I've got nothing left || just an empty heart
‘What exactly is that?’
School. Monday. Eton is being a jerk, of course.
But not just Eton. Patience is with him too, sitting as close to him on the bench as she possibly can without being right on his lap. Next to Patience, Jeremy Nobel and next to him, Nicholas Boucher.
‘What’s what?’ says Jeremy, playing along as usual. As if he can’t see, as if he doesn’t know.
‘That thing!’ Eton raises his forefinger and points at a boy, a kid, probably eleven-years-old (which happens to be a good seven years young than Jack Eton) with blonde hair.
It’s not the blonde part that’s funny; it’s not the blonde part that sometimes makes Eton call this kid “Mop-Head”. It’s the fact that this kid’s hair is not either straight or curly… it’s a mixture of both. The kid’s parents (when they actually bother to be at home) say his hair is “cute”. His parents, however, are severely deluded.
‘Ew,’ says Patience, her eyes following Eton’s forefinger. ‘Which zoo did that thing escape from?’
Mop-Head’s eyes are a strange, bluish-green (Eton insists this color is the exact color of sewage), warranting another clever name thought up by Jack Eton. I’d mention it here, but I’d have to censor it anyway so there’s no point. Mop-Head’s parents feel that his eyes are “attractive”. But we know that Mop-Head’s parents are certifiably insane. Once, back in the first-grade, a girl (Yes! A girl!), told Mop-Head his eyes were “lovely”. Her judgment can’t be trusted though, since she was only interested in his crayons (which, being much more naïve at six than he is at eleven, he gave her).
‘The Cockney Zoo!’ says Eton. His cronies roar with laughter.
Mop-Head is not a Cockney. Mop-Head just knows a few Cockney kids. He’s not even sure if those Cockney kids like him. I should know. I’m Mop-Head.
‘Conner O’Brien,
Lives in a zoo.
Looks like a monkey,
And smells like one too!’
Original. Very original. I hurry past them, past the group of laughing, giggling hyenas. The school hallways are mostly empty. The bell hasn’t rung yet so the students are still outside playing, talking or bullying, so I amble along.
Mum and Dad weren’t home yesterday “ surprisingly. Told you they’re certifiably insane. And Cedrick had left punctually: as soon as he had awoken from his drunken slumber. So until five yesterday afternoon, I had the house to myself. I did a bit of cleaning “ took a shower and washed my clothes and patched up a few cuts “ and then wondered how to cover my bruises. The ones on my arms and legs were easy enough. With the kind of weather we’ve been having this September, the only kinds of clothes we can wear outside are long, think pants and long-sleeved shirts and jumpers. Usually with a large coat added on for insurance. Though it’s only September, it’s been extremely cold. We get freezing rain and loud thunderstorms almost every other day and snow on the days it doesn’t rain. It’s baffled the weathermen to say the least, not only because this is not the time for such harsh weather, but because London is the only place in Europe getting such weather. Travel to the next city and you might be able to feel the effects of the London weather “ cold winds, a bit of rain “ but not much besides that. Head farther away from London and the weather returns to normal: a bit chilly on some days, but on the whole, quite warm.
There was only one really big, purple-black bruise on my face to worry about, sitting right above my right eyebrow. On the whole, I think Eton and Patience avoided my head. In then end, I couldn’t think of a way to hide it and told Mum and Dad (when they returned home) that I fell down the stairs. They believed me.
I don’t know how…
There are no stairs in our house. Probably, they weren’t even listening to my explanation. Didn’t care where I had gotten the bruise. Typical. I should be used to it by now.
I slip into my classroom the second the first bell rings. There’s only one student sitting at his desk right now: Dimitri. He grins when he sees me and says, pointing at my forehead and the bruise, ‘Where can I get one of those?’
I have to laugh.
School passes in a flurry of creative writing essays, maths tests and science experiments. Before I know it the final bell has rung and it’s time to go home, something I’m not looking forward to.
Outside its freezing. I should have expected it, should have pulled my coat on inside, but I didn’t. So I drop my bag now, pause on the gravel path that leads to the gate and stick my arms into my jacket. Just as I pick my bag up again, I spot Dimitri. He’s quite a bit ahead of me, near the bench Eton and his cronies had occupied in the morning. They’re sitting on it again, now. Eton’s caught sight of Dimitri.
As Dimitri ambles past the bench, Eton jumps up from his seat and grabs the back of the boy’s shirt. ‘What are you doing here, freak?’
‘Attending school,’ says Dimitri coolly, turning around and freeing his coat in the process. Eton grabs his lapels instead.
‘What does a Cockney bastard need to come to school for? Can’t your buddies teach you?’ Eton sneers.
‘Well. The kids all say that you’re a bloody murder-happy idiot, Jack Eton, but I never really believed them. Now I do.’ A few kids near me laugh and I can’t help a small smile. Seeing someone mouth off to Eton is a pleasant change.
Eton doesn’t return the insult. He seems to have found another meaning to Dimitri’s words. His face contracts as if someone’s slapped him and his eyes grow stormy. Even at a distance, I can see the change. My heart skips a beat “ I don’t like the look on Eton’s face. Suddenly, he looks literally like a wild animal. He releases his hold on Dimitri and smiles a sickening smile down at him. Dimitri looks wary.
