Chapter Text
When I was first taken to Miss Peregrine's, there were already three people there: Fiona, Hugh, and Enoch.
I'd been disappearing for my entire life. My face went last. People had forgotten my hair, my hands, and the last thing they forgot were my eyes. They forgot everything about me, except my voice. Until Miss Peregrine found me.
Of course, she didn't know what I looked like, she didn't care to find out. I was peculiar, and she felt the need to protect me. She did need to - I was alone. Scared. Eight years old. My entire family had died or left, you see - my father had had a heart attack when he first realised I was fading, at three years old. My sisters had ran away, terrified of what I was becoming. My mother had died to her own hand. I'd woken up that day thinking it was going to be fine, a good day, even, but my face was the only thing left of me. The poor woman couldn't bear living in a world where she couldn't see her son growing up. After my lunch had been taken, I'd found her in our bath, half swollen pills in her mouth making what seemed to be a faux foam, and a knife in her hand, having torn open her ribcage and stomach. There was a note, on the toilet lid, left to me. A suicide note. I was too afraid to cry - I didn't want the tear streaks rubbing my face away. I'm almost certain the world heard my howl that day. At times, I think I never stopped. To howl for her, for my mother who took care of me for so long even when everyone else left, for my only true friend at that point. The week after that, I'd stayed with a friend of mine, Malcolm. His family had already known what I was, had already known that I was a freak. They knew and tolerated me. That was it. When Miss Peregrine came, his parents had gladly handed me over - they didn't want to take care of a boy they couldn't even see. Malcolm and I hugged one last time, and he sobbed, so hard my shirt was wet in multiple spots. I couldn't. I wouldn't allow myself. That night I howled again. I was eight years old, and alone, and scared.
And then Enoch came into my room. He had an accent, from East London as I'd come to learn. He was eight as well, and he'd been there for months, since he was seven. He tried consoling me, saying it was alright and I'd forget everyone anyway so why should I bother wondering if they remembered me? I stared at him. Enoch sighed then, and pulled out a heart and multiple little clay men - and I'd watched in mixed wonder and horror as he'd brought them to life, a laugh tearing itself from deep in my chest. He looked at me expectantly, his deep grey-blue eyes sparkling in the shade. I decided I liked him.