Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (26 page)

Sirens
churn their woeful tune in the distance, but other than that and the
light buzz from the fridge, the world is peaceful.

His
father must have fallen into a deep sleep upstairs because he cannot
hear his usual raging snores. Since Bobby stumbled from his bed, he
hasn't heard him roll over once. He could met with the woman who used
to be his mother's friend. Yet, Bobby isn't concerned right now
because he has other things to contemplate.

Placing
the glass in the sink with a hollow clunk, he ponders the
complications of the dream. He woke with harsh mumbles and the quilt
bunched within his fists. Thick perspiration wore his skin as though
he were swimming with all his clothes on.

The
dream was awful, but what did it mean? It was only a dream, so does
it have to mean anything?

Bidding
the orbiting rock goodbye, Bobby leaves the kitchen. As he heads into
the front room, using the door that's still intact, he is careful not
to make too much noise. Yet, as usual whenever he is setting out to
make as little noise as possible, Bobby's toe connects with something
sharp and he has to restrain a yelp. He lifts his leg to pull a
slither of glass from his foot, then drops it on the fireplace and
notes to use the vacuum tomorrow.

The
moonlight penetrates the cream curtains in soft rays—enough to
see his mother's slender form asleep on the sofa. Yet, all he can
hear is silence, so he leans over her. About to shake her arm, a soft
hum of her breathing fills the air to settle his heart. He slips a
hand over her forehead to check her temperature. It is warmer than
usual, but okay. He is no school nurse, but she should be fine.

She's
not fine though. How much more of this can she take?

D:Ream
claimed “
things can only get better
”, but he
doesn't suppose believing that statement while in such a dark place
is possible. In fact, he cannot imagine a time when it could ever get
to a place where it might become conceivable anymore.

There
is more going on here than what he considers normal—everything
Gage said, the radio, his dreams plaguing reality, the painting,
those red cloaked creatures and the house at the end of the bluebell
woods. Okay, he has never seen the house itself, but does that mean
it isn't there?

Is
this how loonies in asylums start out?

Yet,
he can understand none of it.

If
I see those red cloaks again, I might walk into the mental hospital
and ask them to strait jacket my ass.

Having
heard her breathing, Bobby leaves his mother to her slumber.

It
has got to be more peaceful than anything she could hope to find out
here.

Yet,
she mumbles the moment he turns as though she can sense him.

Sleep
talking, that's all.

But
something makes him turn and, within the gloom, he regards her for a
moment. Between her hums, she whispers words. This time when she
mumbles, she shivers and embraces herself.

As
he moves closer, he is about to give her a shake when he stops
himself with a chill spreading over his skin.

“
The
war has begun.” She says it twice more, then her arms release
their grip and she continues with her soft breaths.

What
is that about?

Thinking
back to what Gage said, he wonders.

The
dream is just messing with my head. This is nothing. Nothing.

Pulling
the blanket over her shoulders, he waits for her to speak again. When
nothing else comes, he heads back out using the same door.

As
he ascends the staircase, his father's snores return. Bobby listens
to the congested nasal sounds as he stands outside Benji's room. The
striped shirt and slim fit jeans once belonged to his older sibling.

He
loved that shirt, but god knows why. It was hideous.

Bobby
once asked Benji why and he didn't know. He said it just caught his
eye.

“
Why
was I wearing them?”

While
listening to the sounds of the house, he can almost bring himself
back to a time when everything was okay. It is easy to look back with
reverie because that was the best time of his life, but looking
forward is impossible. Everything is uncertain. If anything can get
better than this a week from now, or a month, Bobby would love to
hear it. But right now, even the fear of opening a brown envelope
with simple letters inside is too much.

•

At
first, he shields his eyes from the bright screen.

It
is not a favourable situation to wake when nobody is shouting and the
house is quiet.

Maybe
I expect it now, so I'm now waking myself up. Will I ever get a full
night's sleep?

Having
cooled off, he throws on a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a white
t-shirt. While he waits to log onto the Internet with the mild sounds
still penetrating through the wall, he rubs at his tired eyes.

He
meant to do this before now, but the urgency seems defined after the
nightmare. There is no reason the artist of the painting should have
anything to do with him, or so he keeps telling himself, but the
niggling feeling it's important keeps coming back. So, now he is
giving in and doing a search.

