Helpless » Fillie

| his mind, a monsoon |

Finn shivered as the wind picked up. The misty rain had caused his jean jacket and black shirt to cling to his skin. His eyelashes were trimmed with the weight of the water which had also caused his dark tousles to unwind drastically.

With haste to get out of his house undetected, he had muffled the peeping noises induced by the window frame by warily sliding the frame upwards until he was able to fit his entire body.

He shielded his eyes against the glare of the street lights and rain, his gaze focusing on the dilapidated playground that stood reluctantly across the street. He used to love sitting on the wooden swing set, shuffling his feet against the pea gravel until slabs of sediment flew into the air.

Finn would sit there while his mother, his birth mother Elizabeth, leaned against the metal pole and read him a morally ambiguous tale they had picked up at the local library. Together, closed off from the rest of the world, he would sway, lost in the fantasy of whatever his mother was reading.

Shaking his head roughly, he shrugged away the hauntingly bittersweet memories that plagued his thoughts more often than he could help himself with. Without another thought, he marched down the street towards the Browns' house. Columns and friezes and arched windows stood at least twenty feet high. Scrub and tall weeds veiled the yellowed lawn, which clearly hadn't been cut in years.

Merely three weeks ago, the house had not only been vacant but an old brown tumbledown wreck, its clapboard weathered and cracked, rendering several roof shingles missing. However, since the Browns purchased the property, the house had undergone a well-deserved renovation. Now, the newly minimalist house was charming.

Finn warily creaked open the white picket fence that guarded the house, closing it again as soon as he had stepped foot on the grassy lawn. He turned, and following a deep breath, strode towards the sturdy oak tree whose reddish-brown leaves were reminiscent of the trees grown in his own home.

He began his ascent. With his right hand, he gripped the lowest branch while his left hand wrapped itself around the trunk. With a low grunt, he exerted formidable pressure above the stump of the tree with one leg and then the other, until both of his legs reached shoulder level, eventually allowing for his arms to rest upon the thick branch. Deftly, he pulled himself upwards, legs swinging in the meanwhile until, finally, he reached the highest branch, which happened to string across Millie's window.

He traced his hand over her window, which was uncovered, and found her almost exactly how he could only imagine: alone, huddled under a thick layer of blankets, her eminent short locks mussed across her pillow. The small room took the bite out of the cold night air, but she still had to be freezing, even with all those blankets.

He peered through the glass, observing her, admiring her. Admiring how one of her arms had come loose from the covers while the other rested beneath the coldness of her pillow. How her hair fell in her eyes. How, while she was snoring inaudibly, her chest rose and fell with each breath she took.

Finn remained there for several minutes until he noticed her beginning to shift positions. And then, in her sleep, her brows began to scrunch together before finally, her eyes fluttered open.

She glanced at her surroundings until her eyes met the window but foremost, the boy sitting just outside the window. He waved at her through the closing and his lips tugged upwards a bit as he tapped lightly on the glass. She sat up, reaching for the knob of the window, thrusting it upwards until she caught a subtle whiff of the night air causing her to recoil in her place.

She took his arm, pulling him inside and as soon as his feet landed on the carpeted floor, her eyes widened.

"Finn," she said, "What are you doing here?"