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if_i_trace2005-09-18 09:15 pm
kintail.livejournal.com) wrote in if_i_trace2005-09-18 09:15 pm
Backstory sidefic: Aaron
Aaron's backstory. yeah I couldn't think up a better title ~_~
Timeline: Set before Justice
Rating: Mature for topics
Warnings: Oh ghods.... Death of minor characters, implied m/m relationship (no smut), violence, drugs, suicide, religion, underage, non-con. Nothing explicit, but very very dark.
Words: ~4600, in 5 chapters
Aaron
~~~~~
1. Disassociation
Aaron Lo-Davies was eight when his parents were killed, gunned down while he watched by overzealous cops who didn't seem to care that what looked like one big old run-down house on the outside was six apartments inside, cops who refused to believe that the main floor tenants weren't in league with the armed crack dealers in the basement. They died while he gripped their hands, huddled on the floor and soaked with their blood, waiting for ambulances that never came.
Aaron spent two years after that with his Grandfather Lo. The boy simplified his own last name accordingly, since it made things easier on all the forms that always needed to be filled out for Child Services. More importantly than that, it was a defiant challenge to all those who frowned and sniffed and whispered that the sullen black kid couldn't possibly be related to the cheerful old Chinese man.
Grandfather Lo's health wasn't good, however, and Child Services certainly wasn't going to let a ten year old kid miss school to look after him when the old man started having trouble taking care of himself. Aaron Lo found himself thrust into the system of foster care, to sink or swim. Fortunately, he was very comfortable in deep water, even if connecting with people didn't come easily. Perhaps that was more of a blessing than a curse, anyway.
It was made clear to him that if he became a difficult case or gave any of his foster parents too much trouble, he'd be put in the care of an Institution, that he should always be grateful for the opportunity for foster care, no matter what happened. Aaron didn't really need the extra threat to give him reason to behave and keep quiet. It wasn't too difficult. None of the foster parents he lived with were outright cruel, and he supposed some of them were even nice, in their way.
The things that happened to him, that everyone said were never supposed to happen but everyone knew happened all too often, were probably relatively mild and infrequent, as such things went. It could have been much worse. Nothing actually caused him injury, nothing happened that he couldn't endure.
It seemed that most other kids in the system were much more traumatized by it than he was, among his foster siblings at least. What happened to them angered him much more than what happened to himself. He figured most of the trauma must be psychological, social, and cultural. The gap between what people said and what everyone knew was going on seemed to be painful to them. They seemed crippled by the fear of being judged for something they had no control over, as if it defined their whole purpose in life. Taboos that had been accepted without question and deeply ingrained now seemed to poison them from within. Aaron just couldn't understand no matter how hard he thought about it.
He'd always known he wasn't typical, even before his parents died and his world got turned upside down, never to be stable or reliable ever again. He had never really fit in. He didn't seem to think or feel or react the way other kids did. Except when he was with a few special people like his parents and grandfather, he had always felt like an outsider. Different. Not normal. He made a study of humans and their behaviour as if he wasn't one himself, and tried to learn to mimic them, to pass unnoticed as one of them.
In some things, though, he was still very glad he was not affected the way his foster brothers and sisters were. Sometimes it seemed to almost destroy them, driving them to self-destructive behaviours, even attempts at suicide. There was never anything Aaron could do that wouldn't cost all of them, though, so he stifled his outrage, kept his anger on their behalf hidden away inside.
Besides, for one reason or another, he never stayed with one foster family for long before he was moved to a different home, a different school, a different neighbourhood. It didn't matter much, he was smart enough to catch up with the changes in the curriculum, and after they'd taken him away from his grandfather so soon after he'd lost his parents, he didn't allow himself to connect with anyone or anything else.
Not until he was moved across town to the historical district of the city, to the foster family who lived just down the street from the Heritage Crafts Center.
2. Connection
Aaron was the first and only foster kid these new foster parents had taken into their home. They were a white couple, fairly well off, and religious. Apparently they couldn't have children of their own without using technology they thought was immoral, so they'd decided it was their calling to save the life of some poor "unwanted" child instead. And to save his soul, too, of course.
Things started off well enough. They seemed mostly relieved (but maybe a bit bizarrely disappointed) that their requested disadvantaged racially-mixed fifteen-year-old from the inner city wasn't a drug addict (his parents had died because of drug dealers, and he'd seen what addiction did to his foster siblings), didn't run with the wrong crowd (he didn't run with any crowd, he didn't bother with the effort of making friends when he got shuffled around so often), and wasn't in danger of dropping out of school (knowledge and learning were the one refuge that he could count on always being there, the one way he might have a chance to take control of his future).
They made him go to church services and bible study classes and youth group, and though it all rubbed him the wrong way and got his hackles up, he kept his mouth shut. It was interesting, in its own way, to find himself reacting so very strongly to something, more strongly than he could justify by identifying contradictions and hypocrisies and circular logic. Such things were plentiful enough outside the church, after all.
