One Last Breath

Through the window he stared at rolling fields of sunlit grass, dancing and swaying to the direction of the summer wind, miles and miles in front of him like a timeless childhood dream. The meadows glimmered rolling with gold, large clouds frolic through the sky like oversized sheep. The sun was beating down with its warmth. Just another regular summer day, with people being born, being killed, and being forgotten.

The sight had done nothing for him. Many times he had stared through barred windows and wondered what was on the other side. The places, the people, who they were, what they were doing; all those questions suck into your brain when you're locked up in a cage. Whether you liked it or not. Who knew the perspective of life could change so much standing from the flip side? Jon didn't. But then again, Jon realized he didn't give a damn anymore about it.

The air was thick and humid; the rancid smell of sweaty metal crowded the bus like invisible passengers around him. Jon sat at a mini cage by himself, the thin netting of steel helped separate passengers from one another. He had to squirm in his seat every once in a while. Sweat and heat seeped into the puke green leather seats, the thin cotton of his suit kept stretching to it like glue. For hours they rolled on without air conditioning or even an electric fan. Jon baked in his suit staring at the guards who stared back at him. Wearing dark blue uniforms with short sleeves and polished shoes, their intentions well hidden behind dark shades of sunglasses, the only thing Jon shared with them was silence. Even then that was unnerving. The silence felt strange and threatening, stabbing into him like a shank. It was then a cold feeling crept down his skin.

His heart skipped a beat; he shot around- he looked behind him. Empty seats stared back. A bead of ice cold sweat rolled down the side of his face. It took him a moment to register it; but the memory that he was alone for this ride returned. Had the pound messed him up so much he couldn't even find safety in silence?

"Look at this guy." One of the officers staring at him let off a chuckle looking at his friend like he got some sort of joke.

The same bead of ice cold sweat went down Jon's spine during that hot summer dawn when they paroled him out of Rikers Island. He had stood there with the attire he went straight out of court and into jail with; a white button down shirt, black dress pants, shoes and black clip on necktie. It felt like someone else's skin to him. Dawn was just breaking through the clouds over Rikers Island. He had been thankful for that, any later and the morning inmates schedule for exercise would see him. The parole board had spared him the taunting and death threats from them; he thanked them for that, but nothing else. In front of him razor wire fences opened, the loud blare of alarms signaling his freedom. It was then he took a step, the first step in many years that was his own. Gravel cracked under his feet like bang snaps children threw in parties. He tasted the salt of the East River on his lips like a kiss of a long lost lover. Faceless men stared down at him from gun towers, caps over their faces, M1 Garands in there hands, watching him go.

His seat rocked to the motion of the bus when it wrestled its way onto the cobblestone road, his handcuffs swinging back and forth has reality came back to him. He turned back around; the probation officer already heading his way. The officer's uniform was wrinkled profusely from the long trip; he had slept in it for most of the ride, his snoring the only music playing in the steel barred bus. A heavy built man, balding around the forehead, with thick hairy arms, the dark lens of his shades played off his beige skin, has the shiny brass shield on his breast gleaming in the noon sun. He smiled, showing his bleach white teeth.

"Jon Deacon." He said clearing his throat, his footsteps planting loud metallic ticks with every step he went with a clipboard dangling at his side by a long chain. Jon leaned his head back, resting on the puke green leather head rest. He closed his eyes cocked his brows and relaxed, stretching his chained legs has far has his seat would let him. Rings and rings of keys jingled in the officer's side like sleigh bells; metallic ticks echoed off the floor, closer and closer until they came to a sudden stop.

"I'm guessing that's you?" the officer smirked, slapping him on the head with his clipboard jokingly.

Jon smirked back, nodding, biting down on the sudden anger that came to him just to play along. He turned his head towards the window has the bus rumbled its way forward. Livestock frolic free on the field. Concentrate on that. He told himself.

"So you’re the only one in the world named Jon Deacon? Look at me when I'm addressing you." The officer said, giving him another slap with his clipboard, this time harder. Jon felt his muscle clinch has the board bounced off his face, the slap echoing in the empty bus.

"Rikers made you hard of hearing?" the officer said mockingly picking his ear.

"I said are you Jon Deacon or not?"

There was only silence.

