New

Foundling

The bottle crashed against the wood floor, sending shards in all directions, glinting by the firelight. Blood dripped from a cut on my palm. Red on white, this was gonna be a long night.

Grim was in the other room with Sunny, writing their way into jail, while I did the dishes. The smell of oil paints and turpentine permeated the frozen London night. There were six other people currently in an abandoned cottage that only housed two. The cold outside couldn't weave it's spindly fingers in here if it tried, the heat from the multitude of bodies... most of which engaged in many things illegal, caused the windows to sweat.

We, the people that occupy this room, these halls in this ancient building, are children of sculptors, actors, film makers, poets, novelists, and these days... outlaws. We are all orphaned, or abandoned. We are master thieves with hearts of gold, writers, actors, machinists stuck in our own minds, directors, musicians. These things are banned in the new world. These art forms that we practice we practice now in secret, by firelight. In an age of a dissolving stock market and overwhelming greed we, as well as our parents and predecessors, were forced underground decades ago. Record companies no longer exist, studios are empty skeletons, silver screen back lots hold nothing but the carcasses of old sets. We were outlawed because we were dangerous in our influence and they, the Grandee… the bank owners, the big corporation executives… were all too aware.

Somehow, were forced to make this work. Were not of legal age to be thrown out on the street yet so we live in orphanages. All of us are from St. Mary's for girls or St. Nicholas for boys respectively. We slog through our classes during the week and make our way to the English countryside by the time weekends crawl in. We scour the abandoned homes, and set up shop where we read and write and act and paint. It's our coveted bit of rebellion in this modern cold world, where we create our legacy. It is ours to bear into this world with pain and anxious, pacing wait. It ours to fuck up, it is ours to love and coddle, it is ours. It's all we have.

That morning we rushed to get dressed and be the first into the bathrooms. On most mondays we could be found scrubbing the paint from our hands while everyone else ate in the other wing.

"Isn't it sad that it would be entirely scandalous to find something as simple as paint on our hands?" Sunny complained.

"It is the way it is," I said.

Note: I want circumstances to show that she has a strong maternal sense. I want her to be sort of nonplussed by the censorship because she has her 'family' to worry about. Not because she doesn't care.

"Alright, well Im headed out, you coming?"

"I'll be there in a bit,"

I heard her heels click on the tile floor as she walked out. I perched on top the toilet in the far left stall, and avoided all responsibility for a moment. I traced the red river of a cut on my hand. It would scar no doubt, and waited. I waited for tears to come hot, and damp down my cheeks. Nothing came, just a lump in my throat that made it ache. I felt stuck, my skin crawled. I felt injustice in the way that only spoiled sixteen year olds feel injustice. I was born to a computer program developer father, and a ballerina mother that saved herself by marrying my dad. They died in the 2090 tram attack, I was seven years old and immediately sent here. Unlike the others I was raised thinking anything was possible. I was raised with art. I've played piano since I was three. I was trained classically, but often played like a maniac when everything got all pent up as it usually does, like now. It's how I got the nickname Rocker. The frustration inside of me was about to burst, I wanted to hit, and break, and crash, and slam, and inflict all manner of onomatopoeia on the new world. If I couldn't get it out, I'd go insane, so I decided I was going to sneak over to St. Nicks chapel. Where Grim would be.

The first friend I made here was Sunny (actual name). After a self imposed nietzschean silence, she was the only one I would talk to, and she led me to Grim. When we were children we would meet on the far reaches of the concrete playground, about a half mile out from the school, shrouded in the trees. The nuns would sit on benches leaned directly on the East side of the building, and rarely move. They cared little what we did as long as we were cunning enough to keep it from the head masters. And one thing Grim never lacked was cunning, in every sense of the word. Grim still looks mostly the same as he did then. Tall, lanky, shoulder length blonde hair, wide blue eyes. He always has the biggest smile on his face, and eyes that sparkle, soaking up the big world. It's how he got the name Grim you know, a sort of childhood irony. He was, and is, everything I am not. I loved him instantly.

I slid through bathroom window and out onto the side lawn. I felt a bit of guilt for Sunny who have to cover for me, but it wasn't like I hadn't done it for her plenty of times. Sunny had some neat little secrets of her own. There was a space of about half a football field in between the respective schools. The grass was emerald green, even in the earliest stages of winters strangulation. No light escaped from the sky this morning, but it was clear and crisp, and the smell of precipitation on grass this early in the morning reminded me of camp. My feet touched ground and made a satisfying, albeit terrifyingly loud, crunch. The headmasters hall was across the lawn from me, basement floor. I said a little prayer asking God to please keep any and all priests in their quarters at this time. Counterintuitive but I was sure God could see my plight. Just then I heard the squeal of an opening window. These buildings were Victorian and the windows were hard to crank open, they often warranted assistance. I'd been caught. I bolted across the lawn, my shoes slipping in the cold dew. Whoever was trailing me could run faster than I could, no small feat. I felt a hand grip my shoulder and slid into the mushy soil.

"What the hell are you doing?" Grim said.

"Coming to get you! How did you get the window open alone? I was lying in watt, I thought you were in chapel still?"

"I have what is known as brute strength. And also it was left cracked a bit. Breaking the seal is the hardest part," He said, grinning, "And you're hair is like a fire signal red,"

"And you, dear, have the hair of a precious baby girl," I said.

"You are, if you are anything, original,"

I grabbed shoulders in mock chill, "I feel quite vulnerable out in the open lawn, so risky,"

He stood up, and extended his hand, "Shall we?"

And we walked in silence to the back woods of our childhood. We swatted through overgrowth until we came to a less overgrown area.

"Still slightly uncomfortable, but cozy," he pointed out.

I nodded. We say facing each other, legs bent and intertwined.

"Know whats weird?" I said.

"Whats weird Rock?"

"Secretive places always have to make me pee. Like a good hiding spot during hide and go seek, or when you made tents out of sheets and your bed. I always have to pee as soon as I'm nicely tucked in them," I said.

"I do that too, incredibly inconvenient," He paused, "Do you have to pee right now?"

"Kind of," I said.

"Me too, but I'll be a gentlemen and suffer with you, despite my ability as a boy to pee anywhere at any given time,"

"You are the definition of chivalrous Grim,"

He smiled. A bright Grim smile that can only be expressed through literary terms as 'inexpressible in literary terms'.

"So what's the trouble Rock?"

"Same old trouble, same old frustrations. I got sob storied into using the gas money for a new dress for Sunny. Well more for the Judge than for Sunny,"

And now was one of the unique times that Grims face became dark and stoic. He looked like a mirror image of me.

"He's appalling. He's married," He started.

"He's loaded. He's higher up. He makes big promises to insecure girls. He may be a predator, but it's not always the preys fault," I said, defending Sunny.

"I never said it was, I just can't believe we lost a trip to the cottage to a judge."

Judges were second in line to Senators and they were all the grandee, oppressors of our kind. This particular judge liked to promise the world to pretty, but beggared girls, and use them for show and recreation. This is nothing new in the long line of politicians. The grandee just didn't care who saw it, wives or no.

Just then we heard the kids break onto the playground, and it was time to get to class. My heart grew heavier as we trudged toward our respective buildings. The kids barely gave us a thought. Kids don't care about flame red hair or skinny, long haired boys. My hopes and dreams were held in suspension by the thieving hands of an orphan, hands intertwined in mine.