Jack pedaled hard on his bike, fighting to get uphill. Weather itself opposed him. The icy wind bit into the exposed flesh of his face, and the white fog obscured all but a few feet in front of him. Twice had he almost been hit by a car, narrowly avoiding disaster only because of the familiar shine of headlights in the distance.

After an eternity of forcing his bike up the hill, the bike took off downward. Jack mentally cursed the fog; if he could see, then he would’ve known when he hit the crest and could’ve been ready for it. Now, he could only brace himself and hang on, a dangling invalid with no power over his movement.

When the hill fiasco was over, Jack knew it was only a few more blocks to his house. Not that he looked forward to going home, of course. His parents were probably out partying with their society-type friends, leaving home alone to do whatever he could until their drunken chatter woke him in the early hours of the morning.

Growling, he pulled into the driveway of his house. The familiar bounce of gravel meeting the tire of his bike told him he was home; while his parents could drink their martinis every night, it never occurred to them to pave the driveway. Snatching up the bag from his basket, he leaned his bike against the garage.

His boots crushed the gravel, conquering the jagged stone before they clicked on the cool concrete of the sidewalk. Jack paced up to his front door, then fumbled through his left pocket for his key. He pulled it out, then put it in the door. Something was odd. Jack turned the door handle. It opened immediately; it had never been locked when his parents left for work. Irresponsible. Since they left after he did, they could at least have the common courtesy to lock the door. He removed the key and entered.

Quickly, like a thief caught in the night, he bolted for the refrigerator. The critiquing of his parents’ indiscretions could wait for a glass of milk and a sandwich. The door flew open at his hand’s command, his eyes grew wide...

There was the can of peaches that hadn’t been opened in the three years it’d been in there, a half pickle floating in its jar, and an almost empty sour cream container. Jack scowled furiously; they hadn’t even bothered to buy food. Fortunately, he’d been prepared. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a package of ham, a wedge of cheese, and a bottle of milk. He kicked the door closed, then checked the bread basket. No bread. Naturally, he’d been prepared for that scenario as well, and pulled the loaf out.

The sandwich he made was quick, but it stole the bite from his hunger’s lips. Washed down with his milk, it made a fine dinner after he got off work at the local supermarket. With a sigh, he finished the sandwich, nabbed his bag, and traveled up the stairs.

Jack scooped up his sister’s skate, fortunate enough to see it and thus not slip on it, and tossed it on her bed as he passed her room. She was probably out with friends; at thirteen, she seemed to have a much greater social life than he could ever have hoped for. After what seemed like an eternity of incompetence and sheer foolishness, he reached the door to his room. He pondered, for a moment, whether or not to erect a sign that said “Last Bastion of Sanity,” but decided against it. His family wouldn’t know what a Bastion was, and they’d have to ask him numerous times to understand the concept. The idea of using a dictionary was, naturally, preposterous.

Jack pulled out his room key. People in his household had a tendency to walk off with things of interest and deny having them, so he had been forced to lock his own room to protect his possessions. Trying to keep himself from thinking hateful thoughts, he reminded himself that it would prepare him for the “real world”.

He entered his room, locked it again, and just stood for a moment. The warm bubbling that could only be from his room soothed and revived his failing spirit. However bad his day was, the fishtank provided a welcome diversion.

Peering past the glass panel that kept the water in, he searched for his pet. Barley the goldfish swam by, oblivious to his owner’s looks.

Jack pulled a small, hollow castle from his bag. As the fish ducked behind a nearby plant, Jack gently placed the castle in the tank. “I have no castle but this, friend fish, and you are welcome to it.

“Oh, to be a goldfish would be grand. To not have to worry about work, or school, or life! To just swim... swim and be free. Your life is so much better than mine, fish.”

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