Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (5 page)

Lying
must be a habit.

And
when that voice became 3D he kept it a secret, wanting to keep the
burden from his mother. She had enough to deal with as his father was
descending further into alcoholism. His eldest son—the only son
he liked—was gone, so he lost all care. Benji wasn't away at
college, or visiting Australia like he dreamed of doing. He was gone
and never coming back.

There
was no restrain keeping his father from guzzling pint after pint on
Sundays. Following his brother's death, he would stay out from
mid-day into the early hours of the next day. He wolfed down the
beef, roast potatoes, mash and stuffing just to get away quicker. He
slid the vegetables around the plate with his fork for five minutes
to pretend he wanted to be with them in the early days, but that
pretense is no more. His mother once left the vegetables off his
plate because she was sick of him playing with them. She received a
slap for her trouble.

Bobby
and his mum are now like those vegetables—the leftovers of his
life which he barely acknowledges, but wants to keep around all the
same.

Benjamin
Ames, his older brother, would be twenty-one this September. The
accident hadn't been his fault, and that knowledge is still difficult
to bare. It always will be.

He
pushes away the image of that fateful night—the paramedics
turning up and Benji still being alive at the scene. No matter how
many times he replays the event, they can do nothing.

“
Like
I told you before, I'm not going in there. If world peace depended on
me stepping foot in Benji's room, then it looks like there will be
one major world war.”

Gage
Denied—as he introduced himself all those years ago—cocks
his head. He regards him from beneath the hood with a smile creeping
over his lips. Not a smile that suggests he may crack into a happy
sing-song, but an unstable one full of desperation.

He
has been telling Bobby to go in there since the month leading up to
the exams, so Bobby can only guess he must be splitting on the inside
from the wait.

His
eyes are bloodshot for the first five minutes of coming here with
dried blood trailing over his cheeks. Then, they turn into gleaming
white orbs. He never tells Bobby why that is, or what he gets up to,
so Bobby has given up asking. But judging by the wear in his
non-label apparel and his shoes that have split to reveal his toes,
it must be exhausting.

“
You
know, I saw a pair like that go for twenty quid on
Ebay
the
other week. You should look into that.”

Gage
lays back on the grey and black quilt with his hands raised behind
his head for support. He is humming a familiar song from his trips
with the family on Sunday mornings to the car boot sales. It sounds
like
The Christians
, 'Ideal World'.

Logging
in, Bobby skim checks the notifications and friend requests. At least
one new request pops up each time he logs in, usually from a friend
of a friend wanting to read his poetry.

He
is an amateur poet, but writes nothing special that will ever get him
published in e-zines, or out in the real world. He isn't even sure of
the “rules” of poetry, or sometimes even the message he
is trying to get across. But that doesn't matter to him.

His
primary school teacher, Mr Powers, told him, “when dealing with
art, why let the rules restrict creativity?” That may have been
nine years in the past now, but he holds onto those words because
they made an impression.

Besides,
it is not an occupation but a hobby, or sometimes more like therapy.
Sometimes he works with structures and rhyme, but mostly his poems
spew from his subconscious, driven by a hand he has no control over.
Sometimes he swears he even blacks out completely during the process.

Many
underground poets are online. Most are eccentric, drifting by like
lost souls living for the pen with nowhere to go. Then, there are
those more well-established poets who like to stick to the rules.
Those, he dare say, are boring and he likes the least.

The
greatest treasures are those that transport him, not to another time
or place, but inside himself. The words that make him feel every
touch and every taste are the best. The poems that have desires,
however ghastly, and make him believe the dreams.

Sometimes
his eyes will glisten when reading other poets' words because they
are a door into their souls. Everything is bare—the anguish,
angst, love and hatred—every minor detail. And yet, it all
still appears to be a mystery. Is it all fiction, who knows? And that
is the best part of all. If the poet can make another believe it to
be non-fiction to the point they empathize in every line, then all
the better—they have done their job. Either way, they tag him
in their work and he reads them all with gusto, becoming entwined in
their world.

Most
of the poets on here are from backgrounds such as his, or not too far
different. They are all trying to find acceptance—not the type
that gets them attacked later when they turn their backs, but with
complete honesty.

The
bed next door croaks again, only louder this time. His father must be
attempting to find something half decent to wear.

Wonder
if he'll come in and pat me on the back.
Great
job on the tests, son!
Fat
chance of that happening.

In
the pit of his stomach, he finds he longs to hear those words, as
much as he hates himself for it.

His
father stumbles around, causing the drawer at the far side of the
room to rattle with each step. The door opens and the steps continue
on the landing before they come to a stop outside. He knows it isn't
his imagination, his father always stops outside Benji's room—he
often does the same thing. If he closes his eyes tight enough, he can
almost fool himself into believing the last three years never
happened. He can almost see Benji with his legs dangling over the
bed, listening to
Oasis,
or
The Charlatans
while
singing out of tune—something both he and his parents took for
granted.

