It was always hard at first.
When the lights were turned off, the crushed velvet curtains drawn, and the darkness took hold of the large room. It hovered in the air, above, below, to the sides, making the slight boy who sat erect in his silk sheets wonder if it was the quilts and the humid New York summer, or smothering darkness that made him squirm. Sweat poured from his body, plastering black curls to his head, and making soft sheets cling to his thin body.
But as the heat settled, the boy did as well, sinking into the familiar setting. But even the familiarity of the room could never be considered a comfort. Within it held rejection, ridicule and unbearable loneliness, for that was all he was familiar with.
"Darling?" There was nothing wrong with the lilting voice that appeared from the doorway of the boy's room. It could even be called beautiful, with it's slight French accent, but when the boy heard it, he shuttered. The voice was sweet, but in it's soft undertone, the boy could hear the condescending note that always lay within it. When he first realized that note, it felt like needles in his heart. But now, it was a dull annoyance, that made him shun the elegant woman who the voice belonged to.
"Yes, mother?" He inquired, his voice coolly polite. The brunette woman smiled faintly, though her thin brows knitted together, obviously not phased by the boy's cool tone. If the boy had cared enough to study the woman, he would have noticed the brightness of her light brown eyes, or that they were tinged with pink.
"Alexander, dear, I need to talk to you." She said, settling herself on the boy's bed, making sure that she sat on just the edge of the stuffed mattress. The usually poised woman bit the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit that she passed on to both her sons. Alexander nodded curtly, his overgrown dark curls falling over his brow in a way that he knew would irritate his mother to no end. Sure enough, his mother leaned over, and brushed the stray hairs away from his face as she started speaking once again. "Two days ago, something happened," she started slowly. The young man frowned slightly, perplexed at the point his mother was getting at. "You're brother - " the woman stopped, choking back tears. "He was killed. It was an accident, and it wasn't anyone's fault. It was just an awful accident..." The words flooded out of his mother's mouth, and when Alexander looked up, he saw the shining tears that flowed from her luminance brown eyes.
In his entire fifteen years of life, Alexander Lowery had never seen his mother cry before, or lose control over herself in any way. But he had never imagined his older brother as dead, either.
"God, Tag, you got to stop doing that. Momma and Dad try their best, you know." The tall, sinewy boy said, leaning against the wall of his younger brother's room.
"This might not come as a surprise to you, but their best isn't good enough." Alexander replied to his brother icily, looking directly into the older boy's hazel green eyes, which were uncannily similar to his own.
Jonothan Patrick Lowery IV sighed, running his hands through sandy brown hair. "What do you want them to do, Tag? They aren't good with things like talking. You know that."
"You make it sound like they try, Jono. They hate me. If I weren't here, they'd save hundreds of dollars, which mother would probably spend on a nice dress, and father would spend of cigars." The younger boy smiled ironically, and settled back into his pillows.
"They don't hate you, Tag. They just don't understand you. And it doesn't help when you act like they're just an inconvenience." The eighteen year old ruffled the younger boy's thick curls. "I know you think they don't notice, but they aren't as stupid as you think."
Alexander - or Tagalong as his brother fondly addressed him as - struggled a bit, still wanting to be mad, and realizing that the anger was slipping away. "How would you know what I think," he muttered, resentment heavy in his tone. It was a sad attempt, but it was also true, as both brothers reluctantly were forced to accept.
"Heard that."
"What?" Was the only reply Alexander's mother received. Those words came out awkwardly from the boy's mouth, undermining his usual articulate speech patterns. He had worked so hard to get people to realize that he wasn't stupid, and had destroyed any success he achieved with a single word. But that word was said in such a confused manner, that his mother couldn't help but think of him as slow.
The woman patted his hand reassuringly and gave him that slow, false smile that he was used to after so many years. "It's all right, darling. Shh...now don't you worry about a thing..."
"Two days ago..." His brother had been dead for two days and he hadn't learned of it until now. His brother had been rotting in a mortuary for two days. "What happened?" Alexander asked suddenly, focusing intently on the sheets that somehow got itself wrapped around his tightly clenched hands.
