Post by Deleted on Jul 2, 2016 21:47:46 GMT
Pendleton Memorial Methodist Hospital, New Orleans || March 23, 2001 (off camera)
Children liked Jonathan Jones – he had one of those boyishly handsome faces with an open and honest smile that made him look decades younger than he was. Invariably, they always opened up to him, which is what made him one of the most trusted and respected child psychologists in the area. Those poor kids had always taken to him – trusted him like a kindly older brother which was why he found the naked hostility radiating off the boy rather unsettling.
Jones sat in the uncomfortable chair across from the silent and sullen 17-year-old boy, studying him the same way one might a museum exhibit. He hadn't said a word since he'd been brought into this room, looking like a casualty of war. The only indication of worse injuries than the bruises on his face or the gashes that covered his arms was the shallow way he was breathing, wincing with every inhale. Jones checked the chart again, confirming the broken ribs. On cursory inspection, he seemed like a normal teenager who'd been in a terrible fight – nothing extraordinary. He'd told the doctors that it had been some kid from school, some brawl in the alley behind the pizza place all the kids hung out at. The lie was simple enough to have stuck if it hadn't been for the 911 call that had come in, it probably would have.
'Please come quickly,' the caller had said, 'I think his dad's gonna try to kill him.'
Jones knew the teen was aware he was being watched yet he felt nothing from the young man. Nothing at all. It was almost as if he weren't in the room at all and that was quite disturbing.
The boy had his head bowed, the knuckles of his left hand resting against his lips. He could still smell her scent on his fingers, feeling a little like some sort of deviant every time he took in a shallow breath. He was still thinking about the stolen moments of bliss that had led to this nightmare – less than twelve hours ago and yet it seemed like another lifetime. He knew this was coming as soon as he'd come to in that hospital bed. The only reason he'd existed off their grid for seventeen years was by keeping a low profile. This was bad. Really, really bad. He could feel the panic starting to constrict his chest and it was already damned hard to breathe as it was.
His eyes were fixed on the floor, but he was chewing on his lip. The twitch seemed deliberate, almost as if he was doing it to appear normal. Last night, Jones had been told, that same girl who had called the police had snuck into the boy's room the night before, well after visiting hours had ended. The appeal was evident, Jones noted – tousled hair, five o'clock shadow – he was lean and lanky with the long arms of an athlete. Shades of the man he was on the verge of becoming were written on his face, in those tired eyes, in those feet that almost seemed too big for the rest of him. With the cuts and bruises, the boy could have passed for a boxer and Jones wondered if the kid was more fighter than victim on a regular day. Glancing down at the file again, he jotted a reminder to look into that later, wondering how this case had gone untouched for so long. The x-rays had revealed several long-healed injuries, bones that had mended poorly – strange considering that his father was a police officer.
The teenager finally lifted his head, his gaze flicking to rest on Jones. The psychologist suppressed a shudder. Those eyes were empty, like staring into pools of starless night. Black voids, completely soulless. The urge to speak was palpable, but Jones managed to bite his tongue and quash the urge to say something to fill that eerie silence. Those dark eyes remained impassive as they drifted away from their focus on Jones' face, those long fingers still curled under his nose.
Jones couldn't take it any longer. Licking his lips, he broke the silence. "Son?"
The boy jerked as though he'd been doused with a bucket of cold water. Nobody had ever called him that. In his best moments, no names were attached to him. In the worst, he alternated between 'boy' and 'you little shit'. "Huh?" He blinked, those wounded eyes flicking to make contact for a split second before skittering away again.
"I'd like to talk about what happened last night..."
The boy shrugged. "So talk. Nobody's stopping you, man."
"Your father did this to you, didn't he?"
He didn't say anything, keeping his eyes fixed on Jones. They'd already made their decision. This was just a formality. He slipped his thumb between his lips, sucking on his nail.
"Does he hurt you often?"
"Who?" He played stupid, buying time.
"Your father."
He knew now that Clay wasn't actually his father. He'd found the adoption papers weeks ago. "What's it matter?" The words were defensive even though they came out in that same soft and even tone.
"Believe me, son, it matters."
"An' if I tell you it's only been this one time?"
"Then I believe you. I'm not your enemy. I'm on your side, son."
"Side? There's sides now?" The boy shook his head, leaning forward with his hands dangling loose between his knees, "nah, you're just tanglin' shit up now. See, I know what's goin'," the boy swallowed thickly, shaking his head, "you gotta just let me go... go home. Otherwise, he's..."
Jones leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he unconsciously mimicked the boy's pose. "You mean your father?"
The boy fell silent again, sullen.
"Alexander," Jones watched the boy stiffen, almost flinching as his shoulders hunched, "I'm not your enemy."
"Jus' get it over with," the boy muttered, his voice coming out soft, quiet and resigned, words still slightly slurred by his swollen face.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Guys like you only ask questions to see if I'm gonna lie. No point in that, is there?"
Jones adjusted his position, looking down at his notepad. "No point in lying?"
"No point in askin'."
"Difficult to help when I don't know the whole story. I want to know what's going on at home so I can help you."
