somewhere in {neverland} :: kendra;flashback

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[bg=2c2f24][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px; -moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; border-radius-bottomleft: 10px; -moz-border-radius-bottomright: 10px; border-radius-bottomright: 10px; opacity: 1;] they can’t tell me who to be, 'cause i’m not what they see and the world is still sleeping while i keep on dreaming for me and their words are just whispers and lies that i'll never believe "Damien!" my voice bounces off the uneven pavement, ringing through the empty back alleys and coming back to me in a wavering echo. I don't know when it became my job to make sure my little shit of a brother was home for bedtime, but I didn't really feel like arguing with Ambrose about it. And so here I stand, irritated, empty-handed, and starting to shiver as the coolness of another autumn night blankets the silent District. I know better than to think that all's quiet in the slums, though. We've got our own muted lullaby of domestic disputes and crying babies that weaves its harmony through the darkness, and somewhere on these streets Damien and his stupid little friends are running around, stirring up trouble and feeling like the big shots they aren't, creating unease for the neighborhood and a pain in the ass for me. "Damien Dempsey, come home before Ambrose strangles us both!" Growing up with an eldest brother as a de facto parent isn't the best sort of family environment, but when you've got a father that walked out one day to never return and a mother who stopped giving a shit after that, Ambrose is better than nothing. He's got his heart in the right place, I guess, but that alone never got anyone very far. Trying to impose curfews and rules on kids like Damien and me only makes them act out more, and if me having to go playing hide-and-seek through the streets at two in the morning isn't enough evidence of that fact, I don't know what is. Grumbling a detailed monologue about the ten thousand directions in which I'm going to kick my baby brother's scrawny ass when I get my hands on him, I fumble around for a cigarette, the flare of my lighter casting a flickering orange glow over my crumbling surroundings for a fraction of a second. It doesn't do much to warm me up, but it gives me something to do with my hands instead of acting out a pantomime of wringing Damien's neck. This is the third night in a row he's pulled this shit, and even though Mom isn't worried enough by it for us to guilt him with it, Ambrose's fussing drove me up the wall pretty quickly. I'd almost rather be out in the cold hunting for him than trapped inside listening to a frantic loop of Where is he? He missed dinner again. Did you see him anywhere, Todd? Oh Ripred, he's gotten hurt, I know it… Gag me. With a spoon. It's not that I don't love my brothers, even though they're a fussy, uptight stiff and a reckless idiot, respectively. It's just that neither of them seem to realize the necessity of learning to be self-sufficient and self-preserving when you live this kind of life. Ambrose wants to smother us both with the parental guidance that the self-help books all say we should have, and Damien doesn't know when to quit with his shenanigans that just keep growing more dangerous the older he gets. If I wanted to get my head bitten off, I might throw my hands up and tell my big brother that maybe Damien needs to get the shit beaten out of him once or twice to teach him a lesson, but being the voice of reason isn't worth getting ripped a new one and dealing with weeks of disapproving glares afterwards. I'm just the middle child. What do I know? A rustle to my left jerks me out of my thoughts, the sounds of unseen activity darting through the shadows and seeming more sinister than it probably is. Scowling, I look around for the source. "Damien, if that's you, we're having a talk. Now. I'm about three hundred percent done with having to come haul you home every night, you little-" Another rustle, and this time I see where it's coming from. The Swansons have a big oak tree in their front yard, all gnarled and twisted with age, the branches slowly starting to grow towards the sagging power lines overhead. The leaves are trembling with more than just the wind, the limbs bending too much for the weight of a cat or whatever. An eyebrow arching skeptically, I duck into the yard and peer up into the dying foliage, half-expecting a rabid raccoon or something to jump out at me. Instead, I get a girl perched on one of the lower branches, staring at me like I'm the weird one here. "All right, I'm going to skip over the obvious what the hell are you doing in a tree question for now." In the muted glow of the streetlights, I can see her well enough. She's pretty, dark hair and big, wide-set eyes, pale skin and pixie-like features. Tree-Girl even looks a bit familiar, although it's hard to tell at the current distance. Maybe I have a class with her or something. A stream of smoke rising up into the branches, I lean against the sturdy trunk, feeling the scrape of the bark along the worn leather of my thrice-handed-down jacket. "The more important question is what you're doing alone on this end of town at two in the morning. Not being misogynistic or nothin', but it's not safe for a girl out here." I think briefly of some of Damien's seedier friends, older guys with an unpleasant gleam in their eye and lascivious smiles, and I really don't want to imagine what they'd do if they ran into this chick in a dark alley. She's got that uptown look about her, a build that while long and lean and whippet-thin still says she's grown up getting enough to eat. Maybe she's lost? Still doesn't explain why she's up in a tree like some sort of wandering bird, blinking down at the world below with only a vague sort of interest. Frowning, I grind the cigarette out under my heel and hoist myself up onto one of the lower limbs, my ascent not nearly as graceful as I'd like it to be. Once I'm up and have steadied myself enough to not go plunging back to the ground, I can see her a bit better. Her hair's all tangled with fallen leaves, the line of her jaw stubborn and set, and her eyes the bluest blue I've ever seen, even in the dim lighting. Yeah, I knew she looked familiar. "Hey, ain't you Casper Lightwood's baby sister?" Kori… Kelly… something with a K, I don't really remember. But she's in my math class, sits a few rows back, and that's where I know her from. I vaguely remember seeing her around school (of course, people with my family's salary don't exist to her crowd. She eats lunch with Willow Riley and Catherine Shore and the rest of that ilk), but I know I've never talked to her. Her oldest brother is in class with Ambrose, though, and the two of them used to be on speaking terms. Whatever, not like it matters when she's looking at me like I've got a second head. Lady, please, I'm not the one hiding in a tree. "Hey, it's chill, I'm not gonna hurt you or nothin'," I shrug, my legs swinging back and forth through the open air. "I was just looking for my stupid little brother. Don't s'pose you've seen a skinny kid with dark hair and a bad attitude come through here?" Trying to defuse a little bit of the tension, I stretch forward on my branch and extend my hand toward her. "Todd Dempsey. I'm in your Trig class." and i want a moment to be real, wanna touch things i don't feel wanna hold on and feel i belong and how can they say i never change? they're the ones who stay the same i'm the one now, 'cause i'm still here