Jack's place..

[correctiveshoes621]

*Three days prior*

It was an enormous sleeping monolith in the warehouse district; the outside, mainly dull orange brick..and a patchwork of rusted corrugated metal along the bottom. What windows weren't boarded over, were filled in with piecemeal sheets of cardboard and scavenged drywall. Down the narrow alleyway, to the right of the long-padlocked loading-dock doors, and up three cement steps -- there was a heavy, grey metal door..the paint peeling leprously, and appearing -- for all intents and purposes -- to be boarded shut.

Looking around carefully, Jack slid the board on the door up and to the side, then pulled it open. With a small clunk, the board dropped back into place as he shut the door behind him..perpetuating the illusion of security. Inside, it appeared to be one large empty room where silence held sway. Once one's eyes adjusted to the dim light; dustmotes could be seen stirring in the thin pencilbeams of sunlight spilling in and onto the floor, which was covered in castoff office debris and garbage. A lone filing cabinet stood off to the right, against the wall, looking absurdly lonely and out of place.

Jack stepped briskly through the flotsam, hardly noticing as he picked his way, until he reached a hallway that led to a flight of stairs. Up they went, his steps echoing on the metal; leading to a room to the left that also appeared to be chained and padlocked shut. With a well-practiced jiggle and twist of the wrist, the padlock opened and the chain fell, clinking softly.

The door swung open, and Jack was home.

Compared to the rest of the building, it was shockingly neat..near-monastic. The room had one solitary window, with a board on the inside that could be lifted and swung aside to let in light and air. Feeling his way confidently, Jack went immediately to the window and opened it.

Light illuminated the room, showing its meager contents. On the floor against the right wall was a bare mattress, a single grey woolen army blanket folded neatly at its foot. There were two beige and navy brocade cushions at the head, obviously stolen from the Salvation Army, or the lobby of some hotel somewhere.

Next to the bed was a double stack of plastic milk crates, serving as a table. Across the top lay a stop sign, providing a novel tabletop which held a small blue glass plate. A half-burnt candle sat fat and cold upon it, with a book of matches near at hand. The candle smelled of vanilla; and next to it was a tall drinking glass, the contents of which had long evaporated. A small transistor radio sat there, silent and waiting; its back was held together with silver duct tape, but at least it had a real antenna.

Underneath the signtop surface, the spaces of the empty sideways crates were filled with all manner of neatly stacked books and magazines. A cardboard box, proclaiming, "OreIda Fries" loudly across its side, sat next to the table. It was filled with various shirts and clothing, all appearing to be folded and sorted. A pair of dingy white socks were paired together on top.

On the deep windowsill were a few boxes of dry goods in a row..crackers and Poptarts, mostly. A cracked but clean ceramic bowl held a single banana. Next to that sat a half-empty plastic jug of spring water, and what was perhaps the saddest-looking spiderplant on earth. Swaying slowly from the opened board at the window was a brightly coloured chain of monkeys..from the child's game, 'Barrel 'O Monkeys'..God knows where he had found those...He liked them, though. Festive.

There was a small, ragged, navy blue bathroom mat in the center of the floor; attempting lamely to pass for an area rug, and failing completely.

Jack fished around in another box on the other side of the room, until he pulled out an ancient cigar box. This was the only thing worth taking, he thought, and he set it aside. The contents were for him alone, right now; his only treasures. He knew he had to come back for it after he caught up with Whitebread..he NEEDED his father's pocketwatch, man...and T would soon catch up with him. He NEEDED to be on his way, away from T and his boys..and it was only a matter of time now. He had no idea where he was running to, but he knew he could no longer stay here.

The one redeeming feature of the room, not that anyone had ever seen it..was the mural; if one could call it that. It spanned the wall nearly from floor to ceiling..in countless layers that had built up over years..Nightmarish in places and ethereal in others; it was splashed with violent color and faces and scrawls of text..

Here and there, eyes peered out..From between the trees of what had begun as a magickal forest, populated with faeries and elves and a striking unicorn...From amongst the weeds and roses of a fading, overgrown garden; the dying flowers so realistically wilted, one could almost smell them....Interwoven in the clouds of a purple-blue sky that held a full moon encrusted with tiny bits of broken mirror that caught even the slightest bit of light in the room and skattered it...

..and near the far corner..In a golden patch of paint..there was the cemetary wall of Jack's youth. More like a castle than a wall, it was covered in dark, shining ivy and was Jack's only self-portrait of sorts. High atop the wall he sat; and next to him was Sean..smiling and sunlit, arms around each other..their faces so painstakingly, lovingly rendered it was uncanny.

Inbetween and wound all through, there were words. Phrases, snatches of poetry, names and dates. Each one, a milestone; each one a part of Jack's history. Some were single sentences..others, paragraphs-long, and rambling..

Over the seven years that Jack had lived here in peace, the work had grown; beginning with the few drunk and angry spray-painted epithets and anarchy symbols whose edges still dripped and showed from underneath his more lofty attempts to define his environment. Over the years, his supply of materials had both grown and dwindled..ebbed and flowed. Just as he had as a child, Jack once more treated them with reverent care. No longer tossing them in a pile as he had done when he first arrived there, bitter and rage-filled; he stored them in a nicked wire shopping basket that he could hang on his arm while he worked.

As he paused and looked around, he once again wished he could photograph it..take it with him, somehow. Yeah, right. No time for that now, he thought..or maybe ever.

So, it was Goodbye, old friends..Goodbye, quiet life...Goodbye, Jack.

He rushed out the door; locking the padlock, and his story..behind him.