When
the weight descends with a husky cough, Bobby's stomach uncoils.

If
his mother has started making dinner, will it decorate the walls of
the living room tonight? Or will his father opt for the pub before
his temper rears its ugly face?

Looking
at his slim and pasty teenage body, he can still see the faded grey
and yellow clouds still linger on his arms, courtesy of his father.
He doesn't make a habit of it though. Bobby isn't sure whether that's
in case somebody sees it, or if he simply doesn't care enough about
him to waste his energy. These are because he got in the way while
trying to protect his mother. Maybe one day he'll know why he is so
indifferent towards him, when he dotted on Benji.

There
isn't a day when he doesn't regret not intervening every time his
father gets handy with his fists, but there is little he can do. He
has been doing the weights Benji left and exercises he often saw him
doing. Yet, besides vague definition, he is still scrawny.

Danny
put his ten pence in telling him he needs to eat more to see the
effects. But besides scrounging a meal here and there, around Danny's
most nights, there is little hope of getting anywhere near what he
would like.

When
I get my own place, I will make sure the fridge is full and I've got
enough money to buy what I like.

He
has had enough of looking at a body that's nowhere close to rivalling
anyone any time soon, especially his father.

Opening
the built-in wardrobe, he shifts through to find a plain t-shirt and
slips it past his head.

The
computer chimes, accompanied by a pop-up box in the right corner of
the screen. The message poses more questions than answers as he
contemplates his response.

Am
I okay?

He
hasn't given it much thought. Part of his mind wants to vomit out all
his problems, including his GCSE.

Should
tell her his mother is not altogether there most of the time and
believes him to be a child in single digits? Does he say she comes
home with clothes for eight-year-olds and he has to hunt in the bin
to find the receipts?

Or
should he tell her his father is a serial cheat and alcoholic who he
lives in fear of every day? Or that his father makes his mum cry, and
he knows he can do nothing to prevent it? Or that he is afraid one
day there will be nothing he, or anyone can do to help her because he
has gone too far?

Does
he explain how his career is non-existent, and he still has no idea
what he will do, or even what he wants to do?

Plus,
he isn't too sure which way his sexuality swings. He's still a
virgin, but admires both sexes for different reasons. Maybe it's his
untapped hormones running wild, or the fact his dad has called him a
“dirty queer” enough times it is sinking in. Back at
school, the guys liked bragging about their conquests. But even if he
comes closer to that inevitable act happening, he cannot gain enough
definition worthy of attracting either sex. Or feel comfortable
enough in himself to do so, even if the nurse says his weight is
average for his height of 5”6.

Then,
there's Gage. According to the doctors, it is nothing more than his
stressful life. If Gage is a hallucination, then how can he trust
anything else his eyes see?

If
he allows his mind to wander the slightest bit, he will find plenty
more to feel self-pity for. And that would just be the stuff on the
surface.

Bobby
Ames: I'm great, thanks. You?

Her
name is Regina, or Reggie as she prefers, but she goes by the name
'Static Whisper' on here. It hadn't taken a lot of coaxing to get her
to reveal her real name. Bobby could tell it was a difficult decision
for her to make though, and she couldn't stress enough that it was to
be their little secret. But that was fine with him.

According
to her profile, she is twenty-four, single and from Coventry like
himself. She hasn't spoke of meeting up like many do on social sites.
In fact, she appears to be the opposite, even if her profile suggests
she has social needs. It may be the blue, wavy hair surrounding her
porcelain face that gave him that impression. Or maybe the eyelashes
clad with thick mascara, the lip liner thickening her pout, or the
accentuated beauty mark above upper lip. Or the short vests and low
cut tops he finds difficult not to stare at as a member of the male
population.

After
their last conversation, he believes he may know her better than her
pictures suggest. He penned a poem for her at her request, titled,
'The Beauty of Imperfection'.

Reggie
begged to read it, so he sent it her after explaining he based it on
observation, and for all he knows he could be wrong. After two
minutes—it seemed longer at the time—she replied by
spilling all her problems to him.

It
was nice, not to know she had problems, but because it was a relief.
It was a welcome break from his own life and troubled mind.

Reggie
was between wanting the world to like her and fearing being in the
company of anybody. It's a funny place to be in if you think about
it, but is understandable. She is insecure and suffering with anxiety
problems, so without considering it, he took it upon himself to help
her as far as his means would provide. His old teacher told him that
talking often did more good than anything.

Static
Whisper: Well, I've seen no helicopters today, or those red coat
people. So I guess that's good.

Also,
sometimes he forgets she sees things. Not the way a person struck
down by blindness can see colours and such, but one who sees things
nobody else can. She doesn't like to refer to them as hallucinations,
but 'the beyond'. She claims 'the beyond' is her passed lives
creeping into this one. She claims to have lived through World War
II, for one.