A/N: This was my NaNoWriMo novel for 2007 I’m really proud of myself for finishing it! Unfortunately it’s filled with inconsistencies and the like. Please ignore the spelling/grammatical errors and minor inconsistencies. However, I’d love to hear opinions on the story itself, despite how bizarre it is x)

Rated M for explicit drug use, occasional bad language, and some sexuality near the end. Minor slash.

Thanks!

Do You Believe in the Ocean?

Batman’s Sidekick

I inhaled.

The crisp winter air chilled me right down to the bone, and I felt my toes curl and my spine stiffen. The day was bright and beautiful despite the cold wind that stung my face. Licking my lips, I closed the window softly, so as not to knock the intricately painted porcelain dolls off my windowsill. They stared up at me with empty blue eyes, while their cherry-red lips puckered out into what I was sure would be a ‘thank you’ if such lips had the ability to speak.

My mother would have beat me within an inch of my life should any of those dolls have fallen. They had passed through my family from generation to generation, smiling down on many of my ancestors the same way they smiled down on me.

Something caught my eye out the window. I leaned forward, pressing my chubby young face against the glass attentively. My eyes followed a single figure sprinting across the hill toward the woods, long hair flying, suggesting this was a woman. Upon more careful observation I noticed she was Mr. Murphy’s young daughter, about sixteen years old and six years my senior. But why was her hair down? Throughout my life the only woman I ever saw with her hair down was my own mother, and it happened so infrequently I could probably count the occasions on one hand.

She sprinted into the trees and I lost sight of her, a new figure coming into my vision. Her father, overweight and red-faced, ambled after her as fast as his legs could carry him. At first I figured the sight to be comical, until I noticed the large crowd following after him, soon catching up to him and enveloping the older man among themselves. I recognized every face.

A few of the younger men, in worn leather jackets and faded blue jeans, broke off from the mob and sprinted ahead, disappearing into the trees after the girl. My breath was coming fast, fogging up the window and obscuring my vision of the scene. My glasses clinked against the window as I pressed my face closer. I had seen plenty of mobs like this one before, running down various people from our community and dragging them back to deal out their punishment.

I racked my brain to think of the girl’s name – our community is very large, you know – and got my answer from the screams and cries of the mob now fifty feet from my window. Rebecca. I couldn’t exactly recall what she was like. Young boys like me didn’t make it a habit to reside in the company of older women.

I watched the young men reappear, gripping Rebecca’s arms tightly. She wasn’t struggling or screaming or putting up any fight. My face couldn’t be pressed any closer to the window, so I splayed my hands across the glass to steady my weight.

Rebecca was wearing a purple blouse and a denim skirt that went to her knees. She looked like any other woman in our little town if it hadn’t been for the long hair that the young men now grasped in their hands, tugging unmercifully despite the girl’s screams of protest to stop. They ripped out chunks and chunks of that hair, taking her scalp with it until half he head was covered in blood and she was sobbing from the pain. The rest of the mob went for her clothing – I watched purple shreds touch the sky and strips of denim kiss the ground.

I was so engrossed in watching this rare spectacle – one I had only witnessed a few times in my young life – that I didn’t notice my elbow move as I shifted my weight. The startling sound of two porcelain dolls hitting the floor and shattering into a thousand tiny pieces seemed to stab me like knife, rendering me motionless and speechless right there in the sitting room, until a sound even more frightening reached my ears.

“ROBIN!” I heard my mother erupt from the dining room. I could envision her in my mind’s eye – her gargantuan body draped over an old wooden chair, a cup of coffee in one hand and a permanent scowl etched on her pig-like features. “Robin James, if that sound is what I think it was, I’ll-“

I didn’t get to hear the end of my mother’s threat. By this time I had scampered out the back door and was sprinting toward my only refuge from my mother‘s wrath – the forest.

As I ran, I pondered what had unfolded on the other side of our house. Attacks weren’t the norm in my community, believe me, but I still couldn’t help but wonder what Rebecca had said or done that had prompted this brutal attack. The fact that she let her hair down alone wasn’t enough to initiate this kind of abuse, but then again, my father had been telling me that lately punishment had been dealt out much more severely than in the past. This frightened me – would I have my jeans yanked down, my pale bottom in the air, and be whipped mercilessly in public by the governor, to the point that I bled, just for shattering my mother’s porcelain dolls?

