Happy Birthday to You

Jamison

Ron gave Jamison a thumbs up as they jogged onto the field to warm up. The stands were full of both the Manticore's fans and the Duke's fans. Unsurprisingly, the Dukes had made it to the final game. They had won the championship the past three years, then missed a year and won four years in a row before that. They were quite a team to beat. Though the Manticores had beaten them in one game in the season, it didn't say much as they were missing two of their best players and a few other starters due to an 'undisclosed incident' in the school.

Jamison heaved a sigh as they jogged back around to their side of the field. Last game of the season. Even though he was registered as a sophomore, he would only be able to play one more season due to his age. Maybe he'd try to join an outside league. His thoughts blurred as much as the warmup, flowing from one to the next.

The whistle blew. He was in the defensive third watching the puck almost in slow motion as it fell towards the ground. Sean twisted for it, slamming shoulder's with the other team's leading striker. He couldn't tell who made the pass, the puck flying to the side of the field in the direction of no player in particular on either team. The countdown for the cannon shooters began as a Duke player raced towards it against a Manticore player. The Manticore took a fall as the Dukes advanced. The forwards tried to fend them off, but they broke through, heading for the drivers and defenders as they exited the kill zone. The forwards on the Manticore team had no choice but to jog into the offensive third before a violation was called as the opening play came to a close.

The puck sailed towards a player to Jamison's immediate left. He hissed through his teeth. Even though it was legal, it didn't mean he particularly enjoyed it… He slammed into the Duke player so hard he was pretty sure both of them would wake up with bruises. The player went down hard, Jamison stepping in front of him to intercept the puck. The Duke player swore at him as he sent it flying to another driver as they prepared to enter the kill zone and face the Duke's drivers and their frisbees.

The Duke player hurtled towards him as Jamison cradled the puck in his stick, shaking his head. Jamison threw the puck high, sliding on the grass to the side. His heart fluttered. If he could pull this off in a game… The Duke player tried to stop his momentum, but Jamison was already behind him, rolling to his feet, recovering the puck as it landed half a foot in front of him. His fear turned into relief, and then pride as the cheers reached his ears. He threw the puck to his teammate as he heard the cannon go off. Jumping to the left he had just enough time to register the puck coming back towards him. He didn't take time to juggle it as he shot it towards an open forward player, exiting the kill zone himself.

He blocked a driver from the Dukes as one of their players looked for another teammate, two Manticores practically glued to him, the puck almost being stolen twice. "Open up, open up!" a player shouted from the back. "Switch it around!"

Jamison darted with the player, switching marks with Aaron as the Dukes ran around the field in seemingly random patterns. He took Aaron's mark, the two smashing shoulder to shoulder, Jamison almost tripped over the other's stick, recovering his balance in time to hit the Duke player as he trapped the puck with his stick.

Sweat dripped down his neck, he was panting, even on the chilly November evening. The lights had come on, bathing the tourney field in white light.

"Get a drink kid," Harrison said as the team gathered for a time out. Markus took up a spot in front of them as they took the time to catch their breath. Neither team had scored any points and they were only about ten minutes from the halfway point in the game.

The Dukes finally scored a point against the manticores a few minutes left before the half. Jamison lost count of how many times he drove the puck up the field. Again and again he ducked under frisbees, dodging the attacks of the other players. Passing, receiving, blocking. Their defense was a solid wall. They couldn't get a shot in. They'd only had two attempts at scoring, and the goalie blocked them without so much as a bead of sweat dripping from him.

Sean passed to another player, feigning a driver before pulling back. The puck went back to him, before rebounding to another player upfield. The Manticore took a shot, missing the goal by no more than a few inches. The announcer's voice flooded the stadium.

Jamison shook his head furiously as they lined up to put the puck back in play. The scoreboard blared twenty seconds left. He looked at Sean, "they're gonna stall, you guys gonna charge?"

Sean grimaced, thoughtful for a second. "Tell the drivers to be ready to push. I'll break the front line of defense and we'll try to flood through with the puck. Markus should have some advice for us for the second half."

The puck was put into play. The drivers took possession in record time. Jamison and two others passed in rapid succession, keeping the other drivers from it. And as promised, Sean and another forward slammed into the defensive wall that stood between them and the goal. Jamison made the final pass to another forward who twisted around the last defender. The puck sailed through the air to the corner of the goal. It would have been perfect.

A resounding crack rippled through the stadium as the puck collided with the goalie's stick, stopping just short of the goal, and splintering the stick.

