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She waited until her husband was asleep. It didn’t take long at all; she heard him snoring in mere minutes after he collapsed onto the bed, as he was likely too drunk to have a care in the world. She grimaced as a few waves of his breath hit her nose, the stench of alcohol quickly overwhelming her. This only made her even more anxious to make her move. Bare feet slunk to the chill floor soundlessly, and no look was cast back to the sleeping man as the woman tiptoed to her son’s mound of blankets. A slender and red mottled hand reached out to the boy, shaky fingers caressing his purpled cheek before she dare whisper to him, “Wake up.”
The woman and her son escaped into the night with only the nightgowns draped over their forms. Although the young boy was already at the age of six, he still clung to his mother as she carried him throughout the bustling late-night streets of darkest London. Neither said a word; only muffled sniffles fell from the boy as freezing winds nipped at his bruised cheeks. She knew he was a smart boy, he could easily figure out what was happening to him. He knew not to question his life vest when he was stranded in the middle of an ocean.
The woman’s arms, all but skin and bone, only fastened tighter around her son as she came to a pause. Her head swiveled this way and that, orange eyes taking in her options. Panic coiled around itself tightly within her stomach as she came to debate whether she should cram herself into an overpopulated public housing building, its stench of feces and sweat already worming its way into her nostrils, or the dangerous alleyways that reeked of a graveyard for reasons she’d rather not think about. A wave of guilt hit her like a truck as her attention turned to her son, her precious son, doing all he could to not cry and quake. The woman’s spindly fingers wound into the boy’s locks of blonde hair, attempting to comfort him, as she reached the conclusion that being spending the night in a house that reeked of sewage and slime was better than sleeping without a roof over their heads. She was nauseated at the thought of escaping her husband only to be found dead in a ditch the next morning.
With her son’s body tucked carefully against her own, she weaved her way throughout the crowd of fellow homeless. She felt small hands grip with surprising strength at her gown, his face burying into the material. She cast a small look at him, briefly cooing a few soothing words into his speckled ear. Her heart ached for him, feeling him flinch each and every time someone nearby took a swig of alcohol or raised their voice. All she could do was find the quietest corner and set him down. The mother was quick to settle herself down as well and curl herself around her son, lips pressing to his forehead, as frail arms embraced him. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” her gentle voice chimed to him. Upon hearing a few more of her reassurances, his muscles relaxed and he gazed lazily around the room pulsing with people. They all looked to be in equally bad or worse condition as the bruised and bloodied mother and son. At least there was a mattress beneath them, though it may be stained by a variety of different colored splotches and resting on the mud coated flooring.
The young boy was stirred from his sleep when a gentle hand shook him, incoherent words filling his ears. Thick eyelashes fluttered against orange irises before the blur of sleep faded and the angelic figure of his mother came into view, and of course her voice sounded like golden chimes when she spoke, “Dio, my little beetle, up, up,” to which he replied to with a sudden shake of his head and a few more rapid blinks of the eyes. Course hands reached out to his golden haired mother as lips sputtered. Try as he may, he could not find the proper words to express his utter confusion and horror. The mother’s gaze only softened as he struggled for a grip, but she did not allow him to stew in his bafflement for long. Instead, she heaved her son to his feet.
“Walk with me, my rhinoceros beetle. It’s nearly ten. We’ll surely be forced out if we do not become up and about soon,” she always sounded as cool as a block of ice, but appeared and felt warm as a fire in the hearth, even in her scolding. The angel was practically dragging her son out of the common-lodgings house with all his stumbling. However, once sunlight (no matter how tainted it may be by all the smoke of East London) was on his face he permitted himself to relax. His attention fixated on his savior and only companion in a cruel world. All that swam through his eyes was curiosity. He watched as her lips pursed and her hues hardened. It was almost laughable to see her put on such a face. Cruelty had never fitted her, nor had any sort of negative expression. However, the boy felt his amusement melt away as quickly as it had come as his mother began walking. Where to, he did not know. Home?
“Dio, I’m sure you’re curious. You’ve always wanted to know all there is to know. You’re also smart, Little Fig Tart, and that’s why I’m going to tell you what’s happened, my dear,” her abused hands took firm hold of her son’s shoulders and spun him ‘round to face her. She crouched to his height, her paper-thin nightgown dirtying itself on the ground, “We’re not going back to Father. It’s not safe, Fig Tart. You’re going to be staying with just Mother from now on, alright? Do you understand?”
Somewhere, in another world, the son looks on in mourning. For this world had not been his, and it never would be. He could become as powerful as he like, conquer as many realms as he wish. But this was one world in which there was an entity far more holy than he could ever wish to be. In his own world, she had walked the Via Dolorosa, and he had watched. His bloodstained hands would not snuff her life, not if she somehow one day threatened to drive a knife into his heart, and he would not snatch her world out of greed. In his hundreds of years of memory, he could still recall her name just as easily as he could his own. She had been Adelaide Brando.