His mother blinked. That wasn't exactly the type of question that was asked in proper society. In proper society, you ask things more subtilely, adding condolences, such as "Oh my, I'm so sorry. How is your husband taking it?" The brown-nosers would of course hint that they wanted to know, but in proper society, you don't simply ask in that blunt manner. It simply wasn't...well, proper.
But then again, Alexander had never really been a part of proper society.
After struggling with her words for a few moments, his mother squared her shoulders started a story, much in a way that a fairy book story was told.
"You see, it was really quite an ordinary accident. The policemen tried everything they could to see what happened, and this is what they think. You know how your brother loves to go have socials with his friends? Well, they went to the train yards. As boys are, they just wanted to see if they could jump off of the moving train...I suppose to see who was fastest." his mother said, sounding a bit confused of the situation, but unwilling to admit her confusion.
"Jono, jump!" The wind whipped past the two figures on the train, blowing identical sandy brown hair around their heads. They both stood to their full heights, which was about 5'11", give or take a few inches, looking down at the ground which flew past them.
"I can't! You go first!"
Both stood there for a second, as the roaring iron and steel monster raced through the tracks. The ground flew beneath them in a flurry too fast to make out, and the wind grabbed at their clothing, rushing past their ears at with a terrible speed that made both their ears ring.
Alexander sat there, wide eyed, and attentive. He never understood why his brother would do something like that. Jono was more free than he could ever be - why would he need to prove it?
"It was an accident," his mother repeated for what seemed to be the hundredth time. "Jonothan slipped. He slipped, and his young friend Francis couldn't help him. It was a horrible, horrible accident."
"Just jump!"
"But I - "
The touch was light, but it was enough. With that touch, a young man fell forward, screaming helplessly and with surprise into the cloudless summer night. The conductor of the train pulled the train to a screeching halt as soon he heard and felt the barely audible thump. But he didn't stop it fast enough.
"It just happened so quickly. The conductor didn't even have time to stop. The police questioned him and found that it was just too fast. There was nothing to be done about it. After it happened, there was so much confusion. Francis...he could hardly identify Jono when it was all over."
"Don't just stand there! Get out of here, you idiot!" A voice hissed in the young man's ear.
The people flooded out of the train confused, crowding and pushing each other, buzzing clamorously with questions. But when the conductor rushed outside, there was only one thing that caught his attention. A disfigured man, no older than twenty years old lay crumpled, in front of the hulking figure of the train. Standing above the young man, another boy stood above him, stunned, though certainly not out of his wits.
"What the hell happened?" The conductor, a seasoned, middle-aged man asked gruffly, grabbing the boy by his collar. The man didn't like surprises, and a dead boy hit by his train certainly qualified.
"I...don't know. It - it just happened, sir." Francis stuttered, glancing back and forth between the man who held his shirt, and the man who lay on the tracks.
"Francis explained everything. We're lucky he was there. He's such a responsible young man." Louisa finished, blotting her eyes with a silk handkerchief. The handkerchief wouldn't, under normal circumstances, absorb the tears. But his mother had had two days to mourn, and the handkerchief was merely for show.
And then...there simply wasn't anything else to say. His mother sat with him for a few moments more, though she herself obviously didn't know what to do - he didn't cry, he didn't do anything expected. She was at a loss. Her gaze lingered on the doorway, then focused back on her son. Finally, the uncomfortable silence got to the chatty woman. "I should go to your father, Alexander. Just ring your little bell if you need anything, and Maria will help you." She said, then scurried out of the room, somehow still managing to look elegant.
Only after the door gently closed the first glistening tears began to fall over soft cheeks, still rounded with lingering baby fat, and the thin boy seemed to look even smaller in the hollow, empty room. For a boy that had lived his entire life in solitude, the loneliness had never seemed so bleak. And for the first time in his life, Alexander was truly without a friend in the world.
"I'd like to eat supper downstairs." If only those words were easier to accept, than to say. With words, they say there is no prohibition, but "they" are wrong, and Alexander knew it. Those simple words, which he was supposedly free to speak, could have as well been blasphemy with the way his mother reacted. "You want to what?" She blurted out, looking at her son in shock. He knew that she wouldn't understand. But she also thought that he was content with the hell that he dwelled in. Some people thought hell was a blazing inferno, but they've never been in complete, stifling darkness. That was true hell.