These foster parents tempted him with the possibility, if things worked out and he proved himself worthy, that they might pay his college tuition -- to the Christian college of their choice, of course. Maybe they'd even buy him a car when he graduated. He thanked them for their generosity, and didn't believe a word of it.
They were only too happy to encourage his interest in traditional and "wholesome" activities such as those offered by the nearby Crafts Center. He didn't really care if they approved or not, as long as they allowed him to spend his free time there. The strength of his attraction to the place, to the opportunity to do something with his hands, wasn't something he could explain any more than his strong dislike for their church's teachings.
He found himself most drawn to things which required both strength and concentration, and which produced something more useful than simply decorative. Working with clay gave him more satisfaction than he ever expected. Pounding and kneading stiff scraps of leftover clay into the potential to become something new allowed him to release so much anger and violence that he hadn't even known he was holding inside. Gently coaxing a spinning mound into a new shape, tall and gracefully balanced or low and open to possibilities, flowing and changing with the turning of the wheel, gave him a meditative calm he'd been unable to find since imitating the T'ai Chi practiced by his Grandfather Lo.
The first few introductory workshops were enough to convince Aaron this was something he needed to learn, needed to do with his life, and to convince him it was something he wanted to have control over, and not owe his foster parents for. They'd already demonstrated their strange ideas about guilt and obligation, and proved how they would use them to get Aaron to do what they wanted. The pottery teacher at the Center was impressed with Aaron's determination, and set him up with an unofficial job in the Center's gift shop in exchange for more advanced lessons, supplies, and the use of the wheel and kiln when it was available. Soon his pieces were selling well in the shop, and he even got to take home a little money from the profits.
Despite the growing annoyances of church and his foster parents' guilt trips and expectations, Aaron guessed that his life was better than he had any reason to hope it could be after he'd been taken away from his Grandfather. He wasn't sure if he was actually happy, but he knew he felt more than he'd been able to feel for so very long, and most of the time, he actually liked what he felt.
Of course he never really let himself believe it could last, and it didn't.
At almost two years, his placement with that family lasted longer than any previous one. He was seventeen when his foster parents declared that since he showed no evidence of having been Born Again, had no intention of converting and being baptized, and refused to evangelize in the name of Truth, they had concluded that he wasn't one of the Elect, there was no place for him in Heaven, he wasn't meant to be saved from eternal suffering in Hell, and there was nothing more they could do for him. Within weeks, Child Services had responded to their withdrawal from the foster care system and Aaron was moved back across the sprawling city, far from the Heritage Craft Center.
3. Option
Aaron turned eighteen, graduated from high school, and got dumped out of the foster care system in rapid succession. Once he reached the age of majority and finished his final year of school, his foster parents were no longer eligible for their stipend for supporting him. Since that was the only reason they'd taken him in, he was promptly turned out. It wasn't as though he wasn't expecting it, though.
He considered joining the army, of course. It was hard not to consider it, what with all the recruitment propaganda the government was tossing around the high school in the dead-end neighbourhood. He had a feeling that he could be good in the armed forces -- maybe even very good, if given the chance to rise through the ranks -- but the same instinct made him see through the propaganda. Wars these days tended to come down to dishonourable bullying of whichever weaker countries had resources that the government wanted to control. Besides, Aaron had no illusions about his expendability: just a poor black kid from the inner city with no immediate family. No, there was no future for him in the army.
Instead he found a classmate who was in much the same situation: cut off from the foster care system upon completion of public schooling, and about to be tossed out on the street. They both found entry-level jobs on the assembly line of an automotive factory, which gave them grudging advances on their first paychecks, just enough for them to go in together on a tiny, damp, basement bachelor apartment near the industrial district. It would do for the first year, they agreed, and they'd save up for something better.
The factory paid well enough for unskilled labour, and gave them lots of overtime. Being on alternate shifts meant that they were hardly ever in the cramped apartment at the same time, only having to share the single mattress when their days off coincided. They didn't mind that much either. After all, both of them had grown up accustomed to foster parents or older foster siblings crawling into their beds and doing whatever they pleased. It was nice to know that they could say no to each other, if they wanted to.
The first year wasn't quite up when the accident happened.
Aaron was not at the factory when his roommate lost a hand to a malfunctioning machine with broken safety guards. He didn't need to have witnessed it to be deeply shaken, haunted by surreal and intense dreams of being deprived of the use of his own hands. He quit the same week, while his roommate was still in the hospital.
By the time the injured man was ready to be sent home, the factory's insurance had decided that he must have been negligent or even caused the accident deliberately in hopes for a large settlement, which was flatly denied. Of course, he was entitled to hire a lawyer to challenge the decision, if he could afford one. In the meantime, he was required to pay for his medical treatment as best he could, depleting his meager savings and going deep into debt with loan sharks.
Aaron found a new job in the warehouse of an auto parts supplier to local small garages, but his roommate could only afford an old-fashioned and ill-fitting prosthetic hand, which was far too basic to allow him to go back to factory work, or to type at an employable speed. After a couple months of unemployment, applications to social assistance that were denied because of the factory's accusations, and harassment from the loan sharks, he went to work on the streets, selling sex to anyone who wasn't too turned off by his self-described "deformity."