The officer went for a third swipe, but Jon glanced away, the clipboard giving him a nice breeze. He turned his head and looked at the officer. The piercing gaze was unflinching, searing hot, and angry. The officer stared for a moment at him; Jon could see the sudden change of emotion the officer's eyes gave through the dark tint of his lens. The officer felt it too and relaxingly looked down at his clipboard. Jon leaned his head back, trying to calm down has he stared at the officer toward the front. That officer popped his chewing gum at him, the dark tint of lens hiding all expression he had. He propped a Mossberg 12-gauge on one shoulder and popped his gum again at Jon.

The officer checked off Jon's name, and looked up from his clipboard, cocking his head up and down, biting on his bottom teeth.

"Are you relaxed? You want a cushion with that?" The officer splat; his foot tapping on the floor quicker and quicker. Jon watched the rolling field beyond him, passing him by. Cows were chewing, horses were screwing. The officer leaned closer.

"YOU want a cushion?" He said slower; leaning so close Jon could feel his breath at his face. The smell of tobacco smoke and bad breath attacked him, but Jon said nothing. A rattle of chains echoed has the officer kicked at Jon's feet.

"Put your feet down asshole!" the officer snapped. He kicked again harder and Jon's feet slipped back down. Jon felt his fingers wrap into tight fists.

"Don't start acting up again, you get me? I'm required to say that nowadays. As a warning before I beat the shit out of you." The officer said, poking at Jon's face with a finger. He stood up and went to walk again. In a flash Jon planted his feet hard against steel cage netting and kicked at them.

"What the hell did I tell you?" The officer snapped, shooting around heading back. Jon gritted his teeth and kicked. The rusted separator gave away, shrieking loudly has it did but Jon still kicked away. Quickly calling for back up the officer reached down and unhooked his nightstick and wrapped his hand eagerly around it.

"You have some problems with authority there?" the officer said, poking him with his baton.

"I've some problems in general." Jon smiled, shaking his cuffs playfully has he looked at him, before returning back to kick at the netting.

"You don’t think I see that?" The office nudged his nightstick at his face. Jon kicked harder.

"Maybe then I should teach you some respect while you're still aboard this bus. I think you need that Mr. Deacon. I think you need all your teeth knocked out before you learn."

"Go ahead. I promise I won't hit back."

He did. And Jon kept his promise. The second officer popped his gum wordless has he watched Jon curled up holding his head. Jon cursed. The world spun like a cheap amusing park ride has the nightstick smashed into his head again. A wet hot feeling dipped from his head, and Jon let out a regretful moan. He regretted immediately what he said.

"That got your attention?" The officer smiled, has Jon tossed and turned in pain.

"Yeah it did." Jon groaned. Smirking, the officer left satisfied.

Jon slammed his foot into the metal separator, causing the whole thing to fly off completely.

"Sorry, lost it."

Red faced the officer came at him again. Jon laughed has the nightstick rose and fell, the pain raining off him like short mini explosions. The officer had to be pulled off before he stopped. By then Jon couldn't move, the pain was numbing in an intoxicating kind of way, like booze, or drugs, or any other myriad sort of things that people like him took to escape from life. He couldn't feel his arms or legs, his head was spinning, and for a brief moment the names and faces of the people he lost left him. Jon's laughter filled the bus like music. Was this going to be the way he lived on with life?

"This guy is loony! The screws in his head are loose or something!" the officer said, staring has Jon lay limped over on his seat. Pulsing, the pain swirled around him like it was alive. Jon breathed through his nose, wheezing, has another officer pulled him upright. Urging his bald friend to back away the officer stared at Jon studying him, as if his eyes could peel the mystery that was Jon Deacon. Waiting for the laughter to die down, this new officer observed Jon from a distance. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Jon studied him back. This one was much older, with a gaunt shaved face and short gray hair. He wore no glasses, which allowed the heavy bags under his eyes to show (the sharpest feature on his pale face) in all its distinction. Patiently he waited. The laughter died down.

"What was the point of that?" he asked Jon, crossing his arms like some poor attempt at a father figure lecturing his son.

"What's the point in anything?" Jon said, looking at officer who beat him. He shot him a smile, which drove the officer mad. His friends jumped in, holding him again before anything else started.