"Help me?" The boy chuckled bitterly, "is that what this is? You think you can come in here an' wave a magic wand to fix all'at's wrong with me? Get outta here, man... they already fixed what needed it. This is just a waste of time while they draw up the papers an' ship me off somewhere." There was anger in his voice now, just a flicker of life in those dark eyes, "you think you know what's in my head 'cause you read a buncha books an' talked to a million other kids 'at got kicked 'round by their parents?"
"Talk to me," Jones said softly, "I can help you. See that you get placed somewhere that can get you the care you need –"
"Care? What the fuck's that even mean? I get by alright," he looked down at himself. His clothes weren't brand new, but they were clean.
"Son, it's not your fault. This isn't how life is supposed to be."
As if a switch had been thrown, the boy resumed that dead man's stare. "Why are you here?" The words held no hostility, but coupled with that look in his eyes, they seemed to pose a threat. "Don't hand me any lines. Believe me; I've heard 'em all before. School guidance counselor... guys'at looked too hard an' noticed the bruises were there 'fore I got into the scuffle with Jimmy Phelps or whoever out by the bike rack. I don't wanna talk 'bout it, alright? Just wanna be left alone. This ain't how life's supposedta be? Well that's fuckin' grand to say but it's a load of horseshit."
Jones took in a deep breath, his patience intact as he stared back at the angry boy. "And why do you say that?"
"You can't poke holes in reality like that." He started twisting a battered silver ring around his finger with his right thumb. His left hand was still there against his mouth, the thumb tapping against his bottom lip.
"I don't understand. Please explain?"
The boy shook his head, "this is my life, alright? Ain't nobody died an' gave you the right to decide my future. I got nine months left an' I'm gonna finish doin' my time here an' when I turn eighteen I'm gonna disappear. Thirty-six weeks, man. You can't just fuck off 'til then?"
"I can't do that." Jones replied, sounding like he meant it. "I've got a responsibility to make sure nobody gets hurt the way you have."
"Hurt?" The boy scoffed, rolling his eyes, "whatever, man – it's just pain. Yeah, it hurts for a little while, but it's not forever. It goes away an' if I keep my head down, maybe it won't hurt so much next time." The words came out in a toneless voice, stripped of feeling. "That's just how it is an' how it's always been. I get hit an' he feels better. Better him doin' it to me than my baby sister. I can take it so she don't have to–"
"And if I send you back there and next time you're on your way to the morgue, what then?"
The boy shrugged, "then it's meant to be an' it ain't no skin off your ass, y'know? We ain't kin... we ain't friends or nothin'. I'm just a buncha papers in a file. At the end of the day, you ain't losin' no sleep over what happens here–"
"I take my work seriously," Jones said, almost snapping the words defensively.
"Yeah, an' maybe someday you're gonna make a difference but lemme ask you this... are you tapped into God? You got some direct line to the man upstairs?"
"I believe in the power of prayer, if that's what you're asking."
"It ain't. So you think that invisible guy's gonna change the plans he made for my lifespan if you get me outta that house? Is that the shit you're tryin' to sell me right now?"
Jones felt uncomfortable as he remained silent, watching the kid talk. Those dark eyes moved around restlessly, but every time they lit on Jones, he felt that gaze cutting right through him. It was almost eerie.
"So how'd'ya know you're preventin' something by sending me off? You send me somewhere else, an' I'll prob'ly die the same day I woulda died here. That's how the world works. Everything's got a reason... a purpose, y'know? So this is mine." The fingers were back against his mouth and he inhaled slowly, knowing that even if he talked until day turned into night, he'd never see her again. The hollow ache he felt at that knowledge made him angrier than he'd ever been in his whole life. For the first time, he felt frustrated tears filling his eyes. "What do you want me to say, huh? You tell me what you gotta hear so you'll walk out that door an' leave me be..." he swallowed thickly.
"It's gonna be alright," Jones said softly, his voice filled with compassion.
"Alright," the boy echoed, his eyes closing as he squeezed his hands into fists. There was no bigger lie in the world than that. "Don't do this."
"There's a home a few states away. One that specializes in cases like yours. I think you'll like it there – they're good people."
His knee bounced restless movements as he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the floor. "Sure. An' I'm leavin' now, aren't I?" Hannah was supposed to come back after school. He'd made her promise to go even though she hadn't wanted to. She'd promised to bring his homework so he didn't fall further behind. His shoulders bowed, his head hanging lower.
"Talk to me." Jones pressed, moving to his feet slowly, "it's not your fault, son. It's–"
"I don't wanna go away," his voice broke, tears spilling free and splashing down on his hands and the floor, "I done my best to be good. Can't you just let me be?" He squeezed his eyes shut; Jones touched his shoulder as he was trying to fight off the panic. He froze, his voice coming out hoarse, "don't do this."
"Why are you fighting me?" Jones didn't understand the boy's resistance. Most this age were happy to be freed from the cycle of violence that it was pretty clear this poor child had been dealing with most of his life. "I know it's scary, son. But you can trust me. We're here to help you. We've got-"
The boy made a rude sound, lifting his head. Jones could tell by the look in the boy's eyes that hope had died a long, long time ago and that made his heart break. "Fighting's all I know." The boy said the words slowly and each one cut through Jones, making him wince, "just lemme be. Please?"