Aaron didn't judge him for it, though he refused to sleep with him anymore, ignoring the manipulative accusations that he too now found his roommate unattractive and disgusting. He'd seen self-destructive behaviour too many times before not to recognize that the guy wasn't being careful, and it wouldn't be long before he'd pick up several nasty things, if he hadn't already. Fortunately Aaron's savings over the past year had allowed for some new (secondhand) furniture, most importantly a second bed.
They didn't move to a better place as they'd planned. Since the accident, Aaron had been covering the rent and utilities on the basement apartment by himself, and most of the grocery bills, too. He knew his roommate couldn't afford a place of his own when he couldn't even afford his half of the rent most months, especially after a run-in with the loan sharks' thugs, so Aaron couldn't yet bring himself to kick him out for not always paying his share.
Not until the day he found out the guy had started dealing drugs to bring in more cash.
Aaron confronted him with an ultimatum that was shrugged off, then moved his roommate's stuff out into the hallway and changed the locks.
A day later, his ex-roommate was dead of overdose, presumed intentional, apparent suicide.
After being subjected to far too many rude and invasive questions from the bored police officers sent to investigate the death, about the exact nature of his relationship with the deceased prostitute, Aaron found himself a new apartment and moved a few weeks later.
4. Reaction
Aaron's new place was also tiny and cheap, and a bit far from his job, but only a short bus ride from one of the city's community colleges. Regular hours at his new job meant that he could attend classes part-time, working slowly towards a business diploma with a concentration in self-employment skills. Any leftover money went into his savings for a potter's wheel and kiln. His roommate's accident and his subsequent nightmares had only intensified his desire to try making a living by working with his hands, creating pottery.
The place was also within busing distance of the nursing home where his Grandfather Lo now lived, so Aaron could finally visit him regularly.
The old man seemed so much smaller than Aaron remembered, more than could be accounted for by his own growth from a child to a man. His grandfather seemed terribly fragile and weak, barely able to walk or to sit up unsupported for long.
Cancer, the jaded nursing home staff told Aaron matter-of-factly.
Grandfather Lo smiled and shrugged, as if embarrassed. He knew it was his time to go soon enough, he told Aaron, and saw no reason to suffer through expensive treatments to fight it. He didn't mind, now that he had the chance to spend time with Aaron before he died. Aaron was ready to quit his college classes to be able to visit him more often, but his grandfather refused to allow it. He knew of Aaron's plans and goals from their written correspondence over the years, and would not get in the way of Aaron achieving them.
Aaron still made sure to visit at least once a week, spending weekend afternoons with the old man. Grandfather Lo liked Aaron to read to him, especially translations of the old classics. They discussed and debated the wisdom of Confucius and Sun Tzu and Lao Tzu, laughed together at the satire of Wu Cheng'en (1). When he had the strength and concentration to do so, Grandfather Lo shared stories of his own life, tales he'd been told as a child, and the life lessons he'd picked up over the years.
He told Aaron that he wanted to believe that Aaron too would continue these traditions in his own way and pass this on to a child someday. Aaron bit back his protests that he wasn't a child anymore, shook his head, and ruefully confessed that his preferences made it unlikely he'd ever father children of his own. Grandfather Lo laughed and assured him that he'd rather that Aaron be true to himself than continue the family line, but that didn't mean he wouldn't find a child's path crossing his own someday.
Eventually Aaron found himself discussing things with his grandfather that he'd never spoken about before, never been able to put into words before. Grandfather Lo was accepting of everything but self-defeat, and the idea that Fate must have it in for him, that there was something desperately wrong with his life beyond his understanding and control.
There might be hidden truth in Aaron's confused sense that he was missing the basic instincts of how to be human, Grandfather Lo told his grandson, presenting him with a twentieth birthday gift of a teapot and cups decorated with chinese dragons of different colours. That didn't mean Fate had messed up by giving him a human life, though; it meant Fate was requiring him to learn to be human, and the lesson would probably be repeated until Aaron figured it out.
Grandfather Lo held on to life longer than Aaron expected. Aaron had always been aware that their conversations were about more than passing on wisdom and traditions, more than strengthening the connection between the two of them. The distance between Aaron and the world was closing, the walls between Aaron and the emotions he did not know how to let himself feel were crumbling. He knew his grandfather was doing it on purpose. He knew it meant that his grandfather's death was going to hurt so much more because of it. Grandfather Lo was waiting for him to realize that it was better that way, it was the way things should be, the way Aaron needed to be.
When Grandfather Lo's spirit finally left his failing body, still smiling in the afternoon sunbeam that fell across the bed where Aaron held his hand, Aaron let himself cry for the first time since before his parents had died. He cried long and hard, for what felt like hours, for what felt like too short a time to make up for the years that felt like lifetimes. He cried until the worried nurses came with tranquilizers to stop his ragged keening sobs, so that they could finally make him let go of the stiffening hand and take the body away.
