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Oct. 11th, 2018 11:20 pmIt was late, which was not uncommon for Billy Rocks, when he came home from his shift. He was dog tired and drifting, which was also not uncommon after such long shifts, and so when he rolled into the Bramford and found the elevator was, once again, out of order, he swore in a way that would have impressed some sailors.
He was getting spoiled in Darrow. But ten floors up with no elevator when he was exhausted seemed some sort of punishment for a crime he hadn't committed. Still, there was nothing for it. Who knew when they'd have the elevator back in commission?
He grumbled as he started into the stairwell, but the rhythm of climbing the stairs became a good cadence, the pulse of a living beat, the quiet methodical repetition as he wound up through the body of the building.
It was in this way that he saw him. Billy was blinking distraction and exhaustion out of his eye, and when he looked up from rubbing at them, clearing a flash of light out of the whole line of his vision, he saw him. A boy, about seventeen, dressed in all the neat trappings a boy would wear in the 1860s. Billy's breath caught in his chest. He had seen the boy in his dreams, his neatly combed brown hair and kind blue eyes, for years.
"Elias--"
The boy turned, and Billy flinched on the stairs. There was the sign where the bullet had left his body, on that crisp winters morning, before snow had really come to the Pacific Northwest. Billy remembered holding Elias after he'd shot him, startled by this violence for a boy he cared about, for a boy he hadn't wanted to hurt. He remembered that the life had already been out of his eyes--not like Elias's parents, who had bled and suffered because Billy needed that vindication in his rage.
He hurried up the stairs, chased after the apparition, calling his name again. Then he turned a corner on the stairwell, and Elias was gone as if he had never been there in the first place. Billy was left with a sick tangy smell of copper and sulfur in the air, the smell that had been on his clothes even after he'd washed them that night, before he ran.
He held it together the rest of the way up the stairs, all the way to the apartment. But it rushed at him as he stepped inside and locked the door. Sick hurried up his throat, and he ran for the kitchen sick, spitting and retching, running the tap to drown out the noise and wash it away.
He was getting spoiled in Darrow. But ten floors up with no elevator when he was exhausted seemed some sort of punishment for a crime he hadn't committed. Still, there was nothing for it. Who knew when they'd have the elevator back in commission?
He grumbled as he started into the stairwell, but the rhythm of climbing the stairs became a good cadence, the pulse of a living beat, the quiet methodical repetition as he wound up through the body of the building.
It was in this way that he saw him. Billy was blinking distraction and exhaustion out of his eye, and when he looked up from rubbing at them, clearing a flash of light out of the whole line of his vision, he saw him. A boy, about seventeen, dressed in all the neat trappings a boy would wear in the 1860s. Billy's breath caught in his chest. He had seen the boy in his dreams, his neatly combed brown hair and kind blue eyes, for years.
"Elias--"
The boy turned, and Billy flinched on the stairs. There was the sign where the bullet had left his body, on that crisp winters morning, before snow had really come to the Pacific Northwest. Billy remembered holding Elias after he'd shot him, startled by this violence for a boy he cared about, for a boy he hadn't wanted to hurt. He remembered that the life had already been out of his eyes--not like Elias's parents, who had bled and suffered because Billy needed that vindication in his rage.
He hurried up the stairs, chased after the apparition, calling his name again. Then he turned a corner on the stairwell, and Elias was gone as if he had never been there in the first place. Billy was left with a sick tangy smell of copper and sulfur in the air, the smell that had been on his clothes even after he'd washed them that night, before he ran.
He held it together the rest of the way up the stairs, all the way to the apartment. But it rushed at him as he stepped inside and locked the door. Sick hurried up his throat, and he ran for the kitchen sick, spitting and retching, running the tap to drown out the noise and wash it away.
