With a jolting start, Blake awoke, gasping for air, hitting his head on the low-hanging arch of his attic room.
"There's that dream again," Blake muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead tenderly, as he tried to recall his already fleeting memory of his dream. "There was a talking computer, a huge winged beast and… What was that thing?"
As Blake tried to recall his dream, it suddenly became difficult to recall anything that happened within it. He began to grow a headache just attempting to try recovering the memories. And, with a shrug, Blake discontinued his efforts to remember last night's dream, evading him like smoke in the wind. 'If it were important, I'd have remembered,' he thought in justification.
Getting off his twin sized bed, he carefully observed the attic that was his room. Minding the many boxes and storage bins scattered around the place and a few artifacts here and there, it wasn't a bad setup. In the arched right corner of the room, there was his bed, past a few more boxes to his right, directly before him, there was a vintage wardrobe closet, brown in colors, fit with enough clothes to fit a gym bag, either neatly folded inside, or hanging on it's rack neatly by a hanger. To its right there was a full-length mirror that was rusting and fractured with numerous minor to medium sized cracks, barely showing many splintered reflections due to its rusting appearance.
Directly in front of it by a few feet, there sat a desk and chair, old, worn and on its last legs — Literally. Only three of the four legs of the desk were holding up, the fourth leg was missing somewhere in all these boxes and containers, and it's chair wasn't fairing any better by much, as it was just as old and just as worn… Or sat? Either way, they both looked like they were one more homework away from collapsing into pieces of splinters. Though its appearance wasn't what interested Blake.
What interested Blake was what was inside its single drawer…
Making his way to the drawer, Blake opened it and pulled out a black, metallic chained black pendant. It was a strange pendant — A crest of sorts, Blake was sure, but one he could find anything out on the web. It was of a ring with two wings, one on each side like angel wings.
As he grasped it in his hands, Blake wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it. It was the only thing he had aside of the baby blanket and cradle left from whatever family left him at the doorstep of a fire station 14 years prior. While he had definitely contemplated chucking it as far away as he could, he also couldn't help the feeling that maybe there was something significant to it — a meaning he was meant to figure out by its existence. And the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia and possessiveness that inevitably came with having something that's been with you for so long stopped him from getting rid of it every time.
This was an emotional tether that he had to the object that many other foster kids have to something that's been with them for so long. Yes, Blake was a foster kid. Moving from home to home all the time as a child was mentally debilitating, but the bitter feeling of helplessness was one that you get used to after awhile. Eventually, everything gets mixed up — feelings, beliefs, places — That's why he needed the emotional tether —- it kept him grounded, reminded him that there may be a place somewhere out there for him, though he hadn't found it yet.
The home he's been with for the last four years of his life hasn't been the most caring and affectionate of places, but at least they haven't kicked him out yet. They even gave him the attic as his room due to his special sensitivity to light.
Looking up at the big circular window beside his bed, that would overlook the rows of houses of his neighborhood had it not been for the blackout curtains blocking out the undoubtedly purple rays of the early morning dawn, Blake was glade for the curtains and appreciative, at the very least, for his foster parents' consideration. He hated mornings, daytime, highly light environments and basically every place that had brightly lit lighting. His photophobia was always a thing that got him bullied… that and being emo and clever in his own right. His life sucked, but he wasn't nearly pessimistic enough nor suicidal enough to end it all — He had enemies he had show up first and then rub his success in their faces to do that yet.
Plus he did have a family he knew about. His cousins, Achlys and Cimon, were his relatives from his dad's side, though any information he tried to get out of them was minimalistic at best. They never gave in to his inquiries, always keeping tight-lipped about it, though he wondered if his dad was some kind of gang leader or something, as they never revealed anything about him, let alone his mother, which, at first, pissed him off. Eventually, though, he just accepted it to be another thing he couldn't control.
It was alright, though. He liked their company. They were good people. And the three of them get up to plentiful amounts of trouble every time they visit, so that more than makes up for it. They often teased him and called him an emo vampire for his nocturnal habits and hatred of the sun, as well as pessimistic personality at times, but he didn't pay them much mind in that regard. They were the best to hang out with and his only friends, and he was glad they found him.
Returning his attention to the pendant, Blake walked over in front of the mirror, its cracked and rusted surface reflected back multiple fractured reflections of himself on it's reflective surface, as he put the pendant on, and looked at himself in the mirror after grabbing a pile of mostly clean clothes before stepping in front of the mirror after donning on his clothes for the day.
