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How he makes it all the way to San Francisco, he isn't sure. The wading lights of the city greet his presence, distant and mellow, and he somehow finds enough energy in himself to put one foot infront of the other and make his way to the back of the bus.
The bus is empty enough that he manages to secure a place away from the rest of the people on it. He quielty arranges his duffel at his feet instead of putting it on the empty seat next to him, then all but curls up on himself.
Tees and jeans, for once his crippling mind doesn't try to discern what the people on the bus are here for based on their attire—a family trip, a business trip, returning home from college, none of it matters—not to him, not anymore. What little luxury of peace his mind used to have, it's burned away on a beach miles from here, ash dispersing in the sky, illuminated by the fire of his mother's burning body.
It doesn't matter, because how much life does he have left anyway?
Who is he anyway?
There's several fake IDs stuffed at the very bottom of his duffel, marking him eighteen, nineteen, twenty, but who he really is, even he can't say anymore. Just a boy alone in the vast canvas of the world, a single drop of paint. A boy, who's had to watch his mothers ashes scatter to the wind like dust, who's had to bury her bones in wet sand.
Abram, she used to call him, in the privacy of locked doors and curtained windows. Abram, who's spent the years not only being the son of Mary, but of Sarah, of Rachel, of Lily and many other women he can't bring bring himself to name.
He will never hear that name again; Abram died along with Mary, leaving no one to remember or know him.
Head resting against his fist, he watches the world blur past outside. Against the setting sun, covering the sky in hues of pink and yellow, the city buildings rise steady and firm into the sky in the distance, no doubt still bustling with life.
It's all too much suddenly; the laughter of the girls four rows ahead of him, the hunger and nausea at the thought of food both clawling at his gut, the bloody scratch of Lola's nail in his side, the life flowing all around him, bringing its tides to drown him. Seventeen and alone for the first time in many years, he wonders what he's supposed to do now.
One day at a time, yes, but what after that?
Keep moving, echoes Mary's ghost, an ugly phantom of a voice ringing in his mind, don't stop and don't look back.
And how long will he live life like that?
He can't think about that, not now, or he will hurl himself out of the moving bus or do something equally as stupid. Instead, he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, survival be damned.
The next bus he catches is more crowded. It was bound to be, what with the city traffic, and he finds himself and his dusty duffel in a seat behind some high school boys.
He listens to them talk about mundane things, like the sports match they've just won, the newest video games and movie nights.
Is this what teenagers are supposed to be like, he muses. If I had been anyone but myself, would I have been like these people?
The bus stops at a gas station, and people pile out one by one to either use the restroom or wander around in the convenience store while the bus refills with fuel.
With nothing better to do, he steps off the bus and walks into the store.
Food. He has to eat something—just a few hours ago, he'd thrown up all he'd eaten the day before on the side of a highway unknown. His appetite hasn't built up again yet, but he can't afford to pass out or get sick. He can't afford that, especially now that he's alone, and he focuses on replenishing himself lest he dig his mind into that rabbit hole, which he knows he won't be able to crawl out of.
The door opens again behind him, and he grabs the first pack of crackers he sees and pivots easily from the aisle, walking into the next one. The boys from earlier walk into the snack aisle, and he busies himself in the magazines infront of him as if he's interested.
His heart thunders loudly in his chest. What's wrong with him? The school boys can't be working for his father or any of the like. They can't.
Stop it, his mother's voice hisses in his mind, say you're fine. Say it. Say it, dammit!
"Keal, man, you're killing me," one guy laughs, too loud, and then he's caught off gaurd, because Keal sounds so close to Neil that he almost mishears it, which is Nathaniel but untainted by Nathan, and for a moment he thinks that in another world, where his parents weren't the people they were, he could've had people who were close enough to him—were his friends—to call him Neil.
He doesn't realise he's staring, wide-eyed, until the guy—Keal—catches him. "I know you?" he asks, suspicion creeping his words.
"What?" He croaks out, startled, then clears his throat. When was the last time he spoke to someone his age? Or rather, when was the last time he spoke? Memories of 'mom' and 'please' haunt him, and for a moment he's far away, shivering from the cold winds sweeping the coast, hungry and bleeding and pathetic.
He blinks and he's in the present again. Keal looks more concerned than cautious now, so he quickly searches his brain to scrap up lie. "No. I—" he doesn't know what makes him say it, but the next words seem to just tumble out of his mouth unprompted. "We have a similar name. I'm—I'm Neil."
Keal-guy raises his brows, then shrugs. "Oh. Cool."
And that's that. The group of boys turn away, seemingly satisfied with their haul, and walk up to the counter. He stands there, frozen, hands clutching a magazine, for a period of time he can't begin to fathom. When he thinks he's recollected his thoughts, pulled himself back from that dangerous legde, he looks down.
His breath leaves him in a rush.
Dark hair and green eyes, Kevin Day's amused face stares back at him from the cover of the glossy pages, the Son of Exy written across in golden letters. Theres a racket in his hands, black and encrusted with the Raven symbol, and he thinks, I can do that now.
The thought is enough to shove the magazine back in the shelf. His feet scutter almost as fast as his heart, and he quickly pays for the food before returning to the bus.
No, he thinks, no. He can't pick up a racket again. There will be too much publicity to go with it, too many opportunities for him to be found, too many promises broken.
But. Mary is dead.
He looks at the high schoolers seated infront of him. They look about his age, if a few years older. They don't look famous—if they were, they'd have their own bus for commute. There's other schools like that. Remote and small, with teams who play but never really win. He thinks back to the magazine. Will the thrill be worth it?
What else are you going to do with your life? There's so little of it left.
It's only a matter of time. They will find him, they always do; they'd done so even when his mother had been alive, and they will again in the future.
But his father's in prison now. Yesterday, he'd glimpsed flashes of blue and red as he fled in a car, driving away from a rickety motel. The highway he'd ended up on after burning the car had been scant of cars, but one had stopped long enough to drop him off at the interstate. He'd asked around for a phone, in pretense to call his parents after getting into a crash, and instead searched Nathan Wesninski Seatle, before quickly deleting the search. The results had held his heart in a tight grip.
Just one year, whispers something cruel in this mind, just one. He buries it beneath sand coated promises. He can't. Nathan's gone, but for how long?
The next stop comes before his conflicting mind can come to a decision. He stands up, alert. He can't be swimming in useless thoughts right now. Anyone could be anyone, from the old lady behind him to the school boys upfront.
Be vigilant, or you will die. Do you understand? Say it.
The bus doors open, and Keal-guy and his trope of friends are the first to step off. But just as he reaches the last step, Keal turns around to galnce at directly him.
The hair on the back of his neck rises and his breathing stills. He can feel him clutching his bag more tightly. What now?
The boy just smiles at him. "Have a good life, Neil."
Have a good life, Neil.
Neil.
He knows his face stutters, but he can't even begin to think of something to say back before the guy is gone. The old lady at his back gently leans closer and asks, "Are you alright, dear?"
No, no he's not. Frankly, with the life he's lived, he doesn't think he ever has been, but it doesn't matter right now.
Neil. The guy had called him Neil.
It will be a stupid thing to do. He stares at his shaking hands. Neil. Maybe he can be Neil. Maybe Neil can live in a remote town far, far away from Baltimore, and maybe Neil can play Exy. He won't try to socialise or have friends, but he can—maybe, just maybe—have some semblance of a good life.
Neil can do that. He can.
He looks up at the lady and gives her a small smile. "Yes."