Start at the End

They say you never know what you have until it’s gone.

Jak held me in his arms, breathing hard as he rushed down a deserted street before ducking into an alley. Sweat made his red hair cling to the pain on his face, and his striking white eyes refused to convey any of the emotion I knew he was feeling.

For everyone this is true.

They were coming, surrounding us like vultures descending on a dying animal. He could sense them, hear their pulses and feel their eagerness for violence, and he never once looked down at me. Soon he pushed everything away, his body going numb as he was trained to do, and the deep wound in his calf that was the source of his heavy limp became nothing more than an annoying bug bite. When this state of mind had been achieved, he broke out into a full out sprint.

You always take what you have for granted. No one ever wants to admit it, but it’s true. If anyone has ever had the pleasure of seeing what you care about most taken away from you, like I have, then you know the world at that moment seems to go in slow motion. Sometimes you don’t even know it’s the most important thing until then.

It was a dead end. The path he’d chosen had stopped suddenly, and we were trapped. Behind us the Project was catching up, and above us the flat walls of buildings rose to impossible heights. There was nowhere else to run, nowhere else to hide. He took me to one of the walls and propped me up against it, pressing his pistol into my hand. A sad smile was all that moved his otherwise smooth and perfect face, and after he ran his bloody hand through my hair in a gentle caress, he turned to the mouth of the ally to face his old companions.

When it’s gone, all you can think about is how you could have prevented it. How you could have saved that thing you cared so much about. Thoughts filled with ‘If Only’ and ‘Why Didn’t I’, thoughts that drive people to insanity after the only conclusion they come to is… It was all my fault.

The murderers finally descended, falling from the rooftops and blocking the only exit, and Jak engaged in battle not only wounded but also grossly outnumbered by the other twelve Project members. It was no surprise they overtook him in a relatively short amount of time, and though I tried to back him up I only had the six bullets, and these people were not human. I was defenseless once he was captured, held by two burly men while a third commenced to kick his chest in. Blood erupted from his throat in mouthfuls that he spat onto the ground between blows.

All I could think about at that moment was how I wished I had realized it sooner. That I hadn’t chosen to be stubborn, to cling to what I thought was normality and deny him over and over again.

I wished I had never met him at all.

The only female among them, coincidentally their leader as well, came over to me and knelt down to look into my face. She was beautiful, perfect and without a flaw, without real emotion. She cocked her head slightly to one side and I spat in her face.

“You’re monsters,” I snarled, and like lightning her hand shot forward and grasped my neck, pulling me to my feet and pinning me against the wall with terrible strength. I clawed at her arm, gasping and choking as she turned her head and gave the order for the trio to leave the traitor be. Jak fell to the ground in a heaving mass, bloody and broken, and as I writhed against the woman his white eyes found mine in the most comforting fashion.

“Do you love him?”

I loved him. With all of my heart, I worshiped the ground on which he walked. He saw me for who I was, pushed me to do what I never could before. He was my angel, my savior, my protector. My friend.

I loved him.

I didn’t answer, I couldn’t answer. And when she became impatient she dropped me to the ground and snatched the pistol Jak had given me off the cement. The man struggled to his knees, letting his eyes wander from my face to hers as she ripped open his jacket and removed a fresh clip from the folds. He coughed, she cocked, and silent words were passed between the pair that only they understood; words that caused her brow to wrinkle in complete anger. Without a second thought she raised the gun and emptied the clip into his chest.

I never knew what I’d had until he was gone.

-- I --

“… Lucipher Manlove.”

“It’s Lucky.”

The first day of school is always the hardest. After a summer of spending all of my time outside, doing odd jobs, working on commissions or just generally trying to keep out of trouble, it had been easy to forget how cruelly unimaginative my peers really were. And, with a name like mine, it tended to bring about the same responses no matter where I went.

“What the fuck kind of name is Manlove?” Someone on the other side of the room chirped, receiving a few misplaced giggles in return. “What are you, some kind of homo-freak?”

