Chapter Text
Martin wanted to say he wasn’t happy about the move.
His friends had all told him they’d miss him, and his teachers had all given him that “I’m so proud to have been part of your education” spiel, but, honestly? There were too many memories back home. Spring River was a good place to start over. And, with his mum’s new job combined with school, he hopefully wouldn’t be seeing her too much anymore—though the thought made him instantly sick with guilt. She was his mother, for Christ’s sake. He shouldn’t want to be away from her.
But those were thoughts for another time.
Thoughts for a time when the ground wasn’t littered with boxes, when the only thing he had for a bed wasn’t an old air mattress with taped-up holes. And, he thought to himself as he felt a familiar ache in his stomach, a time when he wasn’t in need of something to eat after having been in a car for several hours.
He knew his mum didn’t start working until Monday, but he also knew she was a bit too busy unpacking and getting things in order to actually go to the store to buy anything—and certainly too busy to cook or order in. Hopefully, he thought, not too busy to give him a few pounds to buy food with. He thought he saw a run-down McDonald’s on the way here.
“Mum?” He asked tentatively as he left the room. He supposed he could call it his room, though it hardly felt like it. He’d never even slept in there, let alone lived there long enough to consider it his own.
His mother turned to him, shooting him a cold glare before motioning to the phone she was holding. Martin slammed his mouth shut and hurried back to the room, not wanting to try to mess with his mother while she was busy. He’d seen how that usually ended, and it was never pretty. Food could wait.
Instead, he rifled through his backpack, seeing if there was anything he could take out and actually put somewhere. His poetry notebook, though there wasn’t really a desk or a table in his room yet. An old stuffed dog that he’d kept beyond childhood—his school counsellor had said it helped with anxiety, though he still was afraid to show it to anyone—and, huh, that was strange. Carefully, he picked up what seemed to be a lighter—black, with a spider’s web pattern all over it.
It wasn’t his. He knew this for a fact. He had no use for a lighter, though he suddenly felt a sort of anxious relief, because what if it had flicked on and set his backpack alight? He quickly looked around for somewhere to hide it—his mum did not need to think he’d been smoking. He hurried to his closet, looking around for something that might obscure the strange item. To his surprise, he found it. In the back wall, hidden, yet unmistakable, was a door.
It was small—half Martin’s height, though he figured he could probably fit through it if he crawled on all fours—and didn’t have a knob. It was in the shape of a right trapezoid, and its hinges nearly touched the closest wall. Something about it felt a bit…spooky, for lack of a better term. Still, he figured wherever it led was probably a good place to keep the lighter hidden until he could dispose of it properly, so he pushed on the door to open it. To his frustration, it did not open.
It took him an embarrassing thirty seconds to realise it was, in fact, not locked, it was simply just a “pull” door. He grimaced, attempting to manoeuvre his fingers in the space between the door and the wall. Thankfully, there was space enough for his nails to get a hold of the side of the door, as the wood was old and full of grooves for them to catch on. It didn’t take much effort before the door swung open.
Martin looked through the now–opened door, smiling as he did. The space behind it was small, but comfortable. He could probably fit himself in there, along with another person—though he wasn’t sure that’d be particularly comfortable unless he was practically cuddling the person in question. He could probably add some fairy lights, maybe a few pillows and blankets, and it’d be a lovely place to escape to.
For the time being, however, it was a lovely place to hide a mysterious lighter so that his mum didn’t get the false impression that he was a smoker.
He shut the door quietly, doing everything he could not to clue his mother in to the little space’s existence. He wanted it to just be something of his—something he didn’t have to worry about his mother laying claim to or knowing about. When he was done, he cracked the door to th—to his room open, checking to see if his mum was done with her call. She, thankfully, no longer was standing next to the phone, and was instead unpacking toothbrushes and other toiletries in her bathroom.
“Mum,” Martin repeated as he entered.
“What?” She asked, not bothering to look up.
“We need food,” Martin began.
“Hm,” she replied. “What, you need money to go buy a pizza or something?”
“Well,” Martin began. “There’s a McDonald’s pretty close by. And I just thought, well, it’s a good ‘first night at a new house’ type of meal—”
“So you need money.” She finished.
“…well, yeah, basically.” Martin agreed.
His mum sighed, grimacing. Martin thought he heard her mutter something about “never talks to me unless he needs something,” but he decided not to ask about it. “Fine,” his mum said, loud enough for him to hear this time. “I’ll go get you twenty pounds. Should cover it.”