Staring back at him with the coldest of white colored eyes, Blake was a 14 year old boy with pale white hair, black at the roots — He's never been able to dye his hair; it just grows like that. When he tried to do it, it would always revert back to white with black roots mysteriously overnight, so he gave up trying. It's gotten him bullied a lot, too, but he's learned to take pride in his hair and his eyes, which were unique in themselves. Anyway, his hair was so pale white, especially at the tips, it could have been mistaken for fallen snow, and his body was thin and lean, slightly below average in body weight, and he had a few freckles on his face with the top of his left ear's top of the outer lobe hosting a silver ring earring like Beerus the Destroyer, only silver. He had pale white skin — yet another reason to hate the sun — and he often wondered if maybe he was a vampire when looking at his reflection. He definitely could be mistaken for one given his abnormality alone.
"Still a loser," he smiled to himself. "But at least I'm a loser with style." He was dressed in black skinny jeans with various holes on them near the knees, a white t-shirt and his favorite denim jacket. He put on his black combat boots and walked to the trapdoor entrance/exit to the attic.
He had only just put his foot down, expecting to touch the ladder stairs leading up to the attic, when he unexpectedly fell flat on his face.
Hearing giggling to his right, he saw one of the other foster kids – Korey — laughing mischievously at him. Korey was a prankster and, at the age of 9 year old, he was pretty decent at the career path. That said, he often got in trouble for his pranks, especially at school, but, considering he never had malicious intentions, Blake never held it against him for his often harmless pranks he played on people, though that didn't mean he'd get the satisfaction of not get a scold…
Getting up, Blake walked to Korey, his dark skin and faded hair a contrast to Blake's pale skin and wild, unruly, morning hair. He patted Korey's head, and asked "Very good on that one, Korey, but try next to to not have me fall on my face from the attic like that. It hurt."
"Okay," Korey nodded, then grinned with mischief. "No promises, though."
'This little shit,' Blake thought inwardly.
"Is Little Bella still asleep?" Blake asked. Korey nodded. "Go wake her up and you two get ready. You'll be late for school."
"Ok," the boy rushed off.
Blake went into the restroom, did his hygiene and washed up. He had to get ready for high school. Today was the first day of the autumn semester. Plus, if he could survive it, he'd have an important set of events planned with his cousins this evening. Very important things.
He had just washed his mouth with mouthwash when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. In the mirror, looking back at him with eyes as black as night, both iris and sclera, was his own reflection. He was an apparition with a smokey purple and black figure made of fire and dust.
Disturbed and quick as a whip, Blake turned on the light, but when he turned back to the mirror, he just saw his own, normal, pale white eyes and normal skinny figure.
"Must be my sleepy mind," Blake muttered softly, turning off the light and heading downstairs, where he found his foster mom, Miss Blueford, eating a sausage and biscuits, while she read an article on her phone, not even acknowledging Blake though he was certain she saw him.
Miss Blueford was a thin woman, with a towering figure and a long nose with coconut colored skin and had black hair under an orange bonnet. She wore an orange robe with grey sweatpants and slippers.
Neither of the two spoke to one another upon Blake's entrance, and, honestly, Blake was okay with that fact. Ever since Mr. Blueford's heart attack and death, Miss Blueford blamed Blake for his passing. Though never explicitly said, her constant neglectful parentage towards Blake when compared to the other two kid, the constant glares she gave him whenever she did acknowledge his presence and the attitude she treated him with whenever the two did interact was more than telling of how she felt in the matter, even though Blake had no idea what he had to do with her husband's demise, he pinned it down to her dealing with grief displacefully. And if not having to interact with the lady means never getting into another useless argument with her again, then he'll happily be ignored by her. Also, despite his environment, he'd rather not have to move homes again. That would suck.
As he poured two bowls of cereal and put them on the table, along with two cups of milk, Blake turned just in time to see Korey walking into the dining area along with Little Bella, both dressed in their school uniforms and ready for school.
Little Bella was in the first grade at age 6, with a round head and blond hair, plump cheeks and brown eyes. Typically energetic, but not a morning person, Little Bella was yawning, as I checked her backpack for the necessary supplies. Dressed in khaki knee skirt with a white collar shirt, Blake realized Little Bella was ready for school.
As he turned to Korey, he noticed that he was ready for school himself. Dressed in black school pants, a golden collar shirt and tennis shoes, he nodded as he confirmed that Korey had everything he needed.
If he left now, he could make it in time to eat breakfast at school, he thought as he checked his wallet. He had been mowing the lawn across the neighborhood to earn what little money he could for this exact reason, considering Miss Blueford's stance of providing housing for foster kids didn't include meals at lunch, which, for some reason, should've been a red flag when she registered him for school but left out the part that he was a foster child, meaning he couldn't get free food. He had a feeling she'd do this, which was why he started using her lawn mower to mow the neighborhood lawn.
If he continued down the way he was, he'd make enough to buy a car by end of next year. He was a patient boy, though. He had learned long ago that patience is a tool best used cold.
That said, he made one last glance back at his siblings before grabbing his helmet and walking out the door, intending to bike to school.