“That kind of language will get you sent to the office, McGevvin. I won’t warn you again. Whoever had you last year may have let you slide, but I’m not in the mood for your crap. Now everyone take out your notebooks. I want to get through today’s lesson so you have time to work on the homework.” Even though the teacher had shut the kid up then, I knew for a fact it wouldn’t end. It never did. To console myself, and for lack of actual notebook paper which I wasn’t about to ask for, I brought out my sketchpad and commenced to study the teacher.

He was heavy-set, broad shouldered and rather squat though handsome in the face regardless. A little baby-like, but you could tell stress from the years under his belt was taking a toll on his complexion. Very German. Deep-set eyes gave for an interestingly strong brow line, which I took great pleasure in penciling in, and the scruffy beard put good texture on an otherwise smooth face. All in all, the sketch was quite successful even though it only took me a few minutes to put down. It looked real; a captured moment of a man who loved his job giving an intense lecture on the economic status of the country however many decades ago and comparing it to that same moment. Both of his arms were outstretched in different directions, one pointing at a shaded block which was the smart-board, the other waving frantically trying to get his point across to a sea of grey faces. I held it up to view without the awkward desk angle. It was disproportional.

“Wow, that’s pretty good…” A feminine voice whispered gently behind me, and when I looked over my shoulder the smiling face of an older redhead greeted me. “Are you an artist?”

“S-some what,” I managed to choke out. “I try to be…”

“Manlove, eyes up front!” The teacher barked from his desk, where he had sat down to do something on his computer and make it show up on the board. I quickly turned around and his eyes went back to the screen. A finger poked me in the back of the neck and her hand came next to my arm, palm up.

“May I look?” She asked softly, and who was I to deny such a sweet girl? I forked over the sketchbook, wishing I had kept it in better order. Random pages of lined and unlined paper filled with quick sketches, coloring splotches, test strokes, and even notes had been stuffed inside, giving the whole thing a raggish appearance. But each sheet she handled with care, making sure to put it back in the exact same place it had been before. Her dark eyes studied each piece with an intensity I’d only seen in other artists prior, and when she was finished towards the end of the class, she just smiled and handed it back.

The bell rang.

“See you later,” She half giggled, picking up her books and holding them to her chest in the most ridiculously adorable way as she walked out.

“Do you want some help, Lucipher?” The teacher asked, having suddenly appeared next to my desk. Even though he was short he towered over me. But then again, everyone did.

“Please, call me Lucky. Lucipher just sounds so… Christian. In a bad way. Not that I have anything against Christians, it’s just Lucipher is the first fallen angel and he turned into basically a demon, so religious people often end up calling me devil child or something along those lines, if you know what I mean. I mean, I didn’t choose to have the name, it’s just-”

“Manlove, do you need help getting to your next class or will you be fine?” He interrupted, cutting off my rambling. That was another annoying quirk about myself. I rambled when I was nervous.

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Simons. I’m more capable than I appear.” I picked up my books and shoved them in my backpack.

“Alright. If your next class is downstairs the elevator is just around the corner. Please be careful, alright?”

“Thank you for your concern, but really, I’m fine. See you tomorrow, Mr. Simons.” I turned my chair and he dodged out of the way, allowing me to wheel myself out of the room safely now that the rest of the students were gone. Skillfully I veered into the current of bodies and made my way to the elevator, almost getting knocked over by some idiots who were throwing a girls purse around like a football.

It was just another perilous day with Brown-Sequard Syndrome, though the rest of it passed with little actual trouble. As always I was given shit for my name in every class, and even one of my teachers had to chime in on the whole “Lucipher” thing. A desk neighbor was kind enough to explain to me that the woman was decisively Christian, which was truly self explanatory. The one teacher that I made a good connection with, however, was my art teacher, which I was expecting for the most part. I’d actually met him prior to the class, which was my last hour, so the relationship was pretty much solidified earlier that morning. What did surprise me, however, was that my little red-headed history friend was also taking the class. It wasn’t a fancy art class; unfortunately I had a bitch school counselor and she wasn’t letting me take any of the legit art classes until I took the two foundations classes. However, my teacher was sympathetic to my plight and agreed to allow me free reign of media for the assignments, which lessened the annoyance.

However, when I saw her in the class, I forgot about pretty much everything.

