tones between my parents. She’d gotten the blame, but I guarantee my father was responsible. Despite the beatings she had taken and the scars on my body, my mother seemed unable to accept that my father was the definition of evil bastard.

The final straw for my mother was that he cheated on her. I had ended my parents’ marriage by gaining evidence of his cheating and mailing it to my mother anonymously. Insomnia and a camera are a wonderful combination. At least this would extend the break from my mother.

I had very few memories of the women who were supposed to be waiting for me and little hope that they would recognize me or I them. In truth I was unsure if I’d ever met any of them before. What little knowledge I had was from stories my mother had told or the annual birthday cards with a 25 dollar check my Aunt had sent to me.

I did vaguely recall speaking to my sister on the phone and being beaten for it. My sister’s name was Melinda, though everyone called her Mindy. I had heard the name so many times it was hard not to think of it. I knew she was in college and 22 to my 14. My aunt was Virginia or Ginny. She had been married and divorced earlier in life. She was a secretary at a nearby college. I knew she was overly religious. My grandmother was a retired teacher, now a regular substitute. I didn’t recall anyone ever calling her by her name. I had already decided that it would be best if I was formal in speech with them. If I was polite, I would likely go unnoticed. It’s a unique situation when your entire livelihood depends upon people you don’t know and how well you adapt to an area you have little information about.