When I reached the forest I slowed my pace and risked a look behind me. Our house looked a lot smaller from here, and I could see some of the other community houses, as well as my little sister running in circles around a bush, looking utterly foolish.

I finally turned away and began my descent into the forest I knew so well. My thoughts slowly began to slip away from me, and I felt unattached and distant from the rest of the world as my feet worked mechanically through the brush, leading me deeper and deeper through the trees. I recall talking to myself as I walked.

“I suppose Mama will kill me for what I did. Those dolls meant a lot to her. I liked the blond one. I kind of imagine my wife will look like that one day if I ever have one. Is it weird to want your wife to look like a doll? I suppose it is. Either way, she’ll have curly blond hair and blue eyes.”

Of course, I wasn’t pondering the fact that blond were rare in our town, and those young blond girls that did come about every so often would probably never give me a second look. I had a gap between my front teeth and freckles all over my face and chest. My future didn’t look promising either – my father was short and overweight, with hair that had begun to thin early in his youth. He was now twenty-eight years old and his hair line was creeping up towards the crown of his head.

I wondered who my true mother was.

As I walked, the sun began to sink behind the trees, casting an orange glow around the tall shadows of the fir and oaks. I wasn’t worried about getting lost; I knew these woods well and had explored them since my young childhood. Even the approaching darkness didn’t scare me.

A twig snapped. Someone else was in the forest.

I stopped dead. My worn-out Nikes sunk into the weeds and grass I was standing on, and I remained as still as possible. The sound was getting louder.

I was reminded of those tales my father used to tell me about all kinds of scary creatures in the woods, and that the number one way to realize they were after you is to stop and listen to the twigs snapping. By the point it was all over and you were as good as dead. Mama had whacked the back of my father’s head and called him moronic and superstitious, not to mention irresponsible for filling my head with all these lies and pointless fears.

The sound kept growing louder, and I figured I’d rather meet whatever creature was approaching than have it meet me first. Gathering up my courage, I ventured forward down the sloping hill I had been standing atop, trying to locate the source of the noise. My answer came once I reached the bottom of the hill. Not ten feet away, a figure slightly larger than myself was walking away from me, apparently unaware of the noise I had made coming down the hill. I guessed the figure was a boy, but because many girls I saw around town wore their hair so short or so cleverly pulled back that I couldn’t be sure. The person’s clothes were strange, too. Jeans, similar to my own but in much better condition hung on slim hips, revealing the hem of plaid boxer shorts. The red shirt the figure wore looked delicate, judging by the way it kept snagging on various branches and twigs.

“Shit,” a distinctly masculine voice snapped his remark cutting into me like a knife. Profanity was very much forbidden in the community, and the last time I’d heard the “s” word was two years ago, when my mother at down in a chair clearly not appropriate for supporting her massive weight and crashed through the delicate wood in a mass of splinters that flew through the air. Hearing this stranger utter the words for trivial a reason as snagged clothing perplexed me greatly.

“Um… could you turn around, please?” I called out, or rather, squeaked out. It was as if my voice had suddenly decided to leave me, cowardly hiding in the back of my throat.

The person jumped, startled, and I immediately felt bad.

“Um, I’m sorry…” I began, but stopped when I saw him turn around.

The back of his head had been plain, chestnut-colored brown hair, but from the front I realized he had a shock of side swept white-blond bangs hanging over his blue eyes. I had never seen hair grow two different colors like that, especially when one of the colors happened to be blond of all things. The rest of his face was plain-looking and young, though I could tell he was obviously older than me by about three or four years.

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” he chirped, sounding strangely happy despite the fact that I had just scared him. “You just kinda scared me there for a sec.”

The words caught in my throat again; I had to struggle to get them out.

“Um… yeah, look, we should get back to the town soon…”

“Town?” he placed his hands on his hips, quirking an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there was any town around here. The RV site is aways from any kind of town, kid.”

His use to the word ‘kid’ annoyed me a little. Most townspeople I knew respected the fact that children are indeed people as well, and deserve to be called by their proper names, not some kitschy nickname.

