Chapter Text
In his mothers eyes, he's a good for nothing, skipping schools only to be skipping stones by the coast, a dozen kilometres out by bus and feet. His teachers, almost too glad to have one less unpredictable highschooler to deal with when he finally simply, disappeared from their classes.
It was a rainy night when he'd decided to confess to their mother. The splattering of raindrops on the windows, seemed extra loud with the clinking of silent spoons and ceramic bowls. A single light flickered above the two of them. Tonight, they're having stew and bread.
*"Mom."* It was when Roulx had still called her mom.
*"Do not talk when you're chewing. It's basic manners."* She bites back, there were still food in her jaws. Salted boiled potatoes, its rough skins stuck between the gaps of Roulx's teeth. And for a few minutes more, he'd found himself hesitating. What were his words, stuffed back into his throat. The food never looked less appetising, his spoon held against the inside of the bowl, stirring, watching the ripples made in the grey stew.
It's not as if Ms Rhymer doesn't know about Roulx's behaviours in school. But no matter how many times she'd lecture him, tell him all about what his future may be. He'd simply do it again tomorrow. Not even a word of rebuttal. The exact same way. She's confused, she's frustrated, but she isn't the kind of person to give up. No, she'd look for other ways. That'd lead to Roulx changing schools, further and further away from its hometown. This, is his eighth one. She was only glad, glad that he was no longer coming back with wounds that she couldn't fix, with broken hearts that he'd not give any explanations for.
It's not that she doesn't know, or was oblivious to the fact. This mother knows how much her son distrusts her. Finding little coins and scraps of papers torn and thrown into the rubbish bin. When intricately placed back together, by hands as coarse as the throats of street singers. She reads words that are no longer legible, words that were no longer the ones belonging to the Roulx she knows. Behind her blurry tears, her face held taut, she'd tear the paper apart again, this time with her own hands.
*"Wha-at if I'd, went away, one day?"* Carefully, he chose his words. A stutter in the what, formed by the pulsating pressure in his chest.
*"What do you mean? Like you going away for a trip?"*
She questioned back with the same sharpness, that's held night after night in her gaze. To Roulx, it reminded him of the judgemental glances that the cops would throw at him when he's out by the roads during school hours and days.
*"Y-Yes. "* It's practically the same, it thought. Disappearing, travelling away from home. On the surface, for her, they *are* practically the same.
The air was slow, she audibly breathed as she took another sip of the stew. It's cold out, but it isn't freezing. Roulx wears two layers of shirt and another flannel draped over his shoulders.
*"Does it matter what I think?"* She'd uttered. Her dark brown hair fell like curtains over her ears, her eyes yet constantly pinned downwards on the cooling food as she took another bite out her bread. *"If you've already decided on doing it, does it really matter how I feel?"*
Roulx looks up, a thinly veiled look of confusion pales its already pale face. *"I guess not."* At the same, it's no wonder that they're mother and son. He looks down to his own food as well.
It's from this moment on, that their relationship had changed. No longer was Ms Rhymer that strict guardian. No longer was she pestering him as if he was still another child to be protected. It was exactly what it'd looked like. And she had given up on him.
GOOD FOR HER. Because for Roulx, it's nothing less than a good news. When your own mother, has decided that she has given up on you. It means no more glares as you'd head out with a light, near empty backpack; no glares when you'd head out with a full backpack even. But just sometimes, she'd just glance at you with a pensive gaze that you can't quite decipher.
And as the nights became more and more silent. So his operations began. Packing away at his stuff, he yet still keeps a careful look and eyes on the lady that no longer cares.
A week in to this stand off, he had found a job.
Further out, more North in the country. It was a place far, far away from mother, it was a place far, and further away from his own memories.
With a very good pay and even better time off, paid living space and food included as well on the job. A large space with the wisp of nature in its large outside garden. The space was open for a personal butler to take care of one of their and all of Roulx's qualifications matched up.
Which really wasn't much.
So it was little more than another day, a day after that , Roulx marching around his bedroom with a plan slowly forming in his mind.
In an ecstatic energy, hopeful for his new life, running away for longer, perhaps permanent. He scrambles around his small room, picking out posters and pamphlets stuck under the roof of drawers and sorting them into piles. One for the ones he likes, one for the ones that are of the most essential for him to bring, and one for the ones that he doesn't like.
And for the pile that he thinks are essential for him to have (a measly five), he folds them up carefully, placing them into the inner pockets, the ones that will be closest to his back when carried. He likes that thought, even though these choices are made off of the emotional side rather than the logical, the logical side decided to let this slip. After all, he thinks, emotions are what gives him the most energy.
The walls are bare, just like they've always been. But somehow, it feels emptier with all his hidden stuffs revealed. For himself to revel in the little things that he'd picked up in his dozens of expeditions. The translucent green seaglass hidden in a little paper bag, clattering in the paper that would be so sure to attract the attention of his mother.
Sounds of church bells echo through the streets, as clock chimes 12 in the night.