"That was a nice shot. I've seen very few players crack a stick with the puck. Maybe a frisbee…" Moses shook his head. "Nice job Eli. Take a seat, save that power for the second half." Jamison glanced over his shoulder as both cheer teams took the field. Jules waved at him before joining her team.

"Listen up. Harrison has a plan we need to go over now."

He hit the ground, nearly eating grass, his arms getting cut as he slid. The frisbee lay a foot away after striking him square in the side of the head. He didn't have the puck, but…

He jumped to his feet, waving and shouting. Open. drove the puck to the front. It fell back. He fell back to the defensive third. Michael nodded him on, seeing the weariness in his features. A rare moment of stillness, before the puck plunged forward and he was sent running again. He lost it and the Dukes finally scored.

1-0.

2-0.

2-1.

2-2.

Jamison fell again. He tried to raise himself on his forearms. He fell again. His head pounded. The lights were blinding him. The play was moving up. He was still on the ground. Up. Get up. Get up. He managed to make it to his knees, gripping the stick with white knuckles. He stood slower than he should have.

Sound blurred around him. The puck flew past him to his mark. He barely made it over to him, but he couldn't quite block the pass the Duke's player made. He coughed. His legs were numb as he ran. He didn't know if he could stop. Back and forth. Up and down. Dodging, ducking, passing, running, catching, cradling, juggling—

He hit the field, a frisbee catching him in the knee. Pain exploded. He didn't remember screaming until someone whacked his helmet. "Stop it! Look at me."

Michael.

"I can't feel it," Jamison huffed, grunting in pain. His leg was completely numb. It might as well have been a weight strapped to him. He was still gripping the stick.

He could hear the coaches' voices, he didn't know what they were saying. He yelled out again as his knee seared in pain.

"Take off the helmet, take a deep breath." Michael helped him unfasten it. His head dripped with sweat. From the exercise, and now from the pain shooting up his leg.

He tried to inhale deeply, but stopped midway. "It's twisted," he growled, inhaling a sharp breath, "It's twisted completely. I think I severed something."

Michael placed a hand on his shoulder as Jamison ground his teeth against the pain. "Breathe, they're bringing a stretcher, they'll take you to the hospital, it will be okay. Just breathe."

True to his word, a stretcher was brought onto the field. He couldn't see past the blinding lights. He couldn't stop from heaving up his lunch on the field. The pain intensified, "The— the game though," he said with a heavy breath out.

Michael ignored his heaving, grabbed his shoulder firmly. "You're more important. I promise you, win or lose, I'll be at the hospital to tell you all about it, okay?"

It took Jamison a moment to realize they were lifting him. The movement aggravated his knee. He hissed, clamping down on a shout, Michael taking a few steps beside him. "Thank you," he ground out through his teeth. His vision swirled, Michael coming in and out of focus. He couldn't hear his response— if he even made one. There was a woman in a blue blouse saying something to him. At least he thought so. He tried to shake his head, but his body stopped responding. His vision spotted, his ears ringing. His senses were rebelling against him.

"Hey can you hear me?" Sirens were wailing. He still couldn't see. Were his eyes open? Muffled sound could be heard over the drone of sirens and another high pitch noise.

Pathetic. The memory hit before he could suppress it. Jamison had gone flying into the wall. Again. Again. His face was a purple bloody mess. He wasn't sure his nose was attached. He couldn't feel it. Jamison wasn't sure he'd be able to do this night after night, beating after beating, he was learning.

"Put him in another fight." His father spat at the pit master. The pit master looked like he wanted to argue, but Fahad-Khaled was not one to argue with. He had lost his immeasurable power, but even through the barrier he still had his stature, his strength, greater than a single man's should have been.

Jamison had tried not to cry, tears blurring the one eye he could still open. He looked at his wrist, uncannily thin, wrapped tightly to keep it from breaking. He felt like his skull was going to split in half. No more fights. No more. But that wasn't his place to argue.

But the pit master put him in another one. All the air left his stomach as he found himself sprawled in the sand scrambling from the massive man before him. He coughed blood onto the sand. His arm was most definitely broken, the elbow at an odd angle. Tears stung his bloodied face. His nose gushed, a gash on his forehead not faring much better. He stumbled back a step, hitting the wall of the fighting pit behind him.

He looked into the brown eyes of his opponent as he stalked towards him, crowds whooping and cheering all around. His mistake had been saying "Please,"

"Father stop!" he screamed again, covering his head. They'd barely made it back home before Jamison's father began to hit him, shouting and berrating him.The blows continued to come.

"No! No son of mine stoops to begging and pleading. You stand until the end. Nothing takes you down until your opponent knocks you clean out!" Another blow to his jaw. "You embarrassed yourself!" another, "You embarrassed me!" again and again.