“My name is Robin,” I corrected him. “And we really should-“

“Like Batman?” he grinned, apparently finding amusement out of a joke I didn’t understand. He noticed the confused look on my face and scratched the back of his head.

“Naw, I guess you’re too young to remember the good ‘ol Batman and Robin cartoons. Kids these days.” He grinned again, and I couldn’t help but cross my arms childishly, as if I was a figure of authority. But as this stranger approached me, I realized he must have been about nine inches taller than me. Still, I held my ground, sticking out my lower lip in a pout.

“It’s getting late, your mama will want you home-“

“I’m not with my mom, squirt, I go camping with my dad. Mom’s in Georgia right now. Divorced. You know the works.”

I didn’t. This boy was firing off a variety of words I had never heard in my life, like Georgia and Divorced. I wondered if they were people, and made the mistake of asking him.

He burst out laughing and threw his arm around my shoulders, kind of hugging me from the side as he laughed. I’d never been touched like the before, and quickly ducked my head out from under his arm and backed up.

“Well aren’t we saucy,” he teased, still wearing that obnoxious grin of his. Color rose to my cheeks and I straightened my shirt. This seemed to direct his attention to my clothes, and he ran a hand through his multi-colored hair.

“Damn, did someone throw you into the eighties and then pull you back out? Christ.”

Eighties. Christ. All were words unfamiliar to me. The discomfort rose in my stomach, and I began to feel nauseous. The fact that I had never seen this stranger in the community, combined with his unfamiliar clothing, vocabulary, hair… even his accent sounded strange. His vowels sounded short and slurred, the words sounding harsh and rough, if that makes any sense. To put it simply, though I didn’t know it at the time, I was encountering a Grade A case of deep Georgian speak.

“Not very talkative, are you?” he continued, running a hand through his hair again.

I felt nervous. Whoever this person was, there was no way he was from the community, and that fact scared me. I contemplated running, but one look at the other boy’s long legs told me that would be a certain unsuccessful attempt.

“Why is your hair like that?” I blurted out, the only attempt at conversation I could possibly muster.

He stared at me a moment, and I thought he was going to laugh at me again. He didn’t, though I could tell he was struggling to hold it in so as not to upset me again.

“Uh… hair bleach. Aunt’s a hairdresser. Makes sure I look my best, y’know?”

The mental image of human hair outfitted in a little pink dress invaded my mind. Usually something like that would make me laugh, but in this kid’s presence I obviously could not bring myself to do so. The entire situation was just bizarre, and his answer to my question was just another question mark metaphorically looming over his multi-colored head.

An awkward silence descended as I tried to come up with something else I could ask him that wouldn’t run the risk of confusing me or making him laugh.

“What’s your name?” I finally asked, figuring I might as well make myself properly acquainted. If Mama had been there she would have whooped me ten time from Sunday for acting so rude to someone I didn’t know.

He scratched his nose. “Carter.”

I was surprised. The name was plain, and I knew a few boys of the same name living in the community.

“I guess I’ll… head back to town now,” I said, and made a sort of half-turn back towards the hill. This was another attempt to try and get him to head back to the community with me, where I’d watch him run home to his house and I’d see his Mama and father scold him for being late, then send him to bed early as punishment.

Unfortunately that’s not what happened.

“I guess I’ll see ya, kiddo,” Carter muttered, his grin finally faltering. This made me regret my cold unfriendliness toward him – despite his obnoxiousness, he’s hadn’t been outright mean to me.

“Um, okay. Thanks for talking to me, Carter,” I said softly. He gave a little shrug, winked at me, and then turned and began heading back the way he apparently came. I stood there at the bottom of the hill, watching him slowly walk away, his red shirt helping him stand out in the browns and greens of the foliage. Finally I lost sight of him, and leaned a big against an old oak tree, thinking.

He wasn’t from the community- that was obvious. I had already considered the differences between Carter and myself, but were there any similarities?

He was human. He was male. He spoke English.

That was all I could come up with.

I kept thinking about Carter as I trudged my way back home. Strangely enough, the fact that he had not asked for my name when I had asked his was something that really hit me hard. Maybe I was just expecting too much from strangers, and after all, I did act coldly towards him.

