Ab Parentis
Title: Ab Parentis
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Owen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing. (Well, I own my new flat, but not Torchwood.)
Spoilers: None
Summary: Owen just needed to get away.
Author's Note: Written for Round 4.06 of writerinadrawer
Ab Parentis
As the last of the late evening light began to fade, the Tarmac beneath his feet gave way to leaf-strewn earth. Owen tugged his backpack tighter against his back.
He didn't recognise any of this.
He hadn't paid attention to his direction as he ran, and then walked, through streets and alleys; all that had mattered was getting away.
Anything was better than staying where he was so clearly unwanted. His mother's shrill words still rang in his head.
You've ruined my life! I don't know why I keep you sometimes!
Now that he was so thoroughly lost, though, he wondered if he should have had a bit more of a plan. His legs were beginning to ache from hours of walking. He'd pulled on a jumper as the setting sun had brought cooling temperatures, but it wasn't helping much.
The patch of scrubby trees he'd wandered into did, at least, act as a shield against the rising wind. Nevertheless, he was cold and tired, and he had no idea where to go. Home wasn't an option. Not anymore.
Shivering, Owen dropped his backpack next to one of the trees and curled up at its base, opening the bag and pulling the blanket from the top. He wished he'd thought to grab two.
It was far from the first time in his eleven years he'd considered the idea of getting away, but he hadn't really given the logistics much thought until he'd been hastily packing his bag that afternoon while his mother was out.
He rummaged further in the bag, the jangle of the plastic tub containing his life savings sounding loud in the quiet of the night. Eventually he found what he was looking for- the last of the cheese sandwiches he'd packed, now rather squashed, an equally crushed packet of crisps, and what remained of his bottle of juice.
He ate by torchlight, huddled tightly under his blanket, and trying his best to ignore the rustling noises from the nearby undergrowth.
An owl hooted in a tree nearby, startling him. His fingers wrapped reflexively around the pocketknife that had been stashed in the front of his bag. Just in case.
He kept the torch on even after he'd finished eating, sweeping out across the ground around him, watching vigilantly for anything that might appear.
Late as it was, and as tired as he was, there was no way he was sleeping any time soon. Not out here.
The crack of a fallen branch alerted Owen to the approach of something rather larger than a woodland animal. Hurriedly, he switched off the torch, tucking himself even closer against the tree, pulling his backpack into his lap.
He recognised the smell even before the stumbling figure got close; it was the same smell the homeless drunk that slept down the bottom of his street had. Pungent, it caught in his throat, making him nauseous.
The man weaved towards him; Owen didn't think he could see him, but he was terrified of what might happen if he was noticed. He'd seen the tramp on his street get pretty wild. His heart thumped painfully in his chest; he controlled his breathing only through the fear of being heard.
He came within a few feet of Owen, and for a second he thought he'd been spotted, but then he passed on by, bumping into a few trees as he faded into the darkness.
Trembling, not entirely due to the chill in the air, Owen switched his little torch back on and resumed his sweep for other, less human, interlopers on his spot.
He fought back a yawn. It was going to be a long night.
Early dawn sunlight woke him from a light sleep a few hours later. The battery on his torch was long dead, he was freezing, and his stomach was gnawing at him.
None of this had gone how he'd hoped.
With a new determination to stick it out there, for a few more years at least, Owen repacked his belongings, stood up, and tried to work out which way led back home.
He tried not to wonder if his mother had even noticed he'd gone.
The End
Comments and concrit always welcomed!
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Owen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing. (Well, I own my new flat, but not Torchwood.)
Spoilers: None
Summary: Owen just needed to get away.
Author's Note: Written for Round 4.06 of writerinadrawer
Ab Parentis
As the last of the late evening light began to fade, the Tarmac beneath his feet gave way to leaf-strewn earth. Owen tugged his backpack tighter against his back.
He didn't recognise any of this.
He hadn't paid attention to his direction as he ran, and then walked, through streets and alleys; all that had mattered was getting away.
Anything was better than staying where he was so clearly unwanted. His mother's shrill words still rang in his head.
You've ruined my life! I don't know why I keep you sometimes!
Now that he was so thoroughly lost, though, he wondered if he should have had a bit more of a plan. His legs were beginning to ache from hours of walking. He'd pulled on a jumper as the setting sun had brought cooling temperatures, but it wasn't helping much.
The patch of scrubby trees he'd wandered into did, at least, act as a shield against the rising wind. Nevertheless, he was cold and tired, and he had no idea where to go. Home wasn't an option. Not anymore.
Shivering, Owen dropped his backpack next to one of the trees and curled up at its base, opening the bag and pulling the blanket from the top. He wished he'd thought to grab two.
It was far from the first time in his eleven years he'd considered the idea of getting away, but he hadn't really given the logistics much thought until he'd been hastily packing his bag that afternoon while his mother was out.
He rummaged further in the bag, the jangle of the plastic tub containing his life savings sounding loud in the quiet of the night. Eventually he found what he was looking for- the last of the cheese sandwiches he'd packed, now rather squashed, an equally crushed packet of crisps, and what remained of his bottle of juice.
He ate by torchlight, huddled tightly under his blanket, and trying his best to ignore the rustling noises from the nearby undergrowth.
An owl hooted in a tree nearby, startling him. His fingers wrapped reflexively around the pocketknife that had been stashed in the front of his bag. Just in case.
He kept the torch on even after he'd finished eating, sweeping out across the ground around him, watching vigilantly for anything that might appear.
Late as it was, and as tired as he was, there was no way he was sleeping any time soon. Not out here.
The crack of a fallen branch alerted Owen to the approach of something rather larger than a woodland animal. Hurriedly, he switched off the torch, tucking himself even closer against the tree, pulling his backpack into his lap.
He recognised the smell even before the stumbling figure got close; it was the same smell the homeless drunk that slept down the bottom of his street had. Pungent, it caught in his throat, making him nauseous.
The man weaved towards him; Owen didn't think he could see him, but he was terrified of what might happen if he was noticed. He'd seen the tramp on his street get pretty wild. His heart thumped painfully in his chest; he controlled his breathing only through the fear of being heard.
He came within a few feet of Owen, and for a second he thought he'd been spotted, but then he passed on by, bumping into a few trees as he faded into the darkness.
Trembling, not entirely due to the chill in the air, Owen switched his little torch back on and resumed his sweep for other, less human, interlopers on his spot.
He fought back a yawn. It was going to be a long night.
Early dawn sunlight woke him from a light sleep a few hours later. The battery on his torch was long dead, he was freezing, and his stomach was gnawing at him.
None of this had gone how he'd hoped.
With a new determination to stick it out there, for a few more years at least, Owen repacked his belongings, stood up, and tried to work out which way led back home.
He tried not to wonder if his mother had even noticed he'd gone.
The End
Comments and concrit always welcomed!