Chapter Text
Seven days after Clinton Franics Barton was born, park ranger Roy Sullivan was struck by lightning for the seventh time, all in the year 1977. It was the sort of fun fact Barney would tell him when they hid out upstairs during their parent’s arguments.
“Koala’s poop squares.” He’d say. Or, “You were born the year the last person was executed by guillotine.”
Clint would nod in fascination but his mind would always return to the ranger Sullivan.
He’d always felt bad about the kind of luck that followed Sullivan. The chances of getting struck by lightning was so small and this guy struck the lightning lottery seven times. He wondered if that was the same kind of luck that would follow him. With the way things turned out in his life, it was quite possible that it was true.
The Bartons lived on a small farm on the outskirts of Waverly, Iowa. It was isolated, with the nearest neighbor being miles down the dusty gravel road. There was no one close to hear the shouts and screams that came from the house.
Harold Barton worked as a butcher and Edith Barton worked as a waitress at Denny’s. It was a messy marriage with neither of the two even remotely liking each other anymore. There must’ve been love at some point though, because they dropped out of high school to have Barney. But over time, like most things, their love faded.
The house was empty most days. Dad would take Barney to the butcher store and Mom would wait tables. None of the boys went to school. Barney did for a little while before Clint was born but was pulled out to help the family.
Clint spent his days petering through the fields barefoot and playing games with himself. His favorite was Robin Hood. He’d fashioned a sling shot for himself and pretended to shoot his enemies and steal their riches to give to the poor. He had a little collection of acorns and rocks by the trees around their house that represented his winnings.
Sometimes, Mom would take him to Denny’s and let him sit outside with crayons and scrap paper. He even got to have some quarters to go down to the comic shop and buy an issue or two. If not that, he’d use his quarters to buy candy. He liked bubble gum. It lasted longer.
Recently though, he’d been saving his quarters. In the little toy shop several blocks down from Denny’s there was a bow and arrow set in the window. It was a nice little thing that was made out of birch wood. It gleamed with the oil that was rubbed on it. The quiver had twenty arrows that were made with real brown feathers. Clint’s fingers itched to get a hold of it but it was way too expensive. They would never be able to afford it.
So, he started shoving the quarters given to him down his pocket and chewed on his tongue and cheek when his mother walked him home. If she’d known he still had quarters left over, she wouldn’t give him more.
On days he was left home, he walked around the house looking for loose change. When the house had been scrubbed clean, he went out on the gravel road and into town sometimes too. Once, he had found a full five dollars in an alley way.
He stashed his earnings in an empty jam jar that he kept in the last drawer of his shared dresser with Barney. Barney got the top drawer because he was the oldest. He got the bed by the window too. He also got nicer shoes and clothes too. As nice as they could afford. Clint’s were patched over and sometimes falling apart.
Whatever, Clint thought to himself, the bow and arrow would be his. It would be his good luck and the one thing he had that Barney didn’t.
The days were long, especially in the summer. The heat beat down incessantly and dust kicked up everywhere. It was also lonely, being by himself, but it was okay because he got along well with himself. It did mean that he didn’t talk much though. It was weird talking to yourself when the thoughts were already in your brain. His silence stuck and carried over to when there were people to talk to. Namely, when his family came home.
Barney said he was sulking.
Mom said he was introspective.
Dad said he was defective and a retard.
When Clint forgot to respond to him outloud, or when he said the wrong thing at the wrong volume, he got whatever was closest to his dad thrown at him. Coins, newspaper, glassbottles, lamps. It was better than getting beat, he supposed. That’s what dad did to Barney.
“It’s not fair.” Clint whispered once, at night. Barney had taken a big beating after he’d messed up and ruined a whole five pounds of meat at the store by forgetting to put it in the freezer.
“Yeah well.” Barney answered bitterly. “I fucked up.” There was a quiet groan as his brother rearranged himself.
“You should be glad.” He continued. “He thinks you’re too dumb. You should keep doing that.”
“Keep doing what?”
“Bein’ dumb.”
I’m not trying to be, Clint thought defensively, but he didn’t say anything. “‘Kay.” He whispered.
When winter came, he couldn’t go out as much so he played with his slingshot indoors. He’d practice hitting knots that were in the wood pattern of the walls and floor. Or a stain from when Dad overturned the table the day they were having curry. Or a little ant or spider on the wall. It was just something to pass time but Clint found himself slowly hitting the targets he set for himself with more ease.
Huh.
He’d never been good at anything before.
He rushed out of the house in Barney’s old boots from last winter that were too big. He squinted his eyes at the sun reflecting off the bright white snow. In the backyard where his Robin Hood grounds were, he took out his slingshot and gave himself some new targets.
The tiny icicle hanging from a branch, a knot in the trunk and a speck of snow on an area of another tree that was bare.
He loaded up his slingshot and let out a deep breath. He really focused this time.
Ping. Thunk. Splat.
A grin spread across his face. He’d hit each target spot on.
He gave himself three new targets.
Hit. Hit. Hit.
“Yesss.” He hissed under his breath unconsciously.
He’d spent the rest of the afternoon that day hitting targets with his slingshot. He hadn’t even noticed the sun going down.
He traipsed back into the house before his family returned, his cheeks ruddy with cold and excitement. He was just like Robin Hood now. All he needed was that bow and arrow. His yearning for it grew as he wondered what he might be able to do with it. He’d be able to shoot further that’s for sure.
He lay in bed that night feeling like he had been awakened for the first time. His days before were slow and lulled and forgotten. He was forgotten. But now he had something that gave him a sort of purpose, a spark. A passion.
So of course something had to ruin it.