The Escapists, Ch.1

The Escapists

Chapter One

If given one wish, Nell Parsons would know what to wish for.

It wouldn't be more wishes, because she didn't need any more than one. It wouldn't even be a new bike to replace her declining one. An effective bike would be nice, but it wasn't something to wish for. Because a wish was a special thing, something to be thought about and thought about delicately. Something to consider with carefulness before unthinkingly tossing a weathered coin in a shallow fountain or waiting for a shooting star with bated breath.

It was something bigger than that.

If given one wish, Nell Parsons would wish for freedom. Or, more specifically, free will. To do whatever she wanted; to be whoever she wanted; to go wherever she wanted and never have to look back. Maybe then she would be able to live in a world where she could meet her fellow townsfolk with easy pleasantries and their eyes wouldn't hold judgement or wariness. Their hellos wouldn't be so hesitant and their stances wouldn't be as tense. And she wouldn't be ostracized because she was one of the creepy Parsons or because she sat in cemeteries for long periods of time, murmuring and whispering seemingly to herself.

She would be free. No, she would be more than free.

The truth was, Nell saw and talked to ghosts. She never could decide if this ability was a curse or a gift. It was hard to identify it as either. Curse seemed too strong of a word while gift seemed too light of one. It was more like a bad itch that wouldn't go away. Somewhat like a curse, but not as tragic. As otherworldly as a gift, but not as treasured.

Regardless of what it truly was, Nell never did talk about her itch-gift-curse — not only because she wasn't allowed to but because it wasn't exactly something to boast about. Especially since she used this itch-gift-curse to give power to evil.

She knew it was wrong. There were names for people like her, for people with itch-gift-curses that allowed them to come into contact with the dead. Seers. Psychics. Sensitives. Mediums. Multiple names, but they all meant the same thing. They all meant that you communicated with the dead.

And that was what Nell did.

The books and movies she'd encountered all seemed to feature the same theme: Our powers are to be used for good. And that was often what those pure-hearted mediums would do. They offered help to souls in seek of their services, in seek of retribution, of forgiveness, whether from those of this world or the next.

And that was what Nell did not do.

Because Nell was not like most mediums. Her brother Blake was even less like most mediums, especially in recent times. In recent times, Blake was generally less. A shadow of who he was.

Was it the realization that, like her, he was bound to the Madam for however long he was to live? Was it the frustration at not remembering their old lives? Not as brother and sister, but as strangers, and only strangers? Was it the fact that — no matter how much they could deny it — what they were doing was wrong?

Figuring out what exactly had flipped the switch, from Blake to not-Blake, often exhausted Nell. So she stopped.

Blake once told her pretending things were fine would make things better. But this was eleven year old Blake who offered this simple advice, the same eleven year old Blake who never failed to comfort her when there were was often nothing to feel comfortable about. Seventeen year old Blake, now changed, offered her no such comfort. Only coldness, always coldness. Nell stopped being sensitive about it years ago. Sensitivity did her no good in Moxbury. Neither did fear.

Fear especially did her no good in Moxbury, the tiny town where there were plenty to be afraid of: the many abandoned buildings, the whispering valleys, Old Man Willoughby's puppet dummy. But nothing, it seemed, was more frightening than the Parsons. Nell used to stay up at night and wonder if she should be more upset by her situation. She grew up in a town that snubbed her, but with a family that embraced her — more or less. Despite the fact that Lady Bo was a cat, she could be considered as family, right?

The problem was, Nell couldn't see herself accepting Blake or the Madam as family, even though the lie slid too easily from her lips whenever asked. Blake, who stopped being Blake six years ago, wasn't exactly as brotherly as one would hope and the Madam wasn't nearly as motherly as any other mother in Moxbury. Blake was rather unbrotherly and the Madam, unmotherly. How could one consider such company as family?

So Nell didn't. She didn't call Blake or the Madam her family in her head. The fact that they were not genetically linked made it easier. The fact that they were not genetically linked made everything easier. Bearable.

And then things started to become more bearable when Tyler Hearst started to show interest in her. Interest in her as a friend, that is, because any more interest than that would be laughable. Far-fetched. Not that Nell had much interest herself in anything more than semi-platonic relationships. There were no room for them in her life. They required time and flexibility — two things she didn't seem to have enough of.

But Nell should have deemed it as far-fetched anyways when he'd first stepped into Parsons Courtier with a sketchbook in one hand and a fabric in the other. His ruffled hair, his paint-splotched sneakers, his askew glasses — they all told her one thing: Tyler Hearst was a messy guy. His almost knocking into her then told her something else: Tyler Hearst was also a clumsy guy.

Those two traits should have made her grimace, but doing so would have been partially hypocritical of her. While she wasn't particularly prone to clumsiness, she wouldn't really be Nell Parsons — demon-feeding business aside — if it were not for her messiness. It showed in her mannerisms; in the way she wore her clothes; in the way she styled her hair; in the way she did everything.

Tyler Hearst didn't look like he minded though. No, Tyler Hearst didn't look like he minded much of anything. Behind him had been another figure, a boy as equally built as Tyler Hearst, but Nell couldn't be sure. He was turned away, but his hair mirrored Tyler's, only less messier in style. Clean-cut.

Nell had stopped her gazing once Tyler Hearst began to speak. She'd heard a few words here and there — torn shirt, needs tailoring, can you help — but couldn't keep track. And although she'd nodded and murmured yes all throughout the conversation, she couldn't help the overwhelming feeling of confusion inside.

Because it was a weird sight to see: one of the mayor's son in her family shop. What was even weirder was that Tyler Hearst showed no care that he was there in close proximity of the family that "fed demons." His carelessness showed in the way he smiled at her, in the way he joked with her. Even more so, in the way he looked at her.

But Nell had missed it then. She'd missed that sign that would tell her the most important thing about Tyler Hearst. The one where his eyes had lingered too long at the room at the top of the staircase. That sign.

The sign that told her that Tyler Hearst was a dangerous guy.

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AN: Under construction. - comrie