"I'd like to eat supper downstairs." He repeated, forming the words slowly, as if she didn't understand what it meant. It was so satisfying to speak in that same patronizing tone that he heard spoken to him so many times. "You know, in the dining room."
Louisa stared at him for a second, her light brown eyes blank. But all too soon, the spark of light returned. "I realize where the dining room is, darling, but it's much better for you to stay up here." That tone! That awful, horrible tone would be his downfall. He could never stand that tone, and he wasn't in the mood to ignore it. Perhaps it had something to do with his brother's death, which he had been informed of mere hours ago. But perhaps it was something more that compelled the boy blurt out the next word from his lips.
"Why?"
He'd said it. That insubordinate question that all people of authority dread. One, tiny, three-lettered word, with a question that was sure to follow not far behind it. It wasn't much of a rebellion, but it was more than his mother had ever seen from him. And it wasn't so much to question itself that bothered Louisa. It was the meaning. There was a defiance her sickly son that she had never seen in him before and questions always meant rebellion.
Though her son would never know it, his mother remembered rebellion vividly. She had first experienced it when she was sixteen years old and was informed by her parents that she was to marry a man she didn't even know. Her parents still refuse to talk to their only child.
"What do you mean 'why'?" She demanded, though her voice was as demure as she could manage. A flush of anger and embarrassment filled her pale cheeks with color. "The doctor said so, that's why. He said you should stay in your bed for as much time as possible. You're ill, dear, and you need to gain strength. Even something as simple as going down the stairs could be considered a strain, and I'm just looking out for your welfare. If you have any other silly questions, then ask Doctor Pepperdine, and don't waste my time." Her sentences were becoming rushed, and her breathing heavy. Brushing off her long, evening skirts, she regarded the boy with a gentle ease that reeked with condescension. "I'll have Maria bring up your supper. Don't stay up too late."
With that, the woman left, tossing her skirts behind her as she strided out the door.
It was a small victory if it could even be called one. But for a person who had never felt tasted the sweet adrenaline of triumph, it meant the world, for it meant hope. The hope that it was possible to stand up for himself. The hope that words can work both ways. The hope that his parents weren't untouchable.
They never seemed to see him. Those happy people who were just beyond the glass confinements of his window. The glass was such a weak substance - if he just threw the useless things that seemed to clutter his actually sparse room, the glass would shatter, making it rain glass. Although they were just beyond the windows, they seemed like a world away.
But it wasn't that they didn't see him. He knew they did, because every so often they would glance up, and whisper among themselves as if he might hear them if they spoke in their normal voices. He knew that they called him the "kid behind the curtains" because everyday he'd peek out from the confines of the velvet drapes that obscured any possibility of sunlight. And then he'd watch them. Oh, he'd watch them for hours without end, imagining he was down there, playing with them. When they played baseball on the cobbled streets, he could practically feel the yard-long stick in his hands, the wood sun-kissed and warm. He'd never formally learned how to play baseball, but little by little, hour by hour, he caught onto the rules.
He'd always taken comfort in the game. Some people think baseball is life. But Alexander knew differently. Baseball was better than life. In life, there was pain. Cruelty. Despair. In baseball, the rules were simple, everything was straight lines and black and white. It was the way that Alexander liked it.
It was so odd that Alexander also quite enjoyed playing poker, though the differences between the two beloved games were striking. Poker depended on luck, not skill. It was blurred with gray, but that never seemed to phase him. It was that same gray that attracted it to him, because as much as he was white, and his parents black, his brother waved between the many shades of grays.
"Hey, Tagalong, do you want to learn something?" Jono asked, one hand behind his back and the other reaching out to ruffle his brother's hair playfully.
Alexander couldn't help but let his eyes light up. If he had known that they would, he would have done something to stop it. But he'd been hinting to Jono for the past few months about learning how to play baseball, and maybe, just maybe, Jono might have been able to convince their parents to acquiesce. "Sure." Alexander was always good at keeping his emotions from his voice and body language, though his eyes gave him away.