Frozen in the doorway I found myself unable to tear my eyes from her face. She had an almost perfectly symmetrical build, with petite but high cheekbones that were just prominent enough to give her an almost elf-like appearance. Her eyes were wide and expressive, a deep almond-amber color, like lightly roasted coffee beans, and accentuated a button nose that curved up in a dolly fashion. Her jaw was long and sleek, perfect for a three-fourths angling, and the wispy, light, long red hair, closer to the shade of a lion’s mane than anything else, was pulled back in a high pony tail that let her split bangs frame her face in a particularly pleasing way.

In short, she was gorgeous.

“Day-dreaming, Lucy?” My art teacher, Mr. Whitaker, came up behind me and placed a long fingered hand on my shoulder harshly, purposefully. I jumped, and his rolling laugh tumbled out of his rosy lips into my blushing ears. He’d already found a pet name for me the same morning, when he read my name off of his attendance list without his glasses and said Lucy-fern Mendoua instead of Lucipher Manlove. When I corrected him and he put on his glasses he just decided he liked Lucy better. After a small push from the same hand we were both in the classroom, and by that time the red-head had noticed my coming in. She didn’t look surprised at all, instead sweetly smiling at me with her cherry red lips and toffee coffee eyes which turned my cheeks into tomatoes and out of pure embarrassed anxiety I took the nearest table edge that I could scurry to, and angled away from her. The heat on my cheeks burned as Whitaker spoke.

“We’ve all been working hard on this last project, and I’m quite proud of everyone’s progress so far. However, in the spirit of friendliness and knowledge, we’re going to spend the first half of the day getting to know our newest class contributor, Lucipher Manlove.” He motioned at me with his fingerless-gloved hand and the entire class turned in my direction. Awkwardly I tried to smile as a few disinterested whispers whisked through the class, but there were no jeers or snickers, or even a small giggle. Whitaker beckoned me to the front, and with a bit of confidence I wheeled over and turned to face the class.

“Lucky has attended three separate art schools in the last six years of his life, and has been featured in four shows at the Chicago Gallery. He’s sold several pieces of varying media to many people, and possibly may be one of the friendliest guys I’ve met in this hell hole since I started working here ten years ago.” Many people nodded, a few were examining me with interested gleams in their eyes, and the other three of the class were in the corner trying not to laugh at a picture on someone’s cell phone. “Anyone have any questions relating to art or his life that you would like to know?” A few students looked down as if avoiding the question. “Anyone?”

The red-head raised her hand.

“Yes, Olivia?” Olivia…

“What’s your preference of oils versus acrylics when it comes to painting something complex like layers of flowers, or a portrait?”

Olivia…

“Lucy?”

“Olivia…”

“Yeah, she asked your opinion on acrylics and oils for paintings.”

“Oh! U-uhm--” I drew a blank for a second, trying recall her exact words. It took me a moment, and I must have broke a sweat because the teacher was just about to break in when I start on -- “It really depends on which you feel most comfortable with. I was raised on classic art, so my mother taught me how to use more oil based pigments rather than the standard acrylics you buy at the stores. When it comes to sharpness, however, it depends on how realistically you want the painting to look. If you want it to come out more like a picture, as if you’ve taken a snap-shot of a moment, I would suggest using acrylic cause it usually has a much cleaner finish when applied with water or thinner acrylics. But if you’re looking for a classic, almost unfinished look I say work with oils. They’re much easier to blend as well, at least in my opinion, and take a much longer time to dry, so if you’re using complicated color balances in the mixes of your pallet, using oils would be the easier than acrylics just because it’s easier to save colors rather than guess and check when an acrylic shade dries.”

Once I’d finished I realized I’d gone off on a huge lecture that was almost entirely my own opinion, and felt like a total dick. But the smile on Olivia’s face made me want to smile, and from behind me I could hear a low, cheerful chuckle from Mr. Whitaker.

That was the first time in a long time I actually felt comfortable in a class room with someone else other than the teacher. It was quite a memorable moment.