‘Who told you that, my friend?’ asks Eton.
One of Dimitri’s eyebrows shoots up. He obviously had made the “bloody murder-happy idiot” thing up. No one told him. What is Eton on about?
When Dimitri doesn’t answer, Eton’s eyes start to bug out of his skull, his smile disappears and he grabs Dimitri’s coat lapels again. ‘WHO TOLD YOU?!’ he roars into Dimitri’s face. Dimitri’s scared now too. He shakes his head frantically, but this time, Eton doesn’t seem to care that his victim has no answer. He pushes Dimitri away from him forcefully, causing him to stumble backwards and land hard on his rear. Eton turns away, searches the crowd of students that has formed in the school courtyard.
By instinct, I start to shrink away, but it’s way too late. Eton’s eyes are attracted to mine like magnets. As soon as he catches sight of me, a wide, insane grin spreads on his face. He strides over to me. I want to run, leap away, go back into the school building, anything?, but my legs just won’t listen. I back away, back away until I hit the school’s brick wall. Behind Eton, Dimitri is getting up, his eyes wide and scared. He tries to move forward, but Jeremy is quick to act, and trips him before he can take even two steps.
And then Eton is upon me. Like a lion upon it’s prey.
‘DID YOU TELL HIM THAT?’ he screams, spit flying from his mouth. He grabs my shoulders, shakes me like a doll. ‘DID YOU?!’
No, I didn’t you bastard! I want to say, but all that comes out of my mouth is, ‘N-n-n-no”’
And suddenly Eton’s voice has gone all quiet, something that is, even more frightening than the yelling. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget you little creep. Tonight. 8 PM. Gibbets Alley. Understand?’
No, you freak, I’m done doing what you say!
‘UNDERSTAND?’
‘I nod quickly. ‘Yes, yes, I understand!’
Everyone knows Gibbets Alley. Everyone who lives in the East End anyway. Ironic that I should be going to be taught a lesson there.
Not too long ago, Gibbets Alley was a “lesson” for the peasants of the London. A warning. Well, look at the name of the place “ what do you think happened there? Even now there are a few old gallows hidden away in the dark corners of the alley, the alley that is more of a large abandoned square than anything else.
I’m not on time. I’m not punctual. Maybe I don’t say what I want to Eton’s face… maybe I don’t stand up for myself… but as long as Eton’s not around, I can do what I like. I take my jolly good time getting to Gibbets Alley, imagining Eton standing in the square, alone, glancing around at the gallows, shivering… calling for his mummy… okay, maybe the last bit is somewhat far-fetched. But still. It’s a happy thought.
The night is unusually dark and still. The moon has set early and the cloud covering is hiding the stars from view. It’s not raining yet, or snowing, but in a few hours, it very well could be. A war plane flies just below the clouds. I wonder, not for the first time, what it’s doing. England isn’t at war with anyone, but recently many war planes have been seen flying to unknown destinations. What is the government not telling us?
Close by, an owl hoots dolefully. I pause, hands deep in my pockets, to see if I can spot the bird “ there it is… in a large tree on my left. A snowy white owl… strange… I’ve never seen one like that before. I wonder if it’s native. It hoots again and blinks at me with mournful amber eyes. I turn away quickly “ something about that bird doesn’t feel right.
Are owls an omen of danger, by any chance? Maybe Eton’s going to have a go at killing me tonight “ I honestly wouldn’t put it past him. He has a wicked reputation. Wicked, bad, not wicked, good. Parents like to tell their kids, ‘Be good or Jack will get you!’ Now, is the Jack they’re referring to Jack Eton or Jack the Ripper? I like to think of it as the former “ anyway, why in the world would Jack the Ripper “get” kids?
To get to Gibbets Alley, you have to turn right on St. Denis. I turn left. Here the street is brighter, with a few more light poles, but extremely crowded. The small houses are squeezed together like sardines in a tin. Lights are lit in windows and the sounds of chatter drift outside. I wonder what it would be like to be safe at home right now, perhaps enjoying dinner with my parents, talking about school and other things, a fire lit in the fireplace. I wonder what it’s like to have decent parents who actually try to come home on time and be with their only kid “ who actually make an effort to show their kid they want him and like him, even if they don’t. I wonder why this is happening to me.
And I wonder what Nicholas Boucher is doing walking up to me with a glare… oh.
‘Where have you been, twerp?’ he growls as soon as he’s within earshot.
‘Er…’
‘It’s nine o’clock! Why aren’t you at Gibbets Alley? Do you have a death wish or something?’ He grabs my arm and forces me to turn around, back the way I came.
‘If I were actually on my way to Gibbets Alley, then you could say I have a death wish.
‘Don’t be a fool. The later you get, the angrier Jack’s going to be and the worse it’ll be for you. If you had any sense, you’d have been there at five to eight.’ He’s dragging me forward, towards Gibbets Alley. Well, not really dragging, since I’m not putting up much of a fight. The fact that I’m having a reasonably sane conversation with one of Eton’s (many) cronies and that I have not yet been punched or kicked, is a little shocking.