After
a while, he checks his mobile to see it is half one--thirty-three
minutes since he started the search. After using every search engine
and any art galleries he can find, Bobby leans back in the chair. He
has searched the artist's name and anything to do with the picture,
but has found nothing. He searched for the art shop in Coventry where
the woman purchased it from, but all he can find is the shop on the
map. After searching all the other shops in the area, Bobby clicks on
social network sites.

Perhaps
the artist has got a small following that may not show up on search
engines. Maybe he, or she isn't confidant enough to have a profile on
a fancy art site.

Considering
how he feels about other poets—better poets—reading his
work, it is almost enough to banish him into obscurity.

The
artist could feel the same.

And
then there is the thought that perhaps the artist wants to remain
anonymous, or has only painted the one.

No
one paints a scene that mesmerising to not go on and do more.

Bobby
slumps in the plastic, drums his fingertips on the desk and sighs
again. The screen wavers in his vision. While rubbing at his eyes
again, he decides it is time to give up and try to get his head back
down while it is still dark.

Yet,
the moment he hovers the mouse over the 'log out' button, a message
pops up in the chat bar. It isn't unusual, especially at this time
because a large amount of his 'friends' are from other countries.
Plus, people are always looking for somebody to connect with at all
hours. Not wanting to be rude, he withdraws from logging out and
clicks on the chat.

It's
always someone random at an inconvenient time.

He
recognises the name, but doesn't recall accepting a friend request
from them. As he stares at the name, Bobby looks for the glass of
water only to realise he didn't bring it up.

After
searching so long, what are the chances of them messaging me on here
of all places?

The
name is not the same, but it is the artist. He knows this in an
instant.

Skimming
over the short message left for him, Bobby cannot get his head around
it. Now somewhat more alert at the edge of his chair, he considers
what to reply with.

Rocky
Kaufmann: I hear you've been looking for me.

The
simple message seems to convey so much and ask questions Bobby is not
yet prepared for. If he found the artist by himself, he would have
been the one to propose the questions. This is an unexpected turn of
events.

Why
now? I haven't been online, so maybe he's been waiting.

“
But
why would he be looking for me?”

His
fingers rest upon the keyboard with replies running through his mind.

This
isn't real, it can't be.

Bobby:
Yes. You painted the picture of the house, right?

It
never hurts to make sure.

Not
missing a beat, the artist replies, “yeah.” Bobby sees he
is still writing a message, so waits. The guy seems to type for half
a minute, but when the writing pops up, it is a simple message. Then,
the artist drops offline.

Perhaps
he has connection problems. I get logged off enough times.

But
there is something final about the words staring back.

Rocky
Kaufmann: You must get there. The war has begun.

Sitting
on the edge of his seat, with a strange sensation pulsing through his
entire body, Bobby waits to see if he will come back. Meanwhile, he
considers the words.

“
So
the place is real.”

Bobby's
head feels as though it is about to explode and decorate the walls
with his thoughts. There are many things he needs to know and ask
this mysterious artist.

Has
he been there? Where is this place? How am I meant to get there? Why
me, and how does he know about me in the first place? He said I was
looking for him, but how does he know? Who told him? Did he see the
place in his dreams, too?

Clicking
on the artist's name, Bobby waits for his profile to load. When the
page changes, it informs Bobby it doesn't exist. Backtracking, Bobby
tries it again, but to no avail. On the page, Bobby tries refreshing
it twice but is only rewarded with the same message.

There
must be a problem with the server.

Bobby's
head is a whirl of ideas and confusion that jumble together on top of
everything else. Yet, he waits until half two for the artist to
return. When he is sure he isn't going to resurface, Bobby types a
message, then logs out.

The
screen goes black, leaving him in the dark room with only the stars
poking through the gap in the curtain. Bobby's thoughts turn from how
the artist got on his friends list without his knowledge to the
painting. As he climbs back under the covers with his clothes still
on, he rests his head on his arms and imagines the place.

“
There's
a cliff surrounded by sea, the house and red path,” he whispers
before rolling onto his side.

Is
there something I am supposed to see in the painting?

“
There's
a sea of blue on land—the bluebells.”

He
visualises those warm, sunny days spent with a towel rolled out,
eating sandwiches and giggling with his mother in their glorifying
scent.

That
was our special place.

He
has never walked the whole way, but unless the woods stretch to the
coast, then it cannot be real.

The
time is five past four the last time Bobby checks his mobile. It is
still dark outside, but it won't be long before dawn breaks and he
will have gone another night without sleep.