“Yeah.” Martin agreed. “Thanks.”
His mum didn’t reply to that, simply left the room to go retrieve her wallet. Once she’d returned with the aforementioned twenty pounds, he’d been out the door and in the direction he was…almost certain the McDonald’s was.
Alright, perhaps he didn’t know where the McDonald’s was. And, he reasoned, could anyone blame him? It was his first night here, after all. He’d seen it on the way here, sure, but what did that matter if he didn’t know where he saw it. Spring River was small, but it was still unfamiliar.
He was about to just turn back the way he came, until he noticed a boy about his age sitting on the steps to the house in front of him. He had dark brown hair, and his bright purple t-shirt could probably be seen from space. Martin considered asking him for help, but one look at the boy made him think better of it. His head was buried in his arms and his knees were brought to his chest, and Martin noticed that his body was being racked with heavy sobs.
This, at least, was something Martin was familiar with.
“Hey,” he said softly as he approached the crying boy, hoping he wouldn’t mind that Martin was technically in his front yard. “Are you…are you alright?”
The boy looked up, fixing him with a cold stare. “Please go away. ”
Martin held his hands up in what he hoped was a pacifying motion. “Right, yeah, of course, sorry, I’ll just be going—”
“Wait,” the boy interrupted, his voice cracking. “Sorry, I…sorry.” He looked up, sniffing once and wiping his eyes. “Uh…sorry. You probably didn’t need to see that. S’pose that’s what I get for going outside…”
Martin wasn’t really sure how to reply. “Are you…are you alright?”
The boy nodded and smiled, though it didn’t meet his eyes. “You know how it is, just need to get in a good cry once in a while. Fighting the toxic masculinity, and all that!” He waved a hand. “It’s really nothing you need to worry about. Anyway, I’ve never seen you before! Are you new around here?”
Martin nodded. “I…yeah.”
“Hey, cool!” The boy exclaimed. “What brings you out here?”
“Oh!” Martin paused. “Uh, me and my mum, just…I guess we needed a fresh start.”
“Makes sense,” The boy shrugged. “That’s pretty much the only reason anyone ever moves out here.” He stood up, holding his hand out for Martin to shake. “My name’s Tim.”
Martin hesitated briefly—he didn’t know many people who offered a handshake as a greeting, but the boy—Tim—seemed rather confident, so who was Martin to judge? He took the boy’s hand and shook it once. “Martin,” he replied. “Do you, uh…” he paused. “Do you know where I can find the McDonald’s?”
“Mum, I’m back!” Martin called. He didn’t get a reply, which was to be expected. He instead trudged towards the old, plastic fold-up table, dumping the contents of his McDonald’s meal onto it.
The smell must have brought his mum into the room, as she sat down across the table from him wordlessly.
“I met a new friend today,” Martin tried.
“Mm.”
“His name’s Tim. He said he and his friends want to show me around town.”
“Mm.”
“We might go tomorrow.”
“Be home by dinner.”
Martin sighed. Right . He really shouldn’t have wasted his breath.
Once his meal was finished, he silently left to his room, shutting the door behind him quietly. He considered calling Tim—though he didn’t have Tim’s phone number, and he wasn’t sure they’d have much to talk about yet.
Martin flopped onto his air mattress unceremoniously. Was Tim a friend? He wasn’t sure you could know someone for a day and be their friend. He’d called him one, hoping to get his mum interested in what he had to say, but was it actually true? He’d seemed friend ly , but Martin was pretty sure there was a difference between being a friend and being friendly.
He let out an irritated sigh, picking up his notebook and a pen. He hesitated, before opening it to an untitled page and beginning to write.
Friend
By Martin K. Blackwood
I don’t know if we are friends.
But I would like to think we are
You seem to want to be someday
But does that mean we are
Now?
He smiled, placing the notebook back into his backpack. He knew his poetry wasn’t exactly Keats, but it made him happy to see his work there on the page, just like the poets he’d read in school or in the library when teachers let him stay after-hours while he waited for his mum.
Maybe he’d someday show Tim his poetry. That’s what friends did, wasn’t it? He should know that, of course he should know that! He’d had friends. Right?
He hesitated. Did he have friends? Or did he have kids who picked on him, who pushed him into the dirt and called him slurs, before promising it was all in good humour. Boys will be boys, and all that.
Oh.
He really needed better friends.
“Well…here’s as good a place as any,” He murmured aloud to himself, and hoped it was true.