~
(1) Chapter notes:
Confucius - aka K'ung-fu-tzu, philosopher whose teachings are the foundation of Confucianism
Sun Tzu - author to which The Art of War is attributed
Lao Tzu - author to which the Tao Te Ching is attributed.
Wu Cheng'en - author to which Journey to the West is attributed. (Yeah, yeah.)
5. Intervention
The funeral that Grandfather Lo had prearranged was very simple. He'd been one of those people who never wanted to be a burden on anyone, so it wasn't surprising that he'd taken care of the details in advance. What was surprising to Aaron was the number of people that attended, when he expected to be the only one. Grandfather Lo had been so understanding of Aaron's isolation that he'd never really thought about the old man having friends, especially not so many.
Aaron was named his sole heir. At first he worried that he'd be left with debts rather than assets when everything was settled, particularly after paying off the final bills of his grandfather's hospice care. Instead, he found that Grandfather Lo had planned carefully for that as well, budgeting carefully and setting aside money for it back when he'd sold his home and most of his belongings, when he'd moved into an assisted-living apartment, and then the nursing home.
The few things he'd kept in a rented storage locker were mostly heirlooms, but the notes left for Aaron instructed him to only keep what would be useful and meaningful to him, and let the things of the past be stepping stones to the future, not a burden to carry forward. Aaron was not to feel guilty for selling the things he had no space or purpose for, to put the money towards realizing his goals. There was nothing Aaron was required to keep.
There was no way Aaron could sell the sword.
Shocked didn't begin to describe how he felt when he finally went to see what was in the safety deposit box, and pushed aside the ancient silk wrappings. He almost expected his legs to go weak and give out from underneath him, as déjà vu sliced through him with the impossible sharpness of the beautiful antique blade.
It didn't matter that she could probably fetch a price higher than he could even dream of ever earning. He could not sell her, but he also knew, deeply, that she was not his. He was only given the responsibility of her care until he found the person she was meant to belong to.
With a shuddering sigh, he bowed reverently to her, wrapped her gently, and put her back in her secure place at the discreet facility, to wait for her time, as she had waited patiently for hundreds of years. The next day he registered for a T'ai Chi course, to relearn the movements he'd started to pick up years ago from his grandfather, vowing to advance enough to dance with the blade one day, as she deserved.
When the storage locker had been cleared out and all the accounts were settled, Aaron was left with enough of an inheritance to buy not only his wheel and kiln at last, but also the clays and glazes and all the other assorted tools and materials he needed, plus enough left to cover his college fees for the next few years. Not having to pay tuition from his own earnings meant he could also afford to move to a larger apartment, with space to set up his own pottery studio.
After a few months' practice to relearn the skills that had gotten rusty from years of disuse, he began selling his pieces on consignment in a "Fine Crafts Shoppe" uptown. The huge cut that the "shoppe" took meant he wasn't making much profit, but it was enough to cover his costs as he honed his technique and developed his own style, while continuing with his full time job and part time classes. He knew he'd have a much better chance when applying for small business loans and startup grants to afford a shop of his own if he first proved the marketability of his products, and had earned his business diploma. The college program that would have taken him three years if he attended full time might take him at least six years at his part time pace of only one or two classes per semester, but life had taught him to be patient and plan for the long term.
In the meantime, his ongoing education, proven diligence, and attention to detail earned him promotion at the auto parts supplier, so that he was soon working in the office and at the counter as much as on the warehouse floor. The boss liked to give him tedious but important tasks such as monthly inventory, and he accepted the added responsibilities without complaint, even when it meant staying late and occasionally missing a class. Since his grandfather's death he'd made an effort to connect with others, and he was managing to always be acquainted with (and even liked by) a few other classmates, so borrowing notes was not a problem.
It was after one such late night at work, when he walking home from the bus stop in the rain-drenched darkness, that he heard the scuffle in the alley.
Aaron had never considered himself a fool. Spending much of his childhood in neighbourhoods even worse than this one had trained him to mind his own business, to not get involved.
But something about the voice of a prepubescent boy, trying so hard not to sound like a child as he begged someone to stop, echoed past all that training and common sense, pushing an ancient helpless frustration past its breaking point.
He would not turn his back this time. He would not allow this to continue unchallenged.
Aaron had turned into the alley to intervene before he realized what he was doing. He had seen the man forcing the barrel of a gun into the boy's mouth and a shoving a groping hand into his pants, had darted forward to grab him, had twisted the wrist of his gun-hand and slammed it against the brick wall with the satisfying crunch of breaking bone, before he realized that the man was a cop.
No turning back, he realized. The sickening jolt was offset by an irrational feeling of vindication, of finally acting as he should to set something right after far too long, no matter what the cost.
No regrets.
The boy -- a long-haired Asian kid of about twelve, that Aaron knew he couldn't have met before -- seemed frozen in shock, or recognition, eyes huge and staring at him. Go, Aaron shouted. The kid didn't need to be told a second time. As he turned and fled through the shadowed puddles, Aaron threw himself in the way of the cop, the cop who was lunging after the boy, howling rage and pain and a call for backup into his headset, pulling out his taser with his uninjured hand.
