𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 // 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧

vi. Family Reunion

— THE GENTLE LIGHT of dawn draped over the groggy city of Queens like a warm blanket, urging residents to snuggle back into their sheets and forget about all responsibility. The birds chirped and perched themselves across the power lines, pruning at their feathers and making room for fellow flock members. Few cars lined the roads, a stark contrast from the horrific traffic that gathers during rush hours. Sparse litter scattered across the pavement. Stickers and graffiti added colour to the street, giving the stretch of apartments, delis and liquor stores a pop of personality.

The red hues of the sunrise soon dwindled, promptly swallowed by the bright morning blue. The sun and clouds took their place in the sky like actors on a stage. It was a slow, peaceful morning for the workaholic residence.

Slumped in an alleyway sat a young teenager. Lip busted with scratches at his left temple, he looked like he'd just lost a fight with an angry pigeon. Dressed in grey cargo pants, a black nirvana t-shirt and a sage, unbuttoned short-sleeve flannel. His red converse were untied and mucky, the once prominent doodles washed out in gods knows what. Passer-by didn't spare him a glance, too afraid he would crawl from the shadows and beg them for spare change.

His eyes peeled open and squinted from the sun's obnoxious light. His neck ached. The bed's in cabin five weren't much—stiff and firm, built like army barracks—but even they were better than damp, dirty concrete. He groaned and crossed his legs, attempting to ease the pain in his nape by massaging it with weak fingers. His head swayed in a circle, his nose scrunched in discomfort as the pain refused to leave.

He sighed, uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet. Stretching out his arms and legs and cracking each knuckle in his hands. Hugo hated mornings, and mornings hated him.

Nevertheless, he let out a yawn and slung a backpack over his shoulder. He hummed a small tune under his breath, searching for the closest coffee-serving vending machine. "On the road again, du du-du du.."

Coins jingled as he reached through his pocket, pulling out a handful of quarters and dimes and whatever the hell American's use as a currency before slipping the estimated amount into the contraption. He pressed two buttons and the rings began to contract. A cold caramel espresso was calling his name. But, The Fates had other plans.

The aluminium can leaned against the glass like a flirting love interest would a doorframe. It sat there, unmoving, mocking him. His tired eye twitched.

Hugo pulled his right leg back, lining up the shot. With anger coursing through his veins, the demigod slammed his foot into the glass of the evil vending machine. It shattered, and so did the bones in his foot (probably). Drinks tumbled out onto the street, nearby strangers picking them up like candy from a piñata. Ah, New York, where degenerates thrive.

Hugo made his way down the street, coming up on Linden Boulevard. Soon enough he'd cross into Mexico Street, then into his old neighbourhood. Nerves gathered in the pit of his stomach, the coffee he once enjoyed threatening to come back up. He hated nervousness, it was a stupid feeling.

"On the road again, bum bu-da bum.. I don't know the words, I'm on the road again, du du-du du.."

His surroundings were starting to look familiar now. The same gruffness of barking dogs, the smell of pollution in the air, the cats that would sit on the walls and make kids gamble as they reached to pet them. Hugo never went near those cats, no matter how cute, considering he's severely allergic to them. He always preferred dogs, anyway, at least they would run around with him.

As he strolled through the unchanged scenery, it was almost like he could see that same little boy playing curbs, or basketball, or maybe even baseball. The neighbours' kids would always join in for a little while, but then leave when they realised nobody but Hugo was winning.

He was always too fast, too strong, too smart; it made the others feel inferior and like Hugo was only trying to show off, so, eventually, they stopped playing with him altogether. Sad? Maybe. But they were wussies anyway.

He walked and walked for centuries until finally, he stood on the lawn of a place he once called home. The same red shingles, the same dead grass, the same slightly smudged windows that would never be clean no matter what you scrubbed them with. Everything was exactly the same, like he'd never left. Except for the two, squeaky-clean cars parked in the once barren driveway.

With a deep breath, Hugo marched toward the faded red door. Sweat gathered in his armpits, making the boy shift in his clothes. He tried to shiver out the nerves, shaking every inch of his body in a desperate effort to relax himself. He sucked in a deep breath, raised his fist, and knocked three times.

Charlotte Cadieux answered the door, blonde hair long and braided over her shoulder. She gazed at Hugo with a quirked brow, scanning the boy from head to toe. She was disturbed by the state of him considering he was beaten and bruised.

Hugo's eyes filled with tears prepared to spill at any moment. His swollen bottom lip quivered and his shoulders tensed. His mind was blank. He leaped forward unexpectedly, wrapping his arms around his mother's waist and holding on tight. "Maman..." he whimpered. "Je regrette tout. C'est de ma faute.. je suis très navré."

Charlotte's face contorted as she awkwardly patted the boy's head. She looked around, her chocolate eyes bearing nothing but genuine confusion. Gently, she pulled away from the (what she assumed) homeless boy. She was happy someone around here could speak her mother tongue but...

"Maman?"

"Est-ce que je vous connais?"