"That last stunt at the cell got you an extra six months lock up. And for what?" Jon didn't have a reply has the officer took a seat across from him.

"You swung at a officer leading you back to your cell. You know that crap don’t slide." The older officer studied Jon's face for any sort of regret, of remorse for the senseless action he did. He found none. Jon Deacon did so much has flinch at the reason addressed to him.

"You were lucky the parole board even gave you a deal after that. What makes you thing you can pull that crap again, on my bus?" The officer nodded. Jon had to agree to that. He must have been someone very important if the board had allowed him to get away with that. Jon's eyes remained glaring at the officer who beat him, now casually tapping his nightstick in his hands like he was a conductor of an unseen orchestra.

"Jon are you listening?" the officer asked.

"Are you listening? Give me a look."

When Jon turned to meet his gaze, he found the cigarette close to his face. The officer motioned for him. "Go on. Take it." Genuinely moved to the point of being shocked, Jon looked at the officer confused. Nodding on, the officer held out the cigarette towards Jon's mouth. "I know a thing or two about kids leaving prison. They always want a smoke."

The man had been right, but Jon didn't show it. He took the cigarette in his mouth, has the man help lid it. "Can you give me a help with this too?" Jon said rattling his handcuffs. Minutes later Jon held the cigarette between his fingers, puffing the sweetest pleasure between his lips. Tobacco had been cash in Rikers Island, more so then money. A whole black market was devoted to it.

"How long have you been smoking?" the officer said

"Has young has I can breathe." Jon said, puffing poison.

"Really?"

"Really." Jon said annoyed, half of the cigarette already gone. Why was this officer still talking to him? He had already calmed down like they wanted. What more did they want? They couldn't possibly pay enough for him to play psychoanalyst.

That's the problem with people. They just pretended to care. Staring at him, he could already see behind the façade of that kind smile pasted on his wrinkled face. The kind posture and friendly body language was just another attempt to get something out of him. To figure out how he ticked. Jon knew the truth about life; that at the end the people who truly matter will be gone. Good things don’t last. People pretended to care because they wanted something out of him, to study him like he was some walking experiment. If this guy was going to have questions, Jon was going to get some answers.

"Where the hell are you TAKING ME?" he snapped, his voice cutting into the silence like a sword. The bald officer's head perked up, and he smiled again. Jon saw that behind this smile was contempt and mockery. His eyes tighten as if Jon had said something to upset him; there was slight aggression in his voice.

"You're going to Xavier's Sister School for Freaks." he laughed, grinning. Jon's face redden, his fingers crushed the burning cigarette. The older officer looked at his workmate and waved him away, before turning back to Jon.

"Don't mind him. My name is Raymond." The officer extended his hand for Jon to shake. The latter didn't return the gesture.

"I don't care bout-"

"Before this job I had a short stunt has a youth councilor at a city YMCA."

"What's that got to do with me?"

The officer cleaned his throat and tried to ignore the statement. He leaned closer slightly while Jon never took his eyes away from baldy.

"What I am saying is, I can't report what happen, simply because doing that would get you nowhere. You're considered a mutant Jon-"

Jon's mouth grew tense, his face burned as if a blow torch was pressed against his skin.

"-and your track record for striking officers is the talk of the COs. If I'm going to report this, the chances are you're going to go back."

"Go back right?" Jon said turning towards him. Now he got his full attention.

"If this was baseball you would have struck out twenty times by now."

"Well I can really use a bat."

"You don't want to go back do you?"

"I'll die before I go back." Jon grounded the words through his teeth.

The two didn't speak for a while after that. Jon watched the world change before him. Hours seem to pass by. The flushing meadows of the countryside gave way to a small town first. The bus passed a church, a school, a local firehouse, a bakery. Trees and flowers were at full bloom turning the town to rich green. Even through the thick glass Jon heard the barking of dogs, the laughter of children, the sound of sprinklers. When he looked down, Jon found that he couldn't stop fiddling with his fingers. They felt like little tiny worms trying to squirm away from his hands. Ignoring it, he returned to the sight outside. A little girl was bouncing a ball alone by herself in a drive way. Her older brother and father were playing catch with one another. But then before he knew it they were gone, passed by like a cinematic quick cut.