As Aaron fell, convulsing and paralyzed, he imagined he heard a distant androgynous voice laughing at the irony of it all.
Timeline: Set before Justice
Rating: Mature for topics
Warnings: Oh ghods.... Death of minor characters, implied m/m relationship (no smut), violence, drugs, suicide, religion, underage, non-con. Nothing explicit, but very very dark.
Words: ~4600, in 5 chapters
Aaron
~~~~~
1. Disassociation
Aaron Lo-Davies was eight when his parents were killed, gunned down while he watched by overzealous cops who didn't seem to care that what looked like one big old run-down house on the outside was six apartments inside, cops who refused to believe that the main floor tenants weren't in league with the armed crack dealers in the basement. They died while he gripped their hands, huddled on the floor and soaked with their blood, waiting for ambulances that never came.
Aaron spent two years after that with his Grandfather Lo. The boy simplified his own last name accordingly, since it made things easier on all the forms that always needed to be filled out for Child Services. More importantly than that, it was a defiant challenge to all those who frowned and sniffed and whispered that the sullen black kid couldn't possibly be related to the cheerful old Chinese man.
Grandfather Lo's health wasn't good, however, and Child Services certainly wasn't going to let a ten year old kid miss school to look after him when the old man started having trouble taking care of himself. Aaron Lo found himself thrust into the system of foster care, to sink or swim. Fortunately, he was very comfortable in deep water, even if connecting with people didn't come easily. Perhaps that was more of a blessing than a curse, anyway.
It was made clear to him that if he became a difficult case or gave any of his foster parents too much trouble, he'd be put in the care of an Institution, that he should always be grateful for the opportunity for foster care, no matter what happened. Aaron didn't really need the extra threat to give him reason to behave and keep quiet. It wasn't too difficult. None of the foster parents he lived with were outright cruel, and he supposed some of them were even nice, in their way.
The things that happened to him, that everyone said were never supposed to happen but everyone knew happened all too often, were probably relatively mild and infrequent, as such things went. It could have been much worse. Nothing actually caused him injury, nothing happened that he couldn't endure.
It seemed that most other kids in the system were much more traumatized by it than he was, among his foster siblings at least. What happened to them angered him much more than what happened to himself. He figured most of the trauma must be psychological, social, and cultural. The gap between what people said and what everyone knew was going on seemed to be painful to them. They seemed crippled by the fear of being judged for something they had no control over, as if it defined their whole purpose in life. Taboos that had been accepted without question and deeply ingrained now seemed to poison them from within. Aaron just couldn't understand no matter how hard he thought about it.
He'd always known he wasn't typical, even before his parents died and his world got turned upside down, never to be stable or reliable ever again. He had never really fit in. He didn't seem to think or feel or react the way other kids did. Except when he was with a few special people like his parents and grandfather, he had always felt like an outsider. Different. Not normal. He made a study of humans and their behaviour as if he wasn't one himself, and tried to learn to mimic them, to pass unnoticed as one of them.
In some things, though, he was still very glad he was not affected the way his foster brothers and sisters were. Sometimes it seemed to almost destroy them, driving them to self-destructive behaviours, even attempts at suicide. There was never anything Aaron could do that wouldn't cost all of them, though, so he stifled his outrage, kept his anger on their behalf hidden away inside.
Besides, for one reason or another, he never stayed with one foster family for long before he was moved to a different home, a different school, a different neighbourhood. It didn't matter much, he was smart enough to catch up with the changes in the curriculum, and after they'd taken him away from his grandfather so soon after he'd lost his parents, he didn't allow himself to connect with anyone or anything else.
Not until he was moved across town to the historical district of the city, to the foster family who lived just down the street from the Heritage Crafts Center.
2. Connection
Aaron was the first and only foster kid these new foster parents had taken into their home. They were a white couple, fairly well off, and religious. Apparently they couldn't have children of their own without using technology they thought was immoral, so they'd decided it was their calling to save the life of some poor "unwanted" child instead. And to save his soul, too, of course.
Things started off well enough. They seemed mostly relieved (but maybe a bit bizarrely disappointed) that their requested disadvantaged racially-mixed fifteen-year-old from the inner city wasn't a drug addict (his parents had died because of drug dealers, and he'd seen what addiction did to his foster siblings), didn't run with the wrong crowd (he didn't run with any crowd, he didn't bother with the effort of making friends when he got shuffled around so often), and wasn't in danger of dropping out of school (knowledge and learning were the one refuge that he could count on always being there, the one way he might have a chance to take control of his future).
They made him go to church services and bible study classes and youth group, and though it all rubbed him the wrong way and got his hackles up, he kept his mouth shut. It was interesting, in its own way, to find himself reacting so very strongly to something, more strongly than he could justify by identifying contradictions and hypocrisies and circular logic. Such things were plentiful enough outside the church, after all.
These foster parents tempted him with the possibility, if things worked out and he proved himself worthy, that they might pay his college tuition -- to the Christian college of their choice, of course. Maybe they'd even buy him a car when he graduated. He thanked them for their generosity, and didn't believe a word of it.
