A Journey Begun - Prologue - Chapter 2
#2 of Saga the First - Book One - A Journey Begun
Still dealing with the human side of things. Will go furry soon enough.
Two years later...
'Daniel, honey, time to wake up! You're gonna be late for school!'
The boy dragged himself upright and pulled himself nimbly from the bed. Sunlight shone through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the fuzzy carpet as he padded to the bathroom to wash up. With a muted grace he pulled on his school clothes and slung his bag onto his shoulders, and this way he left, pausing only to gulp down a tall glass of milk he poured for himself in the kitchen. A piece of buttered toast clamped in his mouth, he pulled on his shoes and waved goodbye to his parents as he walked his way to school, idly crunching on his bread. All around him, life went on as per normal, but for the boy, life was anything but. Two years had gone by since he lost his real parents, and even though he had been taken in by friends of his folks, cared for and loved on in the same way his parents had, the ache in his heart never left. Life for him had been a struggle ever since, to be a semblance of the normal he once had. As he trudged along, past familiar landmarks on the road to school, he reflected upon the memories he had of his family, the ones he could remember, and familiar tears rose to his eyes, but before they overtook him, he wiped his eyes and steeled himself, for school was right around the corner. Inside, familiar faces streamed all around him, most giving him a friendly wave or a simple greeting. Nearly all the students knew about him, and many chose not to taunt or tease him about it, they understood well enough what it meant to not have parents any more. There were exceptions to this, however, and they presented themselves almost within moments of him rounding a corner towards his first classroom. The two boys towered over the dimunitive Daniel, eager and evil smiles on their faces. They advanced slowly and menacingly towards him, but the boy paid no mind, choosing instead to simply barge past them. However, the two lumbering pre-teens formed a wall that even he could not get through, instead he bounced off of them, stumbled and fell onto his rear, letting loose a soft yelp.
'Whassa matter, loser? Lost your feet?'
Daniel shook his head, glaring up at the two boys from behind his long fringe.
'Well how about losing your lunch money, loser? I'm sure your grandma won't mind.'
The bullies laughed racously as Daniel picked himself up and dusted himself off, before trying to push through them again. He was stopped with a bullish hand slapped to his chest.
'Hey, pipsqueak, we're not done yet.'
'How come you're not talking, huh? You gotten stupid or something? Or are you a big fat chicken?'
They burst into another bout of childish laughter, interspersing their fits of giggling with bad chicken imitations which only made them laugh more. He continued to glare up at the both of them, irritation and anger building in him as he clenched his fists. As they continued to tease and harass him, the other students slowly stopped to watch, forming a small circle that encased the bullies and their victim. The two bigger boys pushed and shoved him around, tormenting him with their words and actions. Eventually they gave up, settling on mussing him his messy hair and rumpling up his clothes before they sauntered off, high fiving each other and going on about how dumb he was. The circle of onlookers gradually dispersed, leaving Daniel standing in the middle of the hallway, fists clenched in restrained anger and rage, tears rolling down his cheeks, staining dark circles on his shirt. Eventually he wiped his cheeks dry and just barely made it to his first class, giving a mumbled explanation of why he almost arrived late. The teacher, a greying old lady with glasses as thick as a paperback, waved his excuse off and let him return to his seat. Grim and steadfast, the boy trudged through his day, enduring another humiliating session during lunch, and one more after his last class of the day. Torn, tired and weary, he made his way home, where he avoided the worried and concerned looks of his foster parents, locked himself in his room and cried himself to sleep.
'The boy is too young to understand his destiny, old man. Give him time. Leave him alone. He'll learn when he's an adult.'
'His journey will be harsh, master, rest assured. He will learn, as did you, when you went on your own.'
'I know guys, but I just can't help but worry.'
'Do not worry on that front, old man. His destiny's unique. He will gain a following, not unlike his ancestors did, but he will revitalise his line with his spirit, bring forth a new coming and change the world entirely. As did his ancestors, during their times.'
'I hope so, guys. I hope so.'
Fourteen years later
The alarm clock rang sirens through the still silence, and wearily its master's hand fell upon it to quell its incessant ringing. The young man dragged himself upright and threw the covers aside, padding softly across the faux wooden floor to the bathroom. One shower and washing later, bread sat in the toaster and bacon sizzled in a pan, while coffee brewed in a pot and waffles lay in an iron. A hearty morning breakfast, one well suited for the one who ate it all, then rushed out to work with a half-done tie around his neck, worn over slightly crumpled clothes. The young man was no businessman, but he was to attend a formal matter, an interview, for which he was well qualified for. Hailing one of the many yellow cabs that prowled the streets, he pointed the way and eventually stopped the driver in front of a tall, red brick building, giving the old balding man a tip for getting him there early. The man practically bounded up the steps as he ran for his interview, which he dutifully acknowledged to the desk clerk, who let him upstairs with a wishing of good luck and a simple nod.
