Page 94 of Jackson
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Jackson
Most of my adult life I’d ‘taken,’ I guessed I was a selfish person in one way. I didn’t necessarily consider others and was often wrapped up in my own misery. But with Summer I wanted to be different. I wanted to be the boyfriend she deserved. I wanted to look after her. I wanted her to feel secure and loved. I also found it hardwork.
Until Summer, I did what I wanted, when I wanted. I didn’t have to think. I had no emotional ties, other than her from a distance, to anyone. I loved my sister, of course, but our lives couldn’t be further apart if we’d tried. We kept in contact, we met up, and I knew she suffered working with my father for one reason only; to protect what wasmine.
I listened as Summer called her dad and thanked him for the money he’d left her. A pang of jealousy hit me in the stomach. I didn’t have it in me to make amends with my father; I had no desire to do anything but watch the bastard suffer. I didn’t care what he wanted to speak to me about; to be in the same room as him would have beentorture.
From as early as I could remember, I’d wanted children and I’d love those children as if my life depended on it. And it did, I guessed. I had a need to prove that I could be the father I never had; I had a need for unconditional love. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little niggle would chastise me for those thoughts, I shouldn’t use a child to proveanything.
I watched Summer from the kitchen window; she was smiling and laughing as she spoke. She thought I had all the confidence in the world, but inside my stomach had churned at the thought of her going to uni. There was a little part of me that was thankful she hadn’t got her place, and I mentally cursed myself forthat.
I hated that I felt insecure. I hated that I didn’t have the confidence everyone thought Idid.
* * *
Iheadedto the bar and the drop-in centre. Dexter had told us the local social services had called a meeting and had some children they wanted to introduce to him. He had offered his services for free, and I guessed they wanted to take him up onthat.
“Hey, so who do we have here?” I asked, when I walked in thecentre.
A woman had her hand on the shoulder of a young boy, maybe early teens, and he had a scowl that could out-scowl any I’d seenbefore.
“Hi, Jackson. This isDylan.”
Dylan was looking at thewall.
“Do you like it?” Iasked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, I guess,” hesaid.
“Think you can do better?” I said with awink.
He shrugged his shouldersagain.
“Dylan is a brilliant artist,” the social worker informedme.
“Is that so? Want to show mesome?”
He didn’t respond but I heard the sigh that left hislips.
“How about you and I sit at that table and you can draw something, show me how great an artist youare?”
Without a word he walked away and sat. He placed his hands on the table but did nothing else. I wouldn’t get to know his story, unless he told me himself, ofcourse.
“I’m going to grab a coffee,” his social workersaid.
I sat opposite him and pushed a sketchpad and pencils towards him. He stared atthem.
“I don’t want to be here,” hewhispered.
I pulled the sketchpad back towards me and opened it. I drew. I drew Dylan but with a huge smile on hisface.
“So what would this Dylan draw?” I asked as I pushed the pad back towardshim.
He studied the page for a while before picking up a pencil. I watched the concentration on his face as he drew a woman. It was an amazing piece until he picked up a thicker, black pencil and drew vertical lines over her. He then pushed the pad to me and sat back in his chair. He didn’t look at me as he folded his arms. Dylan was going to be one tough cookie tocrack.
“She’s beautiful, who is she?” Iasked.