They were only too happy to encourage his interest in traditional and "wholesome" activities such as those offered by the nearby Crafts Center. He didn't really care if they approved or not, as long as they allowed him to spend his free time there. The strength of his attraction to the place, to the opportunity to do something with his hands, wasn't something he could explain any more than his strong dislike for their church's teachings.
He found himself most drawn to things which required both strength and concentration, and which produced something more useful than simply decorative. Working with clay gave him more satisfaction than he ever expected. Pounding and kneading stiff scraps of leftover clay into the potential to become something new allowed him to release so much anger and violence that he hadn't even known he was holding inside. Gently coaxing a spinning mound into a new shape, tall and gracefully balanced or low and open to possibilities, flowing and changing with the turning of the wheel, gave him a meditative calm he'd been unable to find since imitating the T'ai Chi practiced by his Grandfather Lo.
The first few introductory workshops were enough to convince Aaron this was something he needed to learn, needed to do with his life, and to convince him it was something he wanted to have control over, and not owe his foster parents for. They'd already demonstrated their strange ideas about guilt and obligation, and proved how they would use them to get Aaron to do what they wanted. The pottery teacher at the Center was impressed with Aaron's determination, and set him up with an unofficial job in the Center's gift shop in exchange for more advanced lessons, supplies, and the use of the wheel and kiln when it was available. Soon his pieces were selling well in the shop, and he even got to take home a little money from the profits.
Despite the growing annoyances of church and his foster parents' guilt trips and expectations, Aaron guessed that his life was better than he had any reason to hope it could be after he'd been taken away from his Grandfather. He wasn't sure if he was actually happy, but he knew he felt more than he'd been able to feel for so very long, and most of the time, he actually liked what he felt.
Of course he never really let himself believe it could last, and it didn't.
At almost two years, his placement with that family lasted longer than any previous one. He was seventeen when his foster parents declared that since he showed no evidence of having been Born Again, had no intention of converting and being baptized, and refused to evangelize in the name of Truth, they had concluded that he wasn't one of the Elect, there was no place for him in Heaven, he wasn't meant to be saved from eternal suffering in Hell, and there was nothing more they could do for him. Within weeks, Child Services had responded to their withdrawal from the foster care system and Aaron was moved back across the sprawling city, far from the Heritage Craft Center.
3. Option
Aaron turned eighteen, graduated from high school, and got dumped out of the foster care system in rapid succession. Once he reached the age of majority and finished his final year of school, his foster parents were no longer eligible for their stipend for supporting him. Since that was the only reason they'd taken him in, he was promptly turned out. It wasn't as though he wasn't expecting it, though.
He considered joining the army, of course. It was hard not to consider it, what with all the recruitment propaganda the government was tossing around the high school in the dead-end neighbourhood. He had a feeling that he could be good in the armed forces -- maybe even very good, if given the chance to rise through the ranks -- but the same instinct made him see through the propaganda. Wars these days tended to come down to dishonourable bullying of whichever weaker countries had resources that the government wanted to control. Besides, Aaron had no illusions about his expendability: just a poor black kid from the inner city with no immediate family. No, there was no future for him in the army.
Instead he found a classmate who was in much the same situation: cut off from the foster care system upon completion of public schooling, and about to be tossed out on the street. They both found entry-level jobs on the assembly line of an automotive factory, which gave them grudging advances on their first paychecks, just enough for them to go in together on a tiny, damp, basement bachelor apartment near the industrial district. It would do for the first year, they agreed, and they'd save up for something better.
The factory paid well enough for unskilled labour, and gave them lots of overtime. Being on alternate shifts meant that they were hardly ever in the cramped apartment at the same time, only having to share the single mattress when their days off coincided. They didn't mind that much either. After all, both of them had grown up accustomed to foster parents or older foster siblings crawling into their beds and doing whatever they pleased. It was nice to know that they could say no to each other, if they wanted to.
The first year wasn't quite up when the accident happened.
Aaron was not at the factory when his roommate lost a hand to a malfunctioning machine with broken safety guards. He didn't need to have witnessed it to be deeply shaken, haunted by surreal and intense dreams of being deprived of the use of his own hands. He quit the same week, while his roommate was still in the hospital.
By the time the injured man was ready to be sent home, the factory's insurance had decided that he must have been negligent or even caused the accident deliberately in hopes for a large settlement, which was flatly denied. Of course, he was entitled to hire a lawyer to challenge the decision, if he could afford one. In the meantime, he was required to pay for his medical treatment as best he could, depleting his meager savings and going deep into debt with loan sharks.
Aaron found a new job in the warehouse of an auto parts supplier to local small garages, but his roommate could only afford an old-fashioned and ill-fitting prosthetic hand, which was far too basic to allow him to go back to factory work, or to type at an employable speed. After a couple months of unemployment, applications to social assistance that were denied because of the factory's accusations, and harassment from the loan sharks, he went to work on the streets, selling sex to anyone who wasn't too turned off by his self-described "deformity."