The older boy chuckled at his brother's wide-eyed anticipation, but kept his hand behind his back. "Well, it isn't all that much," In what seemed like hours, Jono slowly began to reveal his hidden hand. "I just thought you might enjoy it, and all," Inch by inch, he brought his hand out to show Alexander...a slightly worn deck of cards. He blinked and for a second - just one second, he stared a bit blankly at the cards. But the sandy-haired boy knew his brother too well to let it go unnoticed. Jono sighed, and flopping on the bed. "You don't like it." It wasn't a question.
"No!" Tagalong said quickly, partly because he didn't want to sound ungrateful, and mostly because it wasn't true. He didn't dislike the cards, he simply wasn't expecting them. "I just...I don't know how to play." It was true enough, though a feeble attempt to right wrongs.
Jono brightened at that and started to shuffle the cards with practiced ease, surprising his younger brother considerably. Jonothan was no fool, but he was ready to ignore the lack of initial excitement in Tagalong, when he obviously wanted to learn now. With that, he grinned at Tag and with a flick of his wrists, started dealing. "I'll teach you my favorite game - poker."
The boy made his way back to his bed, and from the drawer of his nightstand, he pulled out a worn deck of cards. He shuffled the cards fluidly, not at all fumbling with the uncertainty of a rookie, for he had been using these particular cards for the past few years. And then he set out to play the second card game he had ever been taught. Solitaire.
The silver moon hung sweetly above the large Manhattan home, but for one fifteen year old boy, this was no consolation. Walking toward the large window that displayed the moon in all its glory, he glared at the moon for its cheerful audacity. Grudgingly, Alexander sat on a formal-looking wooden chair, a thoughtful frown marring his features. Why was it that everyone in the world was happy except for him? Why was it that everyone could move on except for him? In his mind, there were only two possible answers for those questions.
The first, was that no one could possibly feel what he was feeling. This pain, this soul-ripping pain was so unbearable, yet he needed to hide behind this facade. If he didn't hide behind his masks, then everyone would see this pain, and he would be weak. Ridiculed. His mask of coldness was all he had. Now, that is.
But the second...that was what scared him. The second answer was that he was weak, because everyone else could move on, and he couldn't. That they could handle it, and he couldn't. That they were strong, and he wasn't.
He could rationalize to himself that the only reason was because he loved Jono more. But that hardly comforted him. He knew how his father looked at Jono with an unmistakable parental pride, and how his mother made sure to always make everything just right for Jono, whom she wanted to marry off to some perfect rich girl so they could have a perfect life.
Yet for his parents, life always went on. Whether it was burying themselves in work or spending hours without end on planning extravagant parties, the found a way to move on.
That night, in the achingly beautiful glow of the moon, the thoughts that had been troubling him for the past few days finally came to a halt, and then it crashed into him all at once, in a blinding flurry of truth. Though it hurt him more than anything to admit it, Alexander knew that it was because his second answer was the correct one. He was too weak to move on, to let go. Too weak to move on. Always too weak.
With disturbing resolution, he lowered his head in silent surrender to a battle he never knew he was fighting.
There was nothing he could do about it today.
It was true that he wasn't strong - but maybe tomorrow things will be different. Maybe tomorrow...
Hours passed, and the night slowly turned into day, but time seemed to be in limbo for Alexander. He locked himself deep in his depression that nothing effected him much anymore. (Though some would argue that nothing did in the first place).
When a soft, polite knock sounded on his door, he didn't even turn his head in acknowledgment. Instead, he gently rang the little bell, signaling that the girl outside could enter.
Upon hearing that faint ring, that girl stiffened.
Mentally steeling herself for that feeling of cold contempt that hovered in the room she was about to enter, Maria Lopez gently straightened her maid's uniform with the hand that wasn't holding a silver tray. She wasn't sure what it was about Alexander Lowery...but he scared her. It wasn't that he wasn't polite. He was perfectly so - he never grabbed her, or talked to her harshly. But the coldness - it seemed almost physical. She shivered, just as she started to push open the door.
"Mistah Low'ry?" She asked softly, though she didn't expect an answer. She'd never gotten one before, and certainly didn't expect one now. "I brought ya breakfess fer ya." After slipping in and closing the door behind her, Maria blinked once when she saw that the young man wasn't in his bed. Darting her eyes through her room, she let out the breath she didn't know she was holding as she set her eyes upon the dark silhouette that stood out against the brightness of the window.
