#jimgcrdon

The clock tower was their home now. David had let the family decorate it. Fox had hung multicoloured bananas and fabric from the support beams, and Dolly had strung paper lanterns down the banister of the metal spiral staircase. Pillows and throws and blankets lay all over the floor, and Mew had painted some of the windows with glass paint, so that, when the light shone through, there were all different shapes of red and orange and green and yellow on the walls and the floor. Far out, Pan had said, It’s like church. There were dirty jars of flowers in rows along the horizontal support beams and wooden chimes hanging from the stationary cogs, click-clacking in the soft breeze. The smell of the blue stuff -- the sweet, sickly, fuggy -- hung in the air, and, when you looked at the dust in the light beams, it was slightly blue.

David had stopped the clock when they moved in, with a sharp hit of telekinetic power. The ticking had pissed him off. Now, he was sitting on the ledge of the open window, over three hundred feet off the ground. His legs hung out, carelessly. We should check on them -- They’ll be fine -- I bet Picasso’s licking paint off the windows again -- He stared out across the city. From way, way, up here, the devastation looked unreal. They’d missed whatever had happened by a few days. Thank God. He didn’t want the family exposed to whatever the hell had happened.

Daddy, there’s a cop here. He wants to see you. Star’s telepathic voice was more agitated that usual, and David mentally replied with a soft, gentle, tone. Tranquillo, Star. Just tell him to come up the stairs. I’ll be here. And tell the others to not be afraid. Daddy’s got this. He didn’t move from where he was sitting on the edge of the window. It’s handy, huh? Living so high off the ground? We could always throw him off if we have to -- Don’t be stupid, we’re not throwing a cop out the window! We just got here -- He blinked, and ignored the voices. They were always easier to ignore when he was high.

He sensed the stranger’s mind before he heard him, and it was boring. David barely bothered to read it. A workaholic, a cog in a machine, a do-gooder. Whatever this guy wanted, he wasn’t a threat to the family. Instead of reading the guy’s mind, David focused on a cloud floating by as the stranger walked up the last few steps. “Hello Officer,” he said, leisurely, finally turning around to look at the stranger with a warm smile. “I’m David. What can I do for you?”

                       SEND ME ‘CONFESSION’ ( accepting )                               -to having hallucinations-

“ I see them. ” And perhaps, MORE importantly, “ I HEAR them. ” Both confessions easily ROLL off his tongue. Mental issues were nothing NEW, but psychically seeing two dead parents wasn’t as EASY to explain. “ I see my DAD in the mirror ; my MOTHER in the hall. I would SAY that I’m being haunted– but neither of them would CARE to spend their AFTERLIFE on me. My MOM left when I was 7 or 8. My dad was ABUSIVE. ” He would ADD that he never cared about the shithole in the FIRST place, but that would be a LIE. “ They weren’t the BEST of parents but– ”

                    They were all he had. He HELD onto the memory of his mother so tightly that the MENTAL grip had turned WHITE with the pressure. SO PERHAPS that’s why her apparition is always dark. Her features HIDDEN by the very night she would run into. And yet, he can still tune his ears out to the rest of the world and LISTEN to her lullabies. The scars granted to him by Christopher were physical ; a TORSO riddled with marks of BEATINGS. Harvey would HEAR the snaps of a belt or the BELLIGERENT ‘lectures’ after a night of binge-drinking. Worst of all, he saw him in his own reflection. Harvey had become a SPITTING image of his father, except for the eyes. But at this point, he’s not EXACTLY sure that’s a part of the hallucinations.