Divorced. Hairdresser. Eighties. Christ.

The house looked peaceful and serene as I made my way out of the forest. The orange sky behind it made it look dark, and I could see lights on in almost every room. Our house was compact and quaint, a two-story cottage with three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a primitive bathroom. I say our bathroom was primitive because despite the fact that everyone had decent appliances, all the water used by said appliances came from a river to the south of the community. And all of our plumbing emptied out into a river north of the community. We figured this was enough to keep the germs and bacteria out of the water. What we didn’t know was that the river merely looped around the village, so contaminated and uncontaminated river water was all in the same.

The moment I walked through the door my mother bashed me over the head with the handle-end of her broom, sending me sprawling on the floor.

“WHERE WERE YOU?!” she bellowed. I was reminded of a hurricane, blowing its powerful gusts of winds across the land while goliath waves crashed against the shore, water spraying. Whack. Her broom were the gusts of winds, blowing me across the room and sending me flying across the hardwood floor, just unlucky debris flying through the air. “YOU SMASHED MY DOLL! YOU SMASHED A DOLL AND RAN, YOU LITTLE COWARD!” Whack. She had hit me in the face this time and my lips began to bleed on to the wooden floor. “AFRAID OF MAMA’S WRATH, WERE YOU?!”

I had been flogged by my mother before, but since I was older now I think she went harder on me than she ever hard. My finger strung horribly when she brought the handle crashing down on my hand, splayed on the floor. I howled in pain; a silver nail of pain drilled itself into my now-broken hand. My sobs were illegible pleads for mercy, soft as a whisper compared to Mama’s barbaric shrieks and bellows.

A few seconds went by without my mother hitting me and I weakly raised my head. Mama was still screaming, but two straining arms had grabbed her under the arms and were trying to pull her back. My father was struggling to calm her down.

“Ness… Ness, relax, please, you’re hurting him…” His voice was calm and slightly forced; he took a deep breath and heaved his body weight backwards, lifting Mama into the air. Her feet kicked out wildly; her face looked purple and swollen.

“Ness, breathe!”

Slowly my mother’s rage began to subside. She took a few deep breaths and stopped kicking – her clothes were wet from where the sweat had soaked through the fabric.

I struggled to my feet, cradling my hand against my chest. My father was leading Mama away toward their bedroom door. By now Mama was crying, so enraged that tears poured out of her eyes and her words were now nothing more than forced, choked sobs. My father was speaking in hushed tones, and he had his arm around her wide shoulders.

I just stood there stupidly, my face crumpled up and tears leaking out of my eyes, watching Mama and my father make their way into their room before he quietly shut the door. My hand wasn’t bleeding and my finger wasn’t bent in any kind of disgusting direction or anything, but it had begun to swell and was now a bright red color.

I went outside. The sun was just now disappearing over the horizon, the sky darkening fast. I could see the black outlines of the forest trees, and the wisps of smoke happily puffing their way out of the houses’ chimneys. I hadn’t lit our fireplace yet.

It took me a few minutes but I managed to find a sturdy stick. I broke it into pieces and pressed one end against my finger, then went inside and tied a few inches of yarn around it to keep it in place. It didn’t work well; no matter how tight I tied the string, the stick still seemed to slide away from my finger and out of the knot.

I was surprised my glasses hadn’t broken. One lens had a bit of a scratch in it but I could still see perfectly fine. The thick black rims were strong, and the even thicker lens was nearly impossible to break, not to mention they improved my poor vision considerably.

My father and Mama did not come out of their bedroom for the rest of the night. I sat there on our sofa in the living room for a few hours, and when it seemed apparent they had no intentions of coming out and feeding me, I helped myself to sandwich. Turkey on wheat. I wondered where Carter was without even realizing it, and then mentally slapped myself. What a ridiculous thought. Carter was in town, with his family, happily eating a warm dinner with his own parents.

My sister Victoria had been missing since I had fled from the house that afternoon. Another family had probably taken her in; that kind of thing happened often.

I could hear Mama’s snores coming from her bedroom and finally decided to go to bed.