The sun was his witness.
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 snow—like 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 didn’t 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 rejection—Jasper didn’t 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 wouldn’t have fallen through.
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“Geez—!” Sonic nearly jumps out of his skin, which he doesn’t appreciate very much while he’s eating a chilli dog. It’s an art form, not to be interrupted by… Jasper’s scream. Why’s Jasper screaming?
The entire shopping center has gone eerily still, a lull that some monster alerts can’t even achieve. An older woman clutches her purse to her chest and mutters “my celestials!” with her eyebrows at her hairline and her eyes blown wide. Meanwhile Jasper—sweet, soft spoken, oh-so-gentle Jasper—is halfway up a lamppost.
“…sorry.”
His whisper is a quiet, broken thing. It’s not to Sonic, who’s starting to decide that this is definitely more of a Shadow-and-Amy issue than a him issue, and it’s 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 ice’s thickness before venturing out? No… maybe it’s 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 it’s 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 Jasper’s lungs from the burning a while ago, the thuds of punches above barely registering as dull thumps in Jasper’s ears. The boy whose blue scarf came loose as he stared from the shore for an extra second he didn’t 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 don’t 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 don’t question it aloud when Jasper, fat tears rolling down his round cheeks, shakes so violently he can’t 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.
“I’m sorry, I’m—” he chokes on his spit, his teeth chattering as if he’s freezing to death beneath that cozy-looking orange sweater and those fluffy white earmuffs, “—m’sorry, I’m sorry—” a broken sob escapes, “—f-fuck, m’—” a thick swallow interrupts, “sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Hey—” Jasper flinches away from Sonic’s hand like he’s been viciously burned, but Sonic continues anyway, “Woah—relax, buddy, you’re okay.” His smile doesn’t seem all too strained, but it’s dim, masking a tight concern that knots in his gut like an angry snake. Something’s not right here—definitely not right. Jasper’s calm, he’s soft spoken, he’s never made a sound above a gentle chiding, yet now this same guy is screaming at nothing and scaling lampposts and choking on himself?
Jasper’s eyes are glassy and distant. Typically, it’s a sign he’s daydreaming once more; typically, you’d feel a sort of envy for it—whatever his world is, it’s certainly better than yours. Here, it’s a blessing that you’re free from where he is. Here, it hurts to imagine his nightmare. He doesn’t remember how long he sunk; he doesn’t recall exactly when air hit again; he doesn’t know what went numb and what stayed perfectly, horribly awake. But he remembers who was there for him first.
The sun was his witness.
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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 😭
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 y’all English majors with time on your hands)