Jamison coughed again as his father used his foot to kick him to the ground. He could have sworn his tailbone cracked. He tried so hard not to, but the tears fell, mixing with the fresh blood streaming down his face, leaving pink trails along his skin. "Dad stop!" he choked, "Dad!"

He threw a glance to his stepmother, sitting in the corner, hands over her face, her body shaking violently in the dim lighting, arms wrapped around a crying young boy. She didn't make a move to stop his father.

She didn't meet his eyes when his father bashed his head against the floor.

He opened his eyes. It was dark. He tried to breathe through his nose, coughing as something dripped down his throat. He moved an arm… was he in the closet? His father usually put him in here if he misbehaved, but never after a beating. He felt around with his right arm, the left one still tightly wrapped, a makeshift cast biting into his skin. He knew the door would be locked, but he tried it anyway to no avail. He settled back down, taking in a few shuddering breaths. He turned ten today. It was the minimum age to fight in the establishments.

"The spokes are easy," his father had said, a bag of money in his pocket for a night of drinking and betting on the fights. "We'll start you with the earlier fights, move on later." Jamison hadn't protested, staying silent as his father had prattled on. His combat lessons with his father hadn't been enough to stop the beatings he received in the fights.

His father finally let him out of the closet silently, the glare enough to keep Jamison silent. Only when his father left did he sigh, leaning against the wall. His step-mother was hushing his half-brother who was whining about something. He barely remembered his own mother. He wasn't sure if he remembered her at all or if he'd simply imagined her. He did remember her leaving. That day remained crystal clear in his memory.

"Where are you going?" he had asked, holding his mother's hands tightly. Two bags holding all of her possessions were at her feet. She looked down at him, tears in her eyes. They were blue. Like the skies he read about in books. Her bottom lip was slightly swollen.

"Mamma has to go for a little bit. But she'll be back someday for you, okay baby?" slowly, the clear liquid fell from her eyes, drawing crooked lines down her skin. The same gold-dusted brown of Jamison's. "I love you very much."

"Where are you going?"

"There is someone… someone I know. And he treats me differently than your dad does. I'm going to go there for a little bit, okay?" She sighed as Jamison held her hand tighter. Don't leave me. He wanted to beg. Somehow he knew she wouldn't come back. He wiped at his face with one hand. His dad had been gone for two days. Jamison and his mother had enjoyed the reprieve from the constant drunken rants, berating speeches and ever accumulating debt.

"Why can't I come?"

She sighed, "You can't baby, you just can't." She kissed his forehead gently, placing a smooth stone in his free hand. "This is from the shores of the continent. Smoothed by the rolling hills of sand overlooking crashing green oceans." She looked at the wall of their appointment, a smile tugging on the corner of her lips.

Jamison smiled despite the situation. She told the best stories. When he had turned six, she even wrote one for him, drawing cute little pictures around the words. It was his favorite. He'd had it only a year, but he didn't need to read it anymore. He knew every word by heart.

His mother's eyes darted around the room as sat on the sofa and gathered Jamison in her lap, brushing the shaggy brown waves from his forehead. He smiled a little more, the faint freckles over his nose stretching. "Were you ever on the continent momma?"

"For my first few years of life. I was a little younger than you. I was six years old when they rounded everyone up. My parents took me with them. They didn't make it though." she brushed her finger along the bridge of his nose. "But it isn't so bad being here." she held his hand, "I have you. If only for a little while longer."

She never came back. Something about birthdays gave him a sliver of hope that his mother might come back or even send a card, but his tenth birthday had passed.

Jamison's father came back drunk, and grabbed his arm roughly before shoving him to the side and heading to bed. His father, who had been blackout drunk, didn't bat an eye when he realized what he had done come morning.

"You sold me!" Jamison shouted, "I am not some piece of property!"

"You came from me, your mother, she left, you're mine. And for seven years every night, now you're his property." His father shouted back, slamming a fist on the table. "Now go with him before things get ugly."

An ugly Spokes fight coordinator grinned at him with a half missing set of teeth. He grabbed Jamison by the chin roughly, bringing his face close to Jamison's. His breath reeked enough that Jamison almost gagged. "He's only been fightin'... two months. Max. I thought we were getting a real deal here." he shoved Jamison aside.

"Did you not see his other fights? I've never seen the crowd so willing to pour money from their purses and wallets. It is an easy bet, you get your cut off the top of it. Jamison is a glorified punching bag. He'll learn it, then the fights will get interesting."

