Helen Jones was eleven years old, and she'd never learned how to swim. At the current moment, she was standing over cracking ice, with that bit of knowledge still lingering in her mind. If she fell in, she'd drown. If the boy tried to save her, he'd fall in, too—she wished she could have said something to him, but her voice was trapped in her throat. She felt like she was already beginning to drown, and she hadn't even hit the water.
The young Pixie heard his thoughts as they pulsed through his mind, quick and decisive. He wasn't putting hardly any thought into this at all; he was being an idiot if he thought he could try and rescue her. But she didn't need to read his mind any further to tell that the decision to at least try had already been made; it was in his eyes, in the way he stepped once to the side, very hesitantly, very slowly, again and again until he reached a branch. He had to be whacky if he thought this plan was going to work; this would be the damn kiss off for her, she just knew it.
Eleven years old, barely skimming four feet nine inches, could hardly even weigh seventy pounds soaking wet, and here she was, trembling like a starved street dog.
"Kiddo, what's your name?"
"Why do ya gotta know, bub!" Was her shouted response.
The boy laughed, his grin wide and a mischievous glint in his light eyes. "C'mon, bearcat, I am tryin' to save ya." He widened his arms a bit and dared to give her a mocking bow, the smirk on his lips twisting.
"Swell. Helen, then—I need ya to be as still as ya can possibly manage—"
Wide-eyed, the child nodded. She could hear the ice cracking, each itty-bitty sound ringing through her ears like a Goddamn church bell. The air was prickling the skin of her hands and ankles, and oh, she'd hate to imagine how cold the water would be.
"I'm gonna just reach over, like so," He leaned over and picked up a fallen branch, carefully allowing himself to adjust his grip. "And I'm gonna push ya out of the way. On three. One, two—"
Helen felt a harsh jab to her stomach and shrieked, sliding farther back, scrambling for a foothold like a baby deer on ice. Finally, she stopped, her breath quick and her heart going very, very fast. Looked down, ice was whole. Looked around, wasn't underwater. Looked up, wasn't dead. She might've gotten the heebie-jeebies once she'd come to the realization of it, but so much relief flooded her at that same moment, she felt almost enough courage to let out a whoop. Had she not been afraid that the ice would somehow hear her and decide to break out of spite, she probably would've.
"Aren't I the bee's knees." Came the boy's breathed response, laughing. But Helen heard something else in his thoughts, something that was like white paper touched with just a single speck of black, virulent ink.
Helen thought she could hear the sound of something breaking, but everything around her feet was whole and in tact. Breath catching in her throat, she shouted as loud as she could over to him, "Can you swim?"
A bark of laughter escaped his lips. "Me? What? Not at all, kiddo. Not at all."
And what do you think happened next?
Helen couldn't swim either; it'd have been suicide to try and save him. The thing she remembered most, though, were his eyes—light and alive. He was a brave idiot with a good heart; he'd been the one person to show her the most kindness, and he hadn't even known her.
She would see those eyes again, though. In a different time, in a different place; not in 1940, but in 2012. She'd see that mischief and nerve and life in the eyes of a boy named Kain Tarek.
pixelskylines
gummygunk
germansingergirl
dailybridgerton
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
stormborns