But damn, Olivia was fine…

A few more questions were fired, some more in-depth than others, but it was a pretty enjoyable discussion once topics of class interest came up and everyone got involved. We ended up using the whole period talking, and Mr. Whitaker became a huge part of it being the charismatic and almost childish man that he was. But too soon the bell rang and the students filed out of the room in groups of two or three as I maneuvered back to my things. I was just 'placing' some papers into my bag when a shadow crept onto the table in front of me and a few red hairs swung into view.

"Lucy, huh?" She giggled, and her cream filled coffee eyes met mine when I raised my head.

"... yeah... That's his fault." I pointed to the teacher, who didn't look up from his computer but smiled playfully regardless as the screen flashed in his circular spectacles.

"I think it's kind of cute." She paused, staring at me for a moment before reaching across the table and offering her hand. I shook it modestly. "I'm Olivia Airhart. I work with the guidance counselors to manage the student body and track the progress of certain students. Mostly the Special Ed. ones, but occasionally..."

"Someone like me, right?" I asked with a sigh. I knew it was just too good to be true. A beautiful girl like her wouldn't talk to me if she didn't have to.

"Sort of. But technically you're not assigned to me, you're assigned to Rechell. She's... uhm... interesting to say the least... You'll definitely never be bored with her."

"Ain't that the truth!" Whitaker piped up, laughing melodically as his childish eyes turned to us.

"Well, all I noticed is that you were drawing in our other class. I like art a lot, but I'm not nearly as good as you."

"Please...," I mumbled, looking away from her down at the armrest of my chair. "I'm not that good."

"I read your file over lunch. Other than getting busted for cigarettes at the first school, your track record is fabulous. Your past teachers have compared you to numerous artists, including Raphael, and you're saying you're not that good?" She gave me this strange look, like she wanted to crack me upside the head. I thought she was about to, too, but just then her cellphone vibrated and she pulled away from the table, taking it out, flipping it open, and pressing it to her ear in one chain of fluid motion. "Hey. Yeah, I'm here still. Why? ... You forgot it again? I told you- ... Fine, I'll grab it and be out in a minute. Yeah. Sure... Wait, I thought- Whatever, it's fine, we can do something tomorrow if you're free. Yeah. Mmhm. Yeah. Love you too. Bye." She snapped it closed and nearly hissed as she shoved it back into her bag. "See you tomorrow Mr. Whitaker, I have to go grab Chuck's Psych book from his locker." She turned to me, smiled sadly, and half whispered; "See you tomorrow, too, Lucky."

And then she was gone.

"She's a sweet heart. I don't understand why she subjects herself to that asshole of a boyfriend." Whitaker had shifted, leaning back in his cushy chair with his booted feet flopped onto the top of his desk like a teenager. He folded his arms behind his head, staring after the memory of Olivia in the doorway just like I was. "But that's her choice, I suppose. Shouldn't you be heading home?" He glanced over at me, raising a blonde eyebrow.

"I don't have a curfew. I only live with my uncle, and he really doesn't give a shit. Plus, after being in and out of different dumbass schools for the past few years it's easy to learn how to be independent." I sighed inwardly, leaning on my arm as I let my head fall into the corresponding hand. I could feel a migraine coming on.

"You swear a lot."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to, it's just kind of..."

"I know. Art school is much less conservative than the general public schools. I'm not old enough quite yet to have forgotten it. Or gotten rid of it." He smiled at me, getting up from his desk and walking over to me. Grabbing the back of my chair he pushed me and my things to the swing door and out into the hall.

"I didn't mean it like that," I sighed, but he just laughed as I was wheeled down the already mostly deserted hallways.

"I know, Lucky. I know. I'm just being silly, okay? Loosen up a little." He laughed again, reaching up and ruffling my hair playfully. "You're supposed to be a kid, so act like it."

"I think you act enough like one for both of us."

"Now that hurt!" He pouted. "I thought you were a nice boy."

"I'm sorry. Does Mr. Whiskers want a scratch under the chin and a treat so he feels better?" I turned my head up, looking at his face from the awkward angle. He smiled a strange smile, keeping his eyes forward.

"Mr. Whiskers... That's a new one." He chuckled lightly. "I kind of like it."