all in all that i know there's nothing here to run from
Jack has been in the agora for some time, a recently roughed-up but currently well groomed young man sitting still and unobtrusive. If there have been questions asked around him, it would be difficult to say he heard them; he certainly hasn't been answering. Just sitting.
Beside him is a single bottle of champagne - the good stuff, gold foil encasing the top and a butterfly embossed on the label, but it's unopened and untouched. The few glasses beside it on the bench have been similarly neglected. In fact, the only thing around him that seems to be receiving any attention is a well-worn slip of paper, folded neatly in half. He passes it between his fingers every so often, not bothering to read it, like he's just reassuring himself that it's real.
He shouldn't be here. He hasn't been for weeks, with the war at home keeping him busy enough, and when it didn't he found something else, anything distract him from fears he couldn't help and dared not voice. But those fears have abated - replaced by new ones, yes, but if he's careful he might just get away with airing these, in his usual backhanded way.
"Parents," he starts, leaning back on his bench with a bob of his eyebrows and a wry smile. (It's fake, but then most of his smiles are.) "We all have them, and they all manage to screw us up somehow. So what have yours done? Or failed to do, as the case may be."
Beside him is a single bottle of champagne - the good stuff, gold foil encasing the top and a butterfly embossed on the label, but it's unopened and untouched. The few glasses beside it on the bench have been similarly neglected. In fact, the only thing around him that seems to be receiving any attention is a well-worn slip of paper, folded neatly in half. He passes it between his fingers every so often, not bothering to read it, like he's just reassuring himself that it's real.
He shouldn't be here. He hasn't been for weeks, with the war at home keeping him busy enough, and when it didn't he found something else, anything distract him from fears he couldn't help and dared not voice. But those fears have abated - replaced by new ones, yes, but if he's careful he might just get away with airing these, in his usual backhanded way.
"Parents," he starts, leaning back on his bench with a bob of his eyebrows and a wry smile. (It's fake, but then most of his smiles are.) "We all have them, and they all manage to screw us up somehow. So what have yours done? Or failed to do, as the case may be."