It dully warmed the rocks bordering the lake, a useless gesture against the blanketing white that seemed determined to snuff out any kindness. The lake itself looked nothing like it did in the days just before, magnificent blue smothered in a thin sheen of ice like fog over a clean glass.
Jasper was quite young and quite small when he stood on the shore in his big orange coat and his worn brown boots, baby blues wide with that special kind of curiosity that seems to only cling to the smallest, most fragile of the bunch. If he were older (or simply more privy to his surroundings), he may have noticed how easily his skin blended into the snowâlike finding two different paints of the exact same shade, he probably could have laid down and become a pile of child-shaped clothes on a first glance. Delicate snowflakes clung to his nest of curly blonde hair, melting as they touched the warm skin of rosy cheeks and the tip of his nose. He looked like a porcelain child doll left out in the morning dew; he looked like his heart was too big for his body, his curiosity too broad for his box; he looked like he didnât know the cruel world he lived in, but wherever he did live was much better than it. The ice reflected the gentle, warm beams of light away, yet the sun made it glimmer despite the rejectionâJasper didnât quite understand.
If it had been thicker, Jasper may have leaned over and tried to wipe snow away from the slick, icy surface with his sleeve as if he were the diligent cleaner of an old, sentimental statue; if it had been thicker, Jasper may have run home and left clumsy tracks on the pristine white ground, knocking wildly on a cottage door until a certain Kettle opened it and let two certain ceramic boys out to play (with proper coats, of course); if it had been thicker, Jasper may have tied his ice skates in a hurry and used a flat rock and a hockey stick to show Mugman how a real hockey player does it; if it had been thicker, Jasper may have challenged Cuphead to see who could slide further on their bellies only to be cheated from the win by a dirty ankle grab.t
And perhaps, if it had been thicker, Jasper wouldnât have fallen through.
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âGeezâ!â Sonic nearly jumps out of his skin, which he doesnât appreciate very much while heâs eating a chilli dog. Itâs an art form, not to be interrupted by⊠Jasperâs scream. Whyâs Jasper screaming?
The entire shopping center has gone eerily still, a lull that some monster alerts canât even achieve. An older woman clutches her purse to her chest and mutters âmy celestials!â with her eyebrows at her hairline and her eyes blown wide. Meanwhile Jasperâsweet, soft spoken, oh-so-gentle Jasperâis halfway up a lamppost.
His whisper is a quiet, broken thing. Itâs not to Sonic, whoâs starting to decide that this is definitely more of a Shadow-and-Amy issue than a him issue, and itâs certainly not to the people who were just scared half-to-death by a shriek that deserves a spot in a horror movie.
Could it be to the TV in the window of a shop nearby playing an ad about ice-fishing safety and proper ways to check the iceâs thickness before venturing out? No⊠maybe itâs to the man who looks up, startled, interrupted from buying a pair of ice-skates for his son, the son who now heaves with terrified sobs?
Or⊠maybe itâs to the little boys Jasper and Jasper alone can see. The boy with a red sweater kneeling on top of the ice, blurred by water that numbed Jasperâs lungs from the burning a while ago, the thuds of punches above barely registering as dull thumps in Jasperâs ears. The boy whose blue scarf came loose as he stared from the shore for an extra second he didnât need, a second to realize that he knew the person under the ice, a second to feel that special brand of panic, before running off screaming for help.
People donât question it aloud when Sonic, a star, the hedgehog the Isles relies on for defense, has to call in a second star, his adoptive father Mario, just to coax Jasper from the lamppost. People donât question it aloud when Jasper, fat tears rolling down his round cheeks, shakes so violently he canât hold a cup of water to his lips, nor when, as he swallows, he gags and chokes it back out into the flimsy paper thing. He clutches it hard, sides crumbling inwards like his shoulders as he curls in on himself.
âIâm sorry, Iâmââ he chokes on his spit, his teeth chattering as if heâs freezing to death beneath that cozy-looking orange sweater and those fluffy white earmuffs, ââmâsorry, Iâm sorryââ a broken sob escapes, ââf-fuck, mâââ a thick swallow interrupts, âsorry, Iâm sorryââ
âHeyââ Jasper flinches away from Sonicâs hand like heâs been viciously burned, but Sonic continues anyway, âWoahârelax, buddy, youâre okay.â His smile doesnât seem all too strained, but itâs dim, masking a tight concern that knots in his gut like an angry snake. Somethingâs not right hereâdefinitely not right. Jasperâs calm, heâs soft spoken, heâs never made a sound above a gentle chiding, yet now this same guy is screaming at nothing and scaling lampposts and choking on himself?
Jasperâs eyes are glassy and distant. Typically, itâs a sign heâs daydreaming once more; typically, youâd feel a sort of envy for itâwhatever his world is, itâs certainly better than yours. Here, itâs a blessing that youâre free from where he is. Here, it hurts to imagine his nightmare. He doesnât remember how long he sunk; he doesnât recall exactly when air hit again; he doesnât know what went numb and what stayed perfectly, horribly awake. But he remembers who was there for him first.
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@myth-of-the-machine is one of my new obsessions and the only way I can cope is by making characters help me đ
this is Jasper and you will be hearing more from him
just gotta dig through the couch cushions for my motivation first
(gotta love my helpful writing tips btw, we love yâall English majors with time on your hands)
