The Demon Boy

Day Eleven - Afternoon

     The Glenholm Boys are loitering about the road again. Not as many this time as there were last, but no matter. Casper sneaks his way around them, pondering whether it's worth the hassle of approaching them. He's already suffered his share of unpleasant encounters this morning and the other boys tend to be a bit... much.

     No, they aren't worth the trouble. Casper isn't feeling up to the task. Some other time perhaps, but not now. Not today. He just...

     He turns his back on the other boys. He's not sure what he wants right now, uncertain as to what made him come to town in the first place, but it's not to play until his worries go away. This isn't the kind of thing that he can ignore and wish away until the storm blows over. He really screwed up this time, went and blew his top and spouted off to Glenholm's very own infamous witch-man, of all people.

     What was I thinking?

     He had a good thing going for him. He'd do the occasional errand, wouldn't ask too many unnecessary questions and Balor'd watch his back (as much as cared to), grow stuff he could eat, and occasionally grab something more for him at supper. Yes, there were problems. No, it wasn't all rainbows and unicorns and "new beginnings" with a happily-ever-after at the end, but that's life in a nut shell. And now, he's made things a hundred times worse because he couldn't keep his shut his fucking trap for all the ten seconds it would've taken him to suck up like he should've.

     Why does he keep screwing everything up?

     He ducks onto a side street, off the main road and out of view. There's a tightness building up in his chest and it's got nothing to do with the city smog that used to gum up his lungs. He knows what's coming next and the last thing he wants is for somebody see and make a spectacle of him like a goddamn circus monkey. When the inevitable hits, he's as well prepared for it as can be expected. Panic and Despair and the walls close in around him and suddenly he's gasping just to breath, teeth clenched tight so he doesn't scream. Afterall, there are no work whistles here to drown him out. He better not disturb the neighborhood, and such a lovely place it is too. Nobody here wants to hear him.

     Nobody here wants him.

     Is it any surprise then that he winds up knocking at Mr. Smith's very own back door? Smith isn't pleased to see him, about ready to close the door in his face as a matter of fact, but the sight of his puffy, red eyes give him pause. He raises a disinterested eyebrow at him. "Didn't I say only on Sundays?"

     "Uh..." Casper sniffs. "Somefin' 'long those lines, yeah."

     "And what, pray tell, is today?"

     The question speaks for itself. Casper doesn't speak for a long time. He asks anyways. "Can I come inside?"

     Smith doesn't say anything, but then his expression says it for him. Are you shitting me right now?

     "Please...?" The word rests tired and ragged just above breathing. Casper expects Smith to slam the door then and there.

     Smith's a better man than he'd first taken him for. He leaves him hanging for a good while, but, after a longsuffering sigh, "Keep your snotty fingers where I can see 'em and don't go touching nothing." He steps clear of the door.

     Casper blinks up at him a few times, takes a while for it to hit him. A small part of him expects Smith to change his mind and punt him right back out onto the streets, even once he's made his way in. "Thank you." For what, he doesn't say.

     Smith gives a non-committal grunt. "Come on. This way." He leads the way to his office. Casper, for lack of any conceivable alternatives, follows. Smith's seated in his big, comfy chair behind his big, old desk. The curtains are drawn, leaving the room in washed out, half light. Casper loiters by the far wall, fiddling with the hem of his too-large shirt. Smith leans forward, elbows on the desk top. "What's this all about then?"