Aaron didn't judge him for it, though he refused to sleep with him anymore, ignoring the manipulative accusations that he too now found his roommate unattractive and disgusting. He'd seen self-destructive behaviour too many times before not to recognize that the guy wasn't being careful, and it wouldn't be long before he'd pick up several nasty things, if he hadn't already. Fortunately Aaron's savings over the past year had allowed for some new (secondhand) furniture, most importantly a second bed.
They didn't move to a better place as they'd planned. Since the accident, Aaron had been covering the rent and utilities on the basement apartment by himself, and most of the grocery bills, too. He knew his roommate couldn't afford a place of his own when he couldn't even afford his half of the rent most months, especially after a run-in with the loan sharks' thugs, so Aaron couldn't yet bring himself to kick him out for not always paying his share.
Not until the day he found out the guy had started dealing drugs to bring in more cash.
Aaron confronted him with an ultimatum that was shrugged off, then moved his roommate's stuff out into the hallway and changed the locks.
A day later, his ex-roommate was dead of overdose, presumed intentional, apparent suicide.
After being subjected to far too many rude and invasive questions from the bored police officers sent to investigate the death, about the exact nature of his relationship with the deceased prostitute, Aaron found himself a new apartment and moved a few weeks later.
4. Reaction
Aaron's new place was also tiny and cheap, and a bit far from his job, but only a short bus ride from one of the city's community colleges. Regular hours at his new job meant that he could attend classes part-time, working slowly towards a business diploma with a concentration in self-employment skills. Any leftover money went into his savings for a potter's wheel and kiln. His roommate's accident and his subsequent nightmares had only intensified his desire to try making a living by working with his hands, creating pottery.
The place was also within busing distance of the nursing home where his Grandfather Lo now lived, so Aaron could finally visit him regularly.
The old man seemed so much smaller than Aaron remembered, more than could be accounted for by his own growth from a child to a man. His grandfather seemed terribly fragile and weak, barely able to walk or to sit up unsupported for long.
Cancer, the jaded nursing home staff told Aaron matter-of-factly.
Grandfather Lo smiled and shrugged, as if embarrassed. He knew it was his time to go soon enough, he told Aaron, and saw no reason to suffer through expensive treatments to fight it. He didn't mind, now that he had the chance to spend time with Aaron before he died. Aaron was ready to quit his college classes to be able to visit him more often, but his grandfather refused to allow it. He knew of Aaron's plans and goals from their written correspondence over the years, and would not get in the way of Aaron achieving them.
Aaron still made sure to visit at least once a week, spending weekend afternoons with the old man. Grandfather Lo liked Aaron to read to him, especially translations of the old classics. They discussed and debated the wisdom of Confucius and Sun Tzu and Lao Tzu, laughed together at the satire of Wu Cheng'en (1). When he had the strength and concentration to do so, Grandfather Lo shared stories of his own life, tales he'd been told as a child, and the life lessons he'd picked up over the years.
He told Aaron that he wanted to believe that Aaron too would continue these traditions in his own way and pass this on to a child someday. Aaron bit back his protests that he wasn't a child anymore, shook his head, and ruefully confessed that his preferences made it unlikely he'd ever father children of his own. Grandfather Lo laughed and assured him that he'd rather that Aaron be true to himself than continue the family line, but that didn't mean he wouldn't find a child's path crossing his own someday.
Eventually Aaron found himself discussing things with his grandfather that he'd never spoken about before, never been able to put into words before. Grandfather Lo was accepting of everything but self-defeat, and the idea that Fate must have it in for him, that there was something desperately wrong with his life beyond his understanding and control.
There might be hidden truth in Aaron's confused sense that he was missing the basic instincts of how to be human, Grandfather Lo told his grandson, presenting him with a twentieth birthday gift of a teapot and cups decorated with chinese dragons of different colours. That didn't mean Fate had messed up by giving him a human life, though; it meant Fate was requiring him to learn to be human, and the lesson would probably be repeated until Aaron figured it out.
Grandfather Lo held on to life longer than Aaron expected. Aaron had always been aware that their conversations were about more than passing on wisdom and traditions, more than strengthening the connection between the two of them. The distance between Aaron and the world was closing, the walls between Aaron and the emotions he did not know how to let himself feel were crumbling. He knew his grandfather was doing it on purpose. He knew it meant that his grandfather's death was going to hurt so much more because of it. Grandfather Lo was waiting for him to realize that it was better that way, it was the way things should be, the way Aaron needed to be.
When Grandfather Lo's spirit finally left his failing body, still smiling in the afternoon sunbeam that fell across the bed where Aaron held his hand, Aaron let himself cry for the first time since before his parents had died. He cried long and hard, for what felt like hours, for what felt like too short a time to make up for the years that felt like lifetimes. He cried until the worried nurses came with tranquilizers to stop his ragged keening sobs, so that they could finally make him let go of the stiffening hand and take the body away.
~
(1) Chapter notes:
Confucius - aka K'ung-fu-tzu, philosopher whose teachings are the foundation of Confucianism
Sun Tzu - author to which The Art of War is attributed
Lao Tzu - author to which the Tao Te Ching is attributed.