His movements still in time, there's no other voices or steps made by people around these times. School students that have to prepare for school, one that he had already discontinued. His many uniforms hang in his shelves, untouched, even tidy. Those, weren't organised by his mother. He organised them, a part of his collection.
And rest was none important, for whatever he'd packed, just luggage in his unending story. In such a young teenager's mind, where his imagination runs rampant and wild, the feeling of the winds blowing, flowing past his cheeks as he goes to catch the earliest trains at 5AM.
So his shoes heels would grind, against the gravel grounds in front of the steps of the station. With his pocket money - perhaps some that weren't his pocket money, stolen - he leans over the ticket station, paying in fucking pounds and shit. Because he is a responsible customer of the UK train system. And as a responsible train user. As per the extremely useful experiences of having rode trains before in his days, because moving is unsurprisingly more easy and simple when one moves by the trains system.
He packs his bags nicely, saying excuse me when passing by other passengers. Purchasing tickets by his coins and holding onto them well and polite for when the ticket inspector comes around. Going: "Here is my ticket."
And a gentle nod when he responds "Thank you sir."
Though it's ought to be strange. What's a boy like him to travel alone *and* not be suspected?
How tall must one stand? How many wrinkles on their forehead? Or even just how much money have they got to pay to be known as one to not fuck with.
The entirety of his stock and fill was emptied into his pouch and pockets. Weighing heavy, his thoughts raced with excitement as he envisioned the possibilities, the new life that he'll lead with freedom. Gazing out the window of his seat, the blue skies that meets the dull yellow by the autumn countryside are framed by the scratched oak window frames. His carriage rides emptier as more people are getting off at their stops, he looks to each the stations' signage, despite knowing that his stop is one of the very last.
It smells of smoke and leather in the train. One that Roulx had yet to get used to. His mother usually liked the smell of flowers and ink. Which, recalling now, he connects that the smell of ink seems to be in the same scent category as the smell of the leather that he's smelling. Which in itself, perhaps isn't leather at all, maybe the polish.
That's what gives it the whole, brown gloss. That's what makes it not feel like wood. It's the fancy rich feeling, it's what he would need to watch out, take a towel and wipe the dust away...
He runs a hand over the smooth timber walls, polished in a dark gloss. Feeling at the thinner parts, where the dull pale colours of the timber would barely show through the translucent glaze. There were ridges and little bumps there, so he ran his hand over them again, and again.
Where he had taken his attention away for what seemed like only minutes. Another conductor had came abroad again, shouting the station's name. "-Departing in 7 minutes!" That Roulx realises this is the station that he should be getting off.
Swiftly with "excuse me!"-s And standing on the benches, he'd get his luggage down without trouble.
Making his way out the train and out the station that enveloped one side of it, where the other sat dormant with not another to this station till another week.
Leaves rotted, piling by where the stone staircases connected with the ground beneath. There were people walking by, few by how the streets laid dormant and uncleaned, with trashbags piling by the streetside behind overfilled bins. But what laid much more prominent, were there a few houes with sofas, tables, cabinets and bedframes out their front. An incredibly strange sight to see that it's almost as the town had became a ghost town overnight. Not that Roulx knows what it looked like
Under the guise of the sunset, he'd seek around the block for signages rather than people. His social anxiety had always forbid him from even asking people for help, even now at the most mundane things like directions.
And so, as he looked around further for signages. The windows of several houses were sealed shut, some that were even barricaded with wooden planks. Nails to walls from the inside out. Wooden crosses of depictions of the crucified Jesus Christ hung out the front, seemingly to ward off others. He wouldn't know of who the people that they were trying to ward off are, but the damaged flyers and few posters gave him a clue. Newspapers with fearmongering titles glued to the front of a convenience store.
VAMPIRIC LIKE SERIAL KILLER UNFOUND
Blood stains and red carpeted glamour? Perhaps what you're seeing is not a drag show or a regal celebration, but the blood flowing into your visions and the red velvet suits of vampires.
On last week Wednesday, we unfortunately grieved the death of the Butcher's wife's bloody death on Nickle Av. That there gathered hundreds and Flowers were given to her family and helped them to understand more defensive measures. The town's police department were notified of her death immediately after her corpse being discovered in the bloody puddleing in the store's kitchen.
She died a horrific death with wounds all over her body. With the majority being from blunt wounds to her body. But from the forensic person in the team, she was determined to have actually died from bloodloss, prior to the deceptive blunt wounds that left her a mess on the grounds.
The convenience store, although its shoddy glass doors were open, there were no one inside. An empty counter with no one that guards behind it. Seemingly one could just take anything from it.
A cold air grazes down his back as he stepped into the store. Shelves that had its items pulled clean off and away from its hinges and knicknacks. There wasn't a way that they could've brought out all the stocks. So the items that spat on the ground in messes made more sense.
Roulx looked around the ruin. Finding a torch and batteries. He found a walking cane as well, toying it around with a fun vigour, that died down realising that it's only gonna be dead weight for his active legs.
So with the items that he got in the dead and gloomy silence, he waved goodbye to the empty cashier counter before embarking towards his destination again, now in the dark of night.
A pack of crows flew over head, cawing for the stars.