Friday, 23 November 2012

A Tiny Tune

JournalWord: When a misfit comes home.

He stumbles into the cafe, slamming shut the front door from the peeking rays of the morning. The jumbled chime of the bells over the door announces his arrival and he grunts, clutching his head at the sharp pain the sound induces. 

He shuffles one of the tables, knocking down a chair from it's upside door position on the tabletop. It's too early for anyone to be up. Dan isn't even up yet to turn down the chairs for the day.

Placing the chair on it's legs, he falls into the wooden seat, ducking his head under his arms as he places them on the table. He attempts to ignore the pounding at the back of his head with whispered curses. No one messes with him. No one should mess with him, he corrects. It's their own goddamn fault for bringing a bat to a fist fight, he scowls. 

So he fights the beginning of pain, knowing if he doesn't sleep now, the bruises will be keeping him up for days. Dan will know, then, and when he knows he's been in another fight, he'll have to be kicked out. 

He doesn't know why he fights. Dan should have kicked him out months ago. Coming home every week with a new set of bruises and gang members out for revenge, he's endangering Diana and the cafe for being here.

Damn, he curses again, a fist meeting the wooden surface of the table. A jagged pain runs through his knuckles for his efforts and he swears quietly, praying he doesn't have any broken bones or fractures. Then he wouldn't be able to help out. Then he wouldn't be able to teach Diana her lessons. 

He cradles his hand in his lap, hiding his eyes in his other forearm, wiping away ungrateful tears. He doesn't even deserve to cry, not for his actions, and not for his broken promises. He's still mentally cursing himself when tiny pattering of feet sneak down the stairs into the dining hall.  

He wipes his eyes again and plucks his head up from his arm to the stumbling tune of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. He watches as she struggles over the keys of the old upright piano. Her tiny fingers flutter and stretch to reach the ivory keys, tripping over others in the obstacle to complete the children's tune. 

She finally finishes the song and spins on the bench, her nightgown twirling along with her long hazel braid. She beams when she sees he's been watching. "Are you feeling a little better now?" she asks, hopeful.

"Not in the least," he gruffly replies at the child. Her smile falters and he adds, "yeah, so play it again for me."

He drops his head back down onto his arm, hiding his smile in the crook of his arm when she starts to play the tune again, this time with an exited gusto. He stays awake knowing she'll be lonely when he falls asleep. The pain will be worth it, he vows. It's the only equivalent to the sweet serenade of an angel.

Love, love, love misfits!!

I'm realizing I like writing from a limited third-person point of view. Seems to feel right.
Let me know what you think!


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