‘What’s going to happen?’ I ask suddenly.
Nicholas Boucher just shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. Then he says, ‘I don’t know “ I really don’t. Jack’s off his rocker.’
‘You just noticed?’ I grumble.
For a while we just walk, him, muttering under his breath, me, silent. We reach Gibbets Alley in about twenty minutes. Eton’s waiting there for us, his arms folded across his chest, that freaky smile back on his face. Now I realize something “ his smile isn’t one of a wild animal who knows its prey has nowhere to run and no place to hide… Eton’s smile is evil. Evil. Really, truly evil. Something only described in books, something moviemakers try to reproduce. Something I’ve never realized actually exists in the real world, in our world.
‘Welcome,’ says Eton. Nicholas shoves me forward into the center of the square, where Eton is standing, and then melts into the shadows near one of the rotting, wooden gallows. I just stand there, a few feet away from Eton. Even if I wanted to try and run, now, after so many encounters with Eton, after having been caught and beaten up only the night before last, I wouldn’t be able to. Though they stand in the shadows, I can see Patience and Jeremy flanking one entrance to the square, Nicholas and another one of Eton’s friend, Darren, flanking the other. I’m pretty much trapped.
Eton walks up to me, slings an arm around my shoulders. I flinch instinctively, something that makes Eton happy. He forces me forward and points elegantly at a small, raised bit of land against a wall of Gibbets Alley. It’s small, compared to the size of the square, but rather large on its own. Eton, who looks to be a bit taller than six feet, could easily lie down on it, any which way he chose, with a lot of room remaining above his head and below his feet. Laid on the slope of the hill parallel to (but not attached to) the wall is a wooden double-door with rusted iron handles. A small window is attached to the mini-hill as well, on the left slope.
After staring at it a moment, I realize what I’m looking at. A cellar, with the building over it removed. Perhaps there was a garden shed on top once.
‘You’re going to be spending the night in there,’ says Eton, bringing me back to reality.
Nicholas has come away from his post at the entrance and has pulled open the cellar door. Even with my heart thrashing around inside my rib-cage, I notice the odd look on his face. Nicholas’s eyebrows are locked together and his mouth is twitching strangely. My heart gives an extra lurch in my chest at Eton’s words. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Excused!’ says Eton. Suddenly his hands are on my back. He gives an almighty shove and I pitch forward, right into the open cellar. The door slams shut behind me, I spring to me feet, stairs creak ominously under me. ‘HEY!’ I cry out and bang on the door, bang with all my might. I can hear laughter on the other side. Idiots! Idiots! I hate them!
‘LET ME OUT!’ I roar, my fists slamming into the wood, splinters from the old door slicing into my hand. For a moment I think I’ve got it, that the door’s about to open, but then I hear Eton yelling out something.
‘Oy! Jeremy! Get over here, sit on this with me. The kid’s stronger than he looks!’
I ram my shoulder into the wood, but it’s useless. I can’t shift a door with two eighteen-year-olds on it. I bang my head against the door, desperately, hopelessly. And then I feel it.
Even through the thick wood I can feel it, the biting cold that has suddenly spread outside. The lightly chilly night has suddenly become freezing. Even in the dark cellar, even with my coat on, goose bumps erupt on my arms and I’m suddenly shivering. Outside, I hear Jeremy give a shrill, squeaky yell. The weight on the cellar door suddenly vanishes and I can hear receding footsteps mingled with shouts.
But I don’t push open the door. Instead, teeth chattering, I back away slowly, I’ll take whatever is in this cellar before I take the creature outside, the creature that spreads this cold, this horrific feeling. I step back “ and fall down the stairs. Fall down, down, down, into the deep cellar, into the large room, filled with a strange, unearthly light, blue and shining and shimmering, as if I’ve slipped underwater. I stand, glance around, blink to focus and walk around a wooden box. My breath catches in my throat.
I’m not alone.
There, behind boxes and tea chests and trunks, sits a figure, cloaked in something black, head down, curled into a small ball. I cry out, stumble backwards, afraid that the creature outside has somehow made it into the cellar without my knowing.
And then he looks up. For a moment, a split second, his blue eyes meet mine.
The entire room seems to get suddenly darker. His eyes are filled with furious fire. I back away further.
‘Enough!’ rasps the “ the man, the thing, the creature. And suddenly he stands, grows right before my eyes. Behind me the cellar door is banging and shaking, flying open and slamming shut, again and again. The window glass rattles frantically in its pane. ‘OUT!’ he roars and I stagger back, fall over a chest.
“NOW!’ he bellows and, as if I’m in the middle of a horrible nightmare, something explodes out from behind him, something huge, monstrous.
‘GET OUT!’ he screams and I jump to my feet, race up the stairs. The door flies open at my touch; I fall out of it, back up to the surface. The wooden, rickety, momentarily-possessed door bangs shut behind me and remains shut. I grab a piece of wood sitting nearby, jam it in the handles, locking the door, and slump to the square floor.
My chest is heaving and screams echo in my ears.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl lets out a long, low hoot.
A/N: I'd love some reviews!