Inside the meeting room sat three men, middle aged to aging were they. In front of them, separated by a vast expanse of oak, sat the young man, tie straightened and clothes neat, well, neat enough. They sat there for what seemed like ages, both parties sizing each other up like two predators fighting over territory. Eventually one of the three men spoke, and his gravelly voice carried all the authority he had across the table to the other man. He asked questions, of his readiness and commitment to a cause his kin had worked before he, whether he was ready to take up an aged and well worn mantle that was passed down to him, to defend a legacy that was built on a foundation of blood and sweat. He readily agreed to all that was asked of him, so the men conferred for a short while, a seeming eternity for the interviewee. Finally the men came to an agreement and together they faced the young man. They gave him a unanimous yes. They told him to leave, and to visit a room in the basement where he would receive his supplies. With a bright smile on his face he left, pausing to give the three men a word of thanks, reflecting afterward on how his meagre experience in the field still meant a lot to the old men, that his predecessor had faith in his successor. Leaving the building, he turned to gaze up fondly at it, his second home for two years, and for the years to come.
That day, young Daniel Anderson became a detective for the NYPD, just like his father before him.
I had a dream once. My parents were in it. I was a kid again, sitting in the back of the car, on the way home from my first day of school. The setting sun's rays casted long shadows across my lap as the car coasted along a crowded street, the people around oblivious, uncaring to the fate of the vehicle and its passengers. Ahead, the junction, where time slowed to a crawl. I look to the left and see the truck, a semi barrelling down the road, its grille gleaming like teeth in the mouth of a predator, fangs bared and spit dripping in anticipation of the kill. I only have enough time to turn back and clap my mom on the shoulder, to warn her of the danger, and she turns to face me, her beautiful, warm face marred by the shards of glass that jut out of her cheeks and forehead, jagged and slick with her essence. She mouths something to me and the world goes sideways, the side of the car crumpling inward as the semi plows into it, crushing the compact like a boot flattening an empty can. Glass spears across the open space, slicing lines into my face and arms, tearing open my chest and limbs. Ahead are the corpses I used to call parents, flopping around like ragdolls in a washing machine, lifeless and messy, no more than meat held in place by seat belts and inertia. The world around me spins, and for a moment I think that this is all a dream, a grim nightmare from which I'll wake up, crying in my mother's arms, comforting and warm as they are. But the car lands and rolls straight into a lamp post, bending the hunk of metal into a curve, and I'm flung out of the car through an upside down window and onto the pavement, drawing a stain in red when I land and tumble to my resting place, glass in my body and tears in my eyes. But the fun's not over, oh no, cause the car then bursts into flames in front of me and I can hear screaming.
Dear god, the screaming.
My mother's face appears near the cracked window pane, a single hand outstretched to say a farewell or to call for help, I never will know. I can only watch as the flames consume her hair and spread to her neck. She screams.
Then the car explodes, and I see no more.
I've been haunted by the nightmares for a decade and a half, and there hasn't been a night where I haven't woken up screaming and crying like a baby, torn by the guilt and sorrow of the loss. I've seen shrinks, gotten pills and strange syrups to take for the dreams and to help me sleep. I've talked to every other god damn soul I know in the hopes of finding rest.
But I can never find it. It eludes me, slips through my fingers like water. Every. Single. God. Damn. Time.
And I'm not even 30. What a way to live life, where your only solace is staring down the white shaft of a cigarette or down at the bottom of a bottle. Where your only friends are named Prozac and Johnny Walker, and the only times you see them are when you're slumped in bed, hoping for a reprieve from the madness as the room spins around you like a roulette wheel. But I know I can't give up, not when I still have so many questions. As the world turns, so do the gears in my drug and alcohol addled head, forming questions that I have no answers to, theories I'll never explore and worries about the future, my future. I can't stop, not until the bastards who destroyed my life but left me intact are behind bars or at rest in the ground.
Place your bets folks, cause the wheel's gonna keep turning until I find answers, or I end up in a wooden box buried under six feet of cold dirt.
My name is Daniel Joshua Anderson, and I'm a detective with the NYPD. And I won't rest, won't sleep soundly, won't give up until the men who did this have justice served on them. And only when that's done can I rest easy, maybe give myself the break I've been needing for so long.