When A Blind Man Cries

St Benjamin's: Dealer

Monday 15th January 1973

Most of the time, after Kathy's last — and perhaps final — letter, Grant would be able to push down any lingering burn of regret like a cloth upon fire. It was easy enough; he'd grown very good at concealing those nasty kind of emotions, or feelings. It was better for everyone that way. Take a look at Charlie F. His parents were dead, murdered, and he was still the sweetest bloke Grant had ever met. He would disappear for an hour or two from time to time, but apart from that, he never let his personal life get the better of him.

"You have to pour very carefully, okay?" Charlie said, hovering anxiously over Sully's shoulder.

Sully rolled his eyes, plastic cup of water in hand, "I know how to water a plant, Farrow."

"But this isn't any old plant, Croft. This is my child we're dealing with here. Ain't that right, Grant?"

Grant laughed upon his bed, nodding fervently, "You've signed up for a suicide mission here, Sul."

Sully shook his head with a mirthful huff, "I doubt a plant is going to do much damage."

Grant smirked, knowing eyes landing on Charlie, "Oh, I ain't talkin' about the plant."

Sully turned to the red-head with a raised brow, "Is this some sort of threat?"

Using his height to his advantage, Charlie leaned over the much smaller boy until his petite figure was consumed by his shadow, "Not a threat. A promise. So pick your next move very wisely."

Sully audibly gulped, turning his attention back to Charlie's succulent, "Where do I pour it again?"

Most of the time, everything was fine. Normal. But sometimes, out of nowhere, the world would become consumed by a yellowish haze, the air it produced thick and dizzying. Watching people talk would be like watching telly, so much so that Grant often forgot to respond. Kind of like when he smoked pot with Adz, but much scarier and without the warm buzz that melted his aching joints.

He talked like himself, smiled like himself, laughed. But it was all an act; his greatest performance to date, because Grant Milo Chapman was the role he was born to play.

* * *

Sunday 25th February 1973

Living in a children's home wasn't all bad. That was the decision Grant had come to after spending nearly three months at St Benji's. Don't get him wrong, the food was often akin to gruel, the wooden ceiling was nearly rotted through, every room was below freezing, he had to wear what little clothes he had on rotation, and not a day went by without someone getting beaten up. But at least there was food; three meals a day without fail. At least he had a roof over his head, a duvet to wrap himself up in on the cold nights, people who washed his clothes every week, and other kids around him who knew what it was like to be tossed to the curb. It was better to look at it that way; easier.

Unlike back at home, here he didn't have to premeditate his every move, or worry about the consequences that came with being himself; whoever that was. Grant wasn't sure he'd ever make it to Adz's level of infuriating self-certainty, or Charlie F's selflessness, or Sully's ambition, but hell, he had all the time in the world to try.

Ever since the start of the new year, Grant had been thinking an awful lot about Mum, God knows why, and honestly, he was at a crossroads. He was worried about her, that much was clear. Fuck it, he might even miss her a teeny tiny bit. But, if she was ok, if she wasn't hurt, then anything else beyond that was none of his concern. He wanted her to get on with her life, and also wanted to hear nothing about it. A crossroads.