Seeing the small dresser that was next to him, she smiled politely. "I'll jus' put it..." Her voice trailed off as she studied the boy, never realizing that she didn't let go of the platter.
There was something different today. It's true that he was normally silent when she entered his room, but today his whole disposition seemed different. Instead of that cold politeness, he had this faraway look, as if he was miles away.
Where are you? Maria wondered to herself. The past few days he seemed to be colder, more distant, and that was perfectly understandable - the death of his brother came as a shock to everyone. But never before did he have that look of melancholy so plainly on his face. To be honest, she had never seen any expression plainly on his face.
Then suddenly, he turned his gaze directly on her, his expression never changing. He flicked his eyes, then started to turn back to the window.
Maria could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. That candid way he looked at her - it was as if she were some silly little child, and he was a wizened old man. She knew that he was only fifteen years old, two years younger than herself, yet she felt so young in his gaze. Trying to stop that awful redness in its tracks, she sternly reminded herself that in reality, the boy knew nothing of this world. His entire world was this mansion, this beautiful house in all its silken prison. Though it was extravagent and lovely, it was still a prison, and he knew nothing of the outside.
The girl nodded faintly to herself. Yes. The young Mr. Lowery did not know reality.
"Mistah Low'ry," she murmured softly, nodding her head at the younger boy. She started to turn quickly, squirming at that thick shroud of sadness that hung thickly in the air. Reaching out for the dresser, she started to shove the tray on it.
But it seemed as though that day was fated to be abnormal.
Instead of pushing the tray neatly on the table, it did not seem to be pushed quite enough. For half a second, it hovered over the edge of the dresser, suspended. Before Maria could even gasp, the silver tray clattered onto the ground, spilling tea, biscuits and eggs all over the polished mahogany floors.
The young girl's eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth. "Mistah Low'ry! Oh - I'm so sorry, I didn't mean...here, let me get that..." Panic flooded through the girl. She didn't know the young man very long, but a feeling of dread filled her. She knew girls who were fired for less.
Too afraid to meet "Mistah Low'ry's" gaze, Maria lowered her eyes, and quickly picked up the spilled food.
Stuttering out another apology, she dashed out the door, mumbling something incoherent about going to get something to clean it up.
Alexander blinked once, as the servent girl struggled desperately with the doorknob. He wondered - had that really just happened? It wasn't that it was impossible that such a silly little slip up could happen...it was just that it had never happened before. Not in fifteen years had a servant in the Lowery household dropped a platter like that.
They wouldn't have dared to in his presence.
Yet it seemed that it did happen. It was different and...oddly interesting. Something completely out of the ordinary. Something almost real in the dreamlike haze that was his life.
He vaugely remembered this particular servant girl serving him meals before, but she never meant anything to him before. She was just another perfect maid, in his perfect house who served him perfect food every single perfect day.
The so-called "perfection" that was not only tedious, but irritating as well.
But this girl...she wasn't a perfect maid, that was certainly obvious. Still, there was something about her, and it was because she wasn't perfect. She was real; tangible. Alexander knew instantly that he wasn't going to have her fired. On the contrary, he wanted to see her again, and as soon as possible.
For a second, he wondered what it would be like to talk to her in a normal conversation. Without her being afraid, or him being awkward or cold. Just two normal people having a normal conversation.
It was almost too much to hope for.
No, that wasn't right. It was too much to hope for. She would always be afraid of him because he was the young master of the household, and he would always be awkward around people who were his age who weren't working for him or related to him, and cold to people who were beneath him.
The light rap on his door signaled the return of the servant girl, and snapped Alexander out of his day dreams. "Come in," he said, in his stiff, polite way. He knew it made him sound cold, and in some ways, he was happy it did. It kept people away, and by being the one who initiated the rejection of comradery, he never had to be on the recieving end.
The girl came in, her cheeks flushed pink, and her hair dishelved from her rushing, and her hands clenched with a cleaning rag in one, and a bucket of sloshing water in the other. "Mistah Low'ry," she murmured, keeping her head down, dark curls falling over her face. Quickly, she walked to where he was sitting and kneeled down, tucking her skirt (which was a little too short, and barely brushed her ankles) under her knees, and went to work on scrubbing the floors.
