Ashwood enjoyed predicting things. In fact, he tended to predict a lot. Often. The enjoyment came from the fact that predictions were only that - predictions. There was no necessity for them to become reality. Predictions had the ability to remain in the air, without a body, and float there for an eternity.
When he was younger, Ashwood used to predict his future often. Every time it tended to change a bit, morphing and adapting, depending on his mood and also the environment. Some days, he thought he might be a good vet. Other days, he dreamed of his life as a millionaire, surrounded by hot long-legged girls and drinking champagne for breakfast. These were the good days.
Every now and then, a bad day occurred, more and more of them the older Ashwood got. On those days, his fears got the better of him, and he would get snappy. Angry. Aggression was his way of dealing with panic. Feeling as if the whole world betrayed him, Ashwood cursed the fate over and over again for giving him the path that he had to stand on. On days like this, he would skip school, pack his bag full of food, and disappear in the forest nearby. A thriving British forest, the one that your grandma would tell about, scaring little girls with the big bad wolf lurking behind thick trunks. Sometimes, when the situation at home got heated, Ashwood would take his sister with him. But their father never touched Liana. No, if he raised his fist, it was either against the boy or his mum.
His heart would increase its rate every time he heard those heavy steps echoing in the hall. Ashwood counted himself lucky if the noise didn't stop on the other side of the door to his room, and Mr Mallory skipped his training session. Those days were the boy's rest days, too. And sometimes, as they went on, they could even be counted as 'normal', because his mother was calm and collected, his sister would play peacefully in the garden, and there would be no tension weighing Ashwood's shoulders. Those days were rest days because he could allow himself not to worry, take a break from waiting. Years after the boy morphed into a man, Ashwood would think to himself that the worst part of living with a sleeping beast was the waiting for it to wake up. The anticipation of what will happen the next time. When you are being harassed, there is no much thinking, mostly the feeling part remains. But funny enough, our mind is much more dangerous than neuron-fuelled experiences. Therefore, expecting bad things becomes worse than actually experiencing them.
When Ashwood was fifteen, he got into a nasty fight with his father. One of the worst so far. These were the years when the boy hit a growth spurt, and almost every piece of his clothing needed to be replaced. Ashwood's limbs got longer, more muscular, the youth started disappearing from his face, morphing into something more resembling a fully grown man than a child. His features got sharper and more pronounced, attracting attention from girls at school. Just like father, Ashwood was an early bloomer, and soon enough would reach the height of his maker. New expenses for the necessary items, or perhaps the feeling of soon upcoming, inevitable competition between the son and the father for the place in the family's hierarchy triggered hatred in the older man's chest.
The beating was brutal. As brutal as it could get without murdering someone. Ashwood was left bloody and broken, with a fractured rib and broken nose, hurting lower back and wobbly legs, which managed only take him so far into the forest to hide their house. The boy collapsed, coughing harshly, grunting in agony, his eyes filled with pain and humiliation. It was mortifying. He was supposed to fight back, to stand for himself and the ones he cared about, to protect his mother and sister. To show them that not everything is as bad as it looks. Yet, he ran away like a coward, too scared to stand even for himself.
Moaning lowly, the boy slowly rose, hunching over when a sharp pang hit him somewhere inside. His ribs had to be damaged, there was no other way around. Ashwood knew there was a stream somewhere nearby. He concentrated on his breathing, mustering the remaining strength that he had, and wandered deeper into the dark, cool shadows.
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The Schemer
FanfictionEvery reputable city needs its supplies of teachers, firefighters, policemen and lawyers. Gotham was hardly a reputable city. Nevertheless, it still needed its surgeons. Clara Moore, a former war doctor, had her own rules and morals. Schemes that k...