Wu Cheng'en - author to which Journey to the West is attributed. (Yeah, yeah.)
5. Intervention
The funeral that Grandfather Lo had prearranged was very simple. He'd been one of those people who never wanted to be a burden on anyone, so it wasn't surprising that he'd taken care of the details in advance. What was surprising to Aaron was the number of people that attended, when he expected to be the only one. Grandfather Lo had been so understanding of Aaron's isolation that he'd never really thought about the old man having friends, especially not so many.
Aaron was named his sole heir. At first he worried that he'd be left with debts rather than assets when everything was settled, particularly after paying off the final bills of his grandfather's hospice care. Instead, he found that Grandfather Lo had planned carefully for that as well, budgeting carefully and setting aside money for it back when he'd sold his home and most of his belongings, when he'd moved into an assisted-living apartment, and then the nursing home.
The few things he'd kept in a rented storage locker were mostly heirlooms, but the notes left for Aaron instructed him to only keep what would be useful and meaningful to him, and let the things of the past be stepping stones to the future, not a burden to carry forward. Aaron was not to feel guilty for selling the things he had no space or purpose for, to put the money towards realizing his goals. There was nothing Aaron was required to keep.
There was no way Aaron could sell the sword.
Shocked didn't begin to describe how he felt when he finally went to see what was in the safety deposit box, and pushed aside the ancient silk wrappings. He almost expected his legs to go weak and give out from underneath him, as déjà vu sliced through him with the impossible sharpness of the beautiful antique blade.
It didn't matter that she could probably fetch a price higher than he could even dream of ever earning. He could not sell her, but he also knew, deeply, that she was not his. He was only given the responsibility of her care until he found the person she was meant to belong to.
With a shuddering sigh, he bowed reverently to her, wrapped her gently, and put her back in her secure place at the discreet facility, to wait for her time, as she had waited patiently for hundreds of years. The next day he registered for a T'ai Chi course, to relearn the movements he'd started to pick up years ago from his grandfather, vowing to advance enough to dance with the blade one day, as she deserved.
When the storage locker had been cleared out and all the accounts were settled, Aaron was left with enough of an inheritance to buy not only his wheel and kiln at last, but also the clays and glazes and all the other assorted tools and materials he needed, plus enough left to cover his college fees for the next few years. Not having to pay tuition from his own earnings meant he could also afford to move to a larger apartment, with space to set up his own pottery studio.
After a few months' practice to relearn the skills that had gotten rusty from years of disuse, he began selling his pieces on consignment in a "Fine Crafts Shoppe" uptown. The huge cut that the "shoppe" took meant he wasn't making much profit, but it was enough to cover his costs as he honed his technique and developed his own style, while continuing with his full time job and part time classes. He knew he'd have a much better chance when applying for small business loans and startup grants to afford a shop of his own if he first proved the marketability of his products, and had earned his business diploma. The college program that would have taken him three years if he attended full time might take him at least six years at his part time pace of only one or two classes per semester, but life had taught him to be patient and plan for the long term.
In the meantime, his ongoing education, proven diligence, and attention to detail earned him promotion at the auto parts supplier, so that he was soon working in the office and at the counter as much as on the warehouse floor. The boss liked to give him tedious but important tasks such as monthly inventory, and he accepted the added responsibilities without complaint, even when it meant staying late and occasionally missing a class. Since his grandfather's death he'd made an effort to connect with others, and he was managing to always be acquainted with (and even liked by) a few other classmates, so borrowing notes was not a problem.
It was after one such late night at work, when he walking home from the bus stop in the rain-drenched darkness, that he heard the scuffle in the alley.
Aaron had never considered himself a fool. Spending much of his childhood in neighbourhoods even worse than this one had trained him to mind his own business, to not get involved.
But something about the voice of a prepubescent boy, trying so hard not to sound like a child as he begged someone to stop, echoed past all that training and common sense, pushing an ancient helpless frustration past its breaking point.
He would not turn his back this time. He would not allow this to continue unchallenged.
Aaron had turned into the alley to intervene before he realized what he was doing. He had seen the man forcing the barrel of a gun into the boy's mouth and a shoving a groping hand into his pants, had darted forward to grab him, had twisted the wrist of his gun-hand and slammed it against the brick wall with the satisfying crunch of breaking bone, before he realized that the man was a cop.
No turning back, he realized. The sickening jolt was offset by an irrational feeling of vindication, of finally acting as he should to set something right after far too long, no matter what the cost.
No regrets.
The boy -- a long-haired Asian kid of about twelve, that Aaron knew he couldn't have met before -- seemed frozen in shock, or recognition, eyes huge and staring at him. Go, Aaron shouted. The kid didn't need to be told a second time. As he turned and fled through the shadowed puddles, Aaron threw himself in the way of the cop, the cop who was lunging after the boy, howling rage and pain and a call for backup into his headset, pulling out his taser with his uninjured hand.
As Aaron fell, convulsing and paralyzed, he imagined he heard a distant androgynous voice laughing at the irony of it all.