"You may call me 'Alexander' in private, as long as you make sure to call me 'Mister Lowery' in public," he said, decidedly sounding as if he were granting her a favor.
The servant girl blinked a couple of times at the odd comment, as if processing it. When she did, a look of such pure shock was plastered on her face that it was almost comical. And after that, she looked up warily at him, as if wondering if he was mocking her, but with his mask of haughty indifference, it was hard to tell.
Had this been her reply to any other comment, it would have been humorous, but he didn't find it very funny then. Silently, Alex was quivering, but whether it was with fear or anger it was hard to determine. Had he really just told a servant - a servant! - that she could call him by his first name? There was certainly nothing special about this servant. She was just as plain, thin and faceless as the rest...only - he could see now that she was really quite pretty, that she was slim, not thin, and her face was easily distinguishable. The thought was disturbing. After all, wasn't he a Lowery? Wasn't he better than her? She's healthy, he thought bitterly. All the money and power in the world can't give me that.
But Alex knew the real reason, for it burned in his mind like a ray of hope in the unending darkness. By dropping that platter, she had done something that stopped the normalcy of his day, and made everything seem real for an instant. He knew his mother carefully chose who would be his servant, so there would be no unneccessary accidents around him, so in his entire life, he'd never seen a servant blunder. He always thought of them as not quite human, just nameless, faceless people who did this mechanically, like the constant supply of machinery that came onto market. But this servant, this girl, she seemed as real as those kids who played baseball outside of his room.
Smiling tentatively, the girl said "I'm Maria."
Maria. It was a simple name, but as far as Alexander could tell, Maria was a simple girl. Not stupid, or insipid, just...wholesome and sweet and real. Maria. It was a nice name, he thought. Instead of answering, Alexander gave her a small nod of acknowledgement. He knew about etiquette, of course - his mother had made him study and take classes for it for the odd chance that they might deign to let him attend social gatherings. But what did he say to a servant? He didn't know the answer, and so he simply didn't say anything. Nodding was appropriate for a servant, and that's all she really was. After all, he had invited her to call him by his first name, not to be his friend. As if she would want to be your friend, a small voice in the back of his head quipped nastily. Better to reject first than be rejected later.
The servant girl - Maria - gave him a sidelong look, that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable, though he didn't know why. He felt himself stiffen defensively, and frowned when he saw her shake her head to herself. Apparently, servant or no, girls would be girls - all she had to do now was giggle. He almost shuddered at the thought. Giggling girls. He hoped he hadn't just made a huge mistake. And then she did something that made him catch his breath. She laughed. It wasn't the vapid giggling he heard other girls do, whether it was maids or society girls. She threw her head back and laughed clearly with an almost bell-like tone that left him in nothing short of awe. The only other person who he'd ever heard laugh like that was his brother. He felt himself smiling, almost against his will, and asking in a puzzled tone "Excuse me?"
She smiled encouragingly at him. "It was nice meetin' ya...Alexandah."
He was admittedly amazed at how she said that without sounding mocking or bored or even nervous. She sounded...friendly. Nice. Normal. Who was he kidding? This girl wouldn't be his friend. It wouldn't work. It couldn't. But...what if it did? He hesitated. "It was my pleasure," he replied after a second, feeling more than a little awkward.
She smiled again, a bit more shyly this time. "I should go back to the kitchens," she told him, tucking a dark curl behind her ear and hoisted herself up.
She had nice ears, Alex noted absently as he waved her good-bye. He paused in surprise. "Where did that come from?" he wondered, shaking his head at the oddness of the thought. Who cared about ears, for goodness sake? Hopefully these unusual thoughts were to be an occasional thing. He sighed, leaning into the stiff back of the chair, igorning the uncomfortable feeling of his shoulder blades pressed against the wood. This "friend" thing was harder than it looked. He frowned in thought. Were they friends?
They had talked briefly, and introduced themselves (more or less), but did that count as friendship? Alexander somehow doubted it. But...maybe. And maybe was all it took.
Stay tuned! More to come!
