STARTER ! for @lilfiore | historical verse
Fingers were tired from attempting, yet again, to sew the hole in his beloved cap. It was stitched together from an old sweater he used to run around in as a kid, a trick he had learned from his mother; reuse everything, waste nothing. ‘ All things have value ‘ she used to say, until she decided he, her only son, had run out of his God given abilities. So now Jughead, despite having never been formally taught how to sew, sat in the opening of his dormitory bedroom at the orphanage trying to do his best. He was really waiting for the routine bell calling all young men to their chores — his was chopping wood, but no way in hell was he going to be over at the axe hole listening to the barking commands of their teacher.
He’d just managed to tie off his string with fumbled fingers when the bell rung, its sound vibrating around the room and in his chest, giving him that rush of panic. The adrenaline he got knowing he was late would always make him feel a tinge of guilt, but then, as every day went, it dissipated into nothing.
Jug ( as he’d once been called by Reggie and his gang of idiots; they’d attempted stuffing his head into a milk jug, so really, their wit was ahead of their time ) hopped off his perch, cap on his head now, and slid out the first floor window. He was off to his favorite hidey-hole, the one around the church building where the great oak stood, shadowing a small unused woodshed. It had been a quiet place for him to escape the routine of an orphanage that weighed on him, all of the reminders of SIN and living in GOD’S LIGHT and acting for HIM always was infuriating. How about all the mothers and fathers who had the choice and decided to leave their kids at a place like this ?
With that, Jug tugged on the loose window pane to the shed, his go-to way in and out, and was halfway inside when he froze, having seen or sensed something that told him he wasn't alone. Was someone else — ?
