Member
Antlers
Pyrogue
Fish of Oblivion
Not a Sayan
NeziulMonday, September 8, 20XX
Upper Manhattan, 2:00 pm EST
The bag of five day old clothes crinkled as Nat opened the door. The sterile blue fog of the plastic did little to hide the blood smears on the fabric. Their own blood.
Their mom had driven across the state as soon as she had heard about what happened. Not that anyone really knew what happened. Nat had been too exhausted, and his family too stressed, to really absorb any of the information. The ride home from the hospital had been full of the usual doting and fretting from their mom. The first bite of solid food they had had in almost a week was a batch of chocolate oatmeal cookies. Nat hadn't had them in years.
Now, as Nat opened the door, the sounds of their home life trickled back to them. The TV was going, people were talking down the hall, someone was playing a video game. Music drifted around a corner, and the sound of cabinets and drawers opening and closing came from the kitchen.
“Full house...” they mutter to themself, not wanting to bring up how long it'd been since that had happened.
Nat's energy was spent. They shuffle off in borrowed clothes, through the front of their apartment to their bedroom. They make their usual responses to the typical “You're back” and “Look who it is” remarks. They give their sister a hug and whisper that they're fine and it's good to be home before slipping away and flopping into bed.
Several hours later...
The slam of a door jars Nat awake. They can't make out the voices at first, only that there's yelling.
“... going to leave when Nat just came home?”
“... ruining my life! ...”
'Mom and James were at it again, great...' Nat folds the pillow in half and covers their ears, trying to get back to sleep.
Sunday September 28, 20XX
Upper Manhattan, 11:30 pm EST
The light from the hallway shone into Nat's room as they sat awake, typing on their laptop. They had dozed off, and their door had been left open. James steps into the doorway, fully dressed, holding a bag. Nat stands and turns to him.
“I'll be gone for a while,” James says, taking a step into the room, “I'm going to rehab.”
Nat pauses. James had been in and out of rehab before, but never went on his own. A wave of relief washes over them. Maybe things would finally change for the better.
“That's good. Get better, and stay in touch, okay?” Nat replies.
“Yeah, I will,” James answers, “and here,” he adds, stuffing a crumpled five dollar bill into Nat's hand, “I'm gonna start paying you back for gas.”
They hug for a moment. It's a genuine hug, no one holding a stiff posture. When they release, they say their goodbyes, and James heads for the apartment door. Nat closes his laptop and turns off the light, before going to bed.
Monday September 29, 20XX
Upper Manhattan, 9:20 am EST
Nat opened their bedroom door. They were wearing a black polo and slacks, along with a hat bearing a bright logo that said 'Nick's Quick Pizza and Pasta'. Being open eighteen hours a day, many people had taken to calling it 'Late Night Nick's'. Nat was a delivery driver- one of the few benefits of having grown up in Wisconsin is that they already had a driver's license.
As they walked down the hall, they recognized Bethany's voice, and his father's. Nat slipped into the kitchen with a smile, looking to snag a protein bar.
“Bethany, what are you doing here?” they ask.
“Just stopping by,” she answers.
“Have fun at work,” their dad adds with a wave.
Nat snatches up the crinkling purple wrapper and heads out the door, grabbing his jacket and water bottle on the way out. Stepping into a pair of slip resistant black shoes, they head out the door.
A few moments later, and they descend the front steps of the building. Nat walks down the road for a moment before sitting on the metal bench of a bus stop, as they had done countless times before. A moment later, and they noticed Bethany had followed after them, and was walking out of the building. She moved to take a seat on the bench. Nat slides to the side, placing their stuff on the ground, and bracing their hand casually on the edge of the bench.
The air was still. Nat turned to look at Bethany. Then the words came that changed everything forever.
“James died.”
Nat's hand clenched, causing the metal edge of the bench to fold inward. Bethany's tone was flat, almost cold, and left no room for denial. Nat's face went red as tears began to streak down it.
Needless to say, they didn't go to work that day.
Saturday, October 4th, 20XX
Upper Manhattan, 6:00 pm EST
One month after the Recluse Incident
Nat pulled on a drab greenish-brown hoodie, a pair of dull yellow sweats, some old goggles- things they wouldn't mind getting rid of. Old thin winter gloves that had started to fray and an old scarf completed the look. It was warm, but Nat didn't care. Right now, they just couldn't let anyone recognize them.
They had spent about twenty minutes to an hour clinging to the wall of their apartment building, building up their nerve. Now, they were crawling through alleys, swinging down into shadows, scaling walls. On the prowl.