There was such peace found outside instead of prison. Jon smirked at how obvious the notion of that was. There's this sense of safety, the knowing that someone won't stick a knife in your back. Suddenly the bus came to a halt. Jon looked out, watching the stoplight turn red. He licked his lips, his tongue moving inside his mouth as if it had a life of its own. Just get me there already.

A small minivan pulled up next to the bus.

When their eyes met, Jon knew that the kid couldn't have been much older as he was when he first moved. Both stared at each other stoically, through Jon had more of stoned animal on PCP look. Jon would have wondered what it would've been if they could switch places now and perhaps the boy thought the same. Before they knew it the light had turned and the minivan sped off. The boy waved at him. Jon wondered if he had been waving hello or goodbye. He watched has the bus passed a forest of trees as it curved onto a highway. The occasional popping of bubble gum and the rattling of keys caught Jon's ears.

What is this Xavier's school for freaks? Jon remember the brief flash of memory he had of a mutant he seen before. Having limbs and body parts just like a normal human being, his face had been a different story. Jon remember those eyes staring back at him, those dozens and dozens of eyes has big has golf balls looking at him, glaring at him, every single one with a different emotion, dozens and dozens of windows to souls. They were on places eyes shouldn't have been, on a nose, a mouth, an ear, a chin; and each squirming independently.

He quickly rubbed his arms trying to get rid of the goosebumps. Jon saw the mutant clear has day in his mind, his face was reflected on the hundreds and hundreds of irises staring at him. Fear was slashed onto Jon's face and the mutant knew it. Sweat poured down Jon's face, the world was dark. Where was he? He had been standing now, and when he looked down the arms and legs that had been his were gone. They had been shorter, much shorter. Jon tried to scream but somehow he couldn't. Those eyes were staring at him again, this time with such authority Jon felt like a child. A loud whimper came out of him, he went to meet those eyes. Jon saw his reflection.

He was a child.

Jon screamed.

The creature grabbed him by the throat, its grip felt like iron. All of its eyes beat like they were muscles. Jon tried to look away, but the creature wouldn't let him. Its forced him to look. And when Jon did all he saw was hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.

HATE.

A hatred for him which burned hotter then the hottest fire, colder then the coldest ice; a hatred that transcended the limits of time and place, a hatred for him since birth and saw no innocence or redemption, a joyous murderous hatred for Jon Deacon.

It did not speak, but Jon knew what it wanted. Look at me. Its eyes widen horribly. LOOK AT ME. Jon went to scream but felt the breath choke in his throat. Spiderlike fingers tighten around his neck pushing into his windpipe. Jon fought to breathe. He thrashed his little feet, his little arms wailing against the monster. LOOK AT ME! The hideous creature leaned closer, its eyes searing with hate. Jon shivered shaking uncontrollably his felt like water. His eyes fluttered wildly, catching his reflection upon the creature's eyes. His face turned purple, his nose was wheezing for air. He clawed at the creature's chest, his little arms looking no more then a baby compared to the monster's torso. The world swam around him almost like he was plunged into water. Light fainted in and out as if God was joking with the light switch. His little legs began to kick less and less. The creature pressed harder letting out a horrifying shrill. Jon felt his little body slowly growing limp, his eyes fighting to stay awake. OPEN YOUR EYES AND LOOK AT ME! The creature pressed a finger into one of Jon's eyes and pried it open.

A line began to form straight down the creature's face, as if someone ran a sharp sword through its head. It slowly unfolded; the sides of the creatures face almost resembled lips. Let me die. Jon begged, tears running down his face, the last breath escaping his lungs, the world slipping. The monster's face peeled aside, until only darkness stared into Jon Deacon's face. Was this death?

The creature suddenly let go. Jon felt a jolt of breath surged into his lungs that almost threw him off his seat. He clawed at his throat with little fingers, his chest raising and pounding like a piston. Jon stared into the darkness. Her face appeared then, emerging out of the darkness like it had been a head peaking out of a hole. Her skin was palm like ivory, her lips cold and devoid of color. Yet she stared at him with a kindness he never knew. Jon recognized her and tears flooded out of him.

"Are we really so different, Dad?" she asked.

Jon snapped away, almost throwing himself to the floor. His face was soaked with sweat has the guards broke out laughing at him.