Jamison didn't say anything, his hands rubbing the smooth stone. She still hadn't come back for it yet. He hadn't seen her in either market, in the flea markets, or in the main corridors. It was as if she disappeared. Years. For years.

He was dragged to the Spokes, shouting and pulling the whole way there. Two fights in. Not as badly as the last few months. He was still dead tired, still banged up, bloodied in some place. But he dragged himself home, pulling himself up the four flights of stairs, ignoring the rickety fire escape before laying on the roof. It rarely rained. The sun never shone, there was nothing to see but gray this late at night, occasionally flashes of color reflected from some place on the island. But he waited. Waited for her soft voice to lilt up to him, telling him to come to bed. Waited for her to come up, gather his head in her lap like she'd done for him so many years ago, singing softly, whispering stories, sketching another drawing for him. So he waited.

He waited.

He waited again and again and again.

"Jamison!"

He opened his eyes… dim yellow lights shone from the hallway. He was in a dark room. He blinked, squinting. His head was pounding. He couldn't tell which way was up. He let out a grunt as he tried to move. Where was he? His head ached.

"Shh, don't move, it's okay." a feminine voice said. He turned his head. Jules. Jules was sitting beside him. His hand held between both of hers, "Hey, you feeling okay? Do you need something?"

"Where am I?"

"The hospital. They brought you here after you twisted your knee. You have a concussion and a torn ligament." You've been in and out for the past two hours, talking about something. You didn't really make much sense. Michael dropped by with a few other guys. They went to grab food, but they should be back soon, okay?" she met his stare, her eyes conveying worry, eyebrows pinched in concern.

"I've been out for two hours?" his throat hurt. What was going on? The game. He'd played Tourney. "Did we win?"

She looked down. "Ah… sorry buddy. They scored another point a few minutes before the end of the game. But… the team put up a good fight. At least that's what I was told. Your friend Emma filmed the last seven minutes and sent it to me."

"You came with me?" something in his chest warmed, even through the disappointment.

She smiled a little, "Yeah. I had to tell them I was your sister so they'd let me in." a chuckle. "We do look pretty similar."

He sighed heavily, "Thank you, for coming with me Jules."

"Jamison… is something wrong?" she flushed, "Well I mean obviously your knee is wrecked and you have a minor concussion, but I mean like… you've seemed off all day. At lunch you didn't laugh at all. Your smiles have been fake…"

He closed his eyes. How much should he say? Honestly, only his father, his little brother and Ron knew. He smiled to himself. Ron had become like a second little brother to him. He could help but share… "My birthday is um… it's today."

"Jamie! You didn't tell me!" she pouted, "Is that why you were upset? I'm so sorry I didn't ask sooner about it. If I'd known it mattered so much to you I swear I would have—"

"No it— that's not it. My— my mom left me years ago today… I was seven… It was eleven years ago. I know it shouldn't be a big deal but—"

Jules stood up, gently laying her head on his shoulders, hugging him, "I'm so sorry baby," she whispered in his ear. "It is a big deal. It is okay to be sad, to miss her. It is even okay to be upset with her. The emotions you feel aren't wrong, they're natural. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

His father's voice sounded in his head "She's gone. She isn't coming back."

Jules brushed a soft kiss against his lips, "I can't say I understand what you're going through," a pause, "but I know that you must be hurting. You're so strong all the time. You don't have to be. You shouldn't have to be. Don't seal them away."

His father's hardened face came into view "Crying doesn't bring her back."

"It is okay to be sad. It is okay to be angry. It's okay to cry despite what everyone says." She sat on the side of the bed, her hip pressed against his, but not uncomfortably so. His pain was dull, bearable.

His father sneered "Your mother doesn't love you, so start acting like it."

"I don't know everything about the situation, but I'm sure she loved you. I'm sure she left for a reason, good or bad. It must have killed her to leave you."

"She didn't stop to think about you for a second." His father spat.

"What was she like?"

Jamison wasn't altogether sure if he was ready but he tried anyway. "She was gentle. Too good for that world. Maybe even this one too. "He closed his eyes, remembering the way she would caress his cheeks, will him to sleep. "She told beautiful stories. She had lived on the continent as a child. It gave her the best settings for the stories. They were always wholesome. If I was lucky, she'd sing the stories. Her voice was angelic." Every day he was forgetting more. He couldn't remember a tune to any of the songs. Her stories were fleeing his memory… "I'm afraid I won't remember them anymore." he admitted, snaking an arm around her shoulders as he stared at the ceiling. "They're disappearing."

"Cherish what you do remember. Sometimes memories of memories aren't quite as scary as we think." She kissed his cheek.