It's Saturday morning and somewhere in Bayfield a thirteen year old Mexican boy has woken in a very good mood. A /very/ good mood. He gets up, goes to eat a couple of poptarts, hits the shower and gets dressed. He's put on a pair of dark blue baggy jean shorts and a baggy light grey t-shirt. He pulls his hair back into a ponytail and tucks his red bandana into his back pocket. Red sneakers are on his feet.

He writes a note for Ellen telling her that he went to go meet a friend and take the friend to the gallery to show her some of his art. He let's her know in the note that he does have his cellphone, that it's turned on and fully charged if she needs him for anything. Then it's out the door he goes.

He has to go to the school and then head from there to the house that he's on his way to. It's the only way he fully remembers where she lives. It doesn't take him long to remember the way once he's found the landmarks the girl had pointed out when he had walked her home.

He arrives in front of her house and moves hesitantly towards the front door. He's hoping that her mother doesn't get upset that he's come. He knocks on the door and takes a step back away from it. Now he waits. Waits for someone to answer the door.

She hears the knock at the door in the middle of cleaning the house up a bit. Wiping her hands on her holey pair of jeans she heads for the door and peaks out through the nearby window to see who it is. Eyes land upon the form of the boy who helped Christa last week with the boys.

Slowly she unlocks the door and the door creaks open.

”Hello. What brings you here?” Juli could have sworn she would never see him again. Not many teenage boys hung out with nine year old girls. Which caused her curiosity to raise at why he was here.

It's actually a frightening concept when a teenage boy is willing to hang around a nine-year-old girl, especailly one that can't stop asking questions.

Chrissy was dressed similar to mom, because she wanted to be dressed like mom. She was in a pair of jeans that she'd had to fight her mom not to throw away after she feel down and ripped holes in both knees, pointing out that mom had holy pants too. She was wearing a white tee shirt and had had mom put her blonde hair up into a ponytail.

She appeared in the doorway behind her mother, holding a kitchen towel, to find her 'boyfriend' there. She smiled, her bright green eyes shining. "Hi Blade!" She'd been standing on a chair at the counter, drying the dishes mom had washed.

The Mexican boy fidgets slightly as he stands there waiting for the door to be answered. If he wasn't so determined, and it wasn't so important, to him anyway, he would have probably turned around and darted away before the door was even answered. It was that determination that kept him standing there, however.

"Good morning," he says quietly and shifts slightly. "I hope that I didn't wake you. I came to see Christa." He's actually sounding quite polite right now. He even dressed in a way that he wouldn't appear to be some punk ass boy even though he's still wearing baggy clothes. At least he wasn't all gangster punked out. "And to find out if it was okay if she goes to my foster mom's gallery with me. I'd like to show her some of my art and stuff since she was nice enough to let me hear her play her violin."

"Hi Christa," he greeted the girl with a smile. He glanced back to the girl's mom and waited. Hoping. Hoping that she'll say yes. "I'll give you my cellphone number and the number to the gallery..."

She thought about it for a moment. Juli really didn’t like the idea of Christa running around with the boy, even if he was polite. It wasn’t anything against him, but it was her paranoia of Chris that always caused her to think twice about any situation. The idea that she’d never hear the end of it from Christa if she said no, finally made her relent to letting the child go. Also the boy offered phone numbers that she could reach them by just in case.

”I guess it’s alright. But I would like those phone numbers just in case of an emergency. That is if Christa wants to go.” Although she already knew the answer would be ‘of course’.

"Yes! Yes yes I wanna go!" She's jumping up and down now, clutching the towel in both hands, her ponytail bobbing and causing short strands from her short hair to fall free. She darted forward and wrapped her arms around her mom's leg. She'd been holding her breath, mom never let her go anywhere here, because it was a new city Christa always assumed, but she'd really wanted to go this time.

"Thanks mom. I wanna go!"

Blade reached into his front pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that he'd already written the two numbers down on. He'd also written down the address to the gallery. Please note that since the boy doesn't read or write very well, it looks like a child of about 4 or 5 wrote it out.

"This one is my cell," he says pointing to the first number. "And this one is the gallery. This is the address of the gallery, too," he says pointing to the second number and the address. He couldn't help but smile at Christa's obvious excitement about the possibility of getting to go.

"I won't let nothing happen to her, ma'am," he said with a slight nod of his head.

She nodded as he pointed to which number was which.

”Alright then. Just be back before one, okay?” She needed to at least set a time limit to be back by. Otherwise she would panic that it was taking too long or they should have been back by now, etc.

”Go wash your hands. I’ll finish drying the dishes.”

“Ok.” She unwound herself from around her mother and ran towards the bathroom, washed her hands, then ran to her room and found her socks and shoes and her lamb. She carried them all back to the living room and sat down on the floor to put her pink converse shoes on. She picked up her lamb and got up, holding the dishtowel out to her mother. The lamb happens to be ratty, missing an eye and an ear, with a music box wind-up stick that doesn’t work half the time, and is nearly flat from it’s stuffing being flat. She loves it.

"Yes, ma'am," he said politely and nodded his head. "I'll have her back here before one."

He stayed standing outside the frontdoor while Christa ran and did as she was told to. He fidgetted every so often while waiting.

"You ready?" he asked her once he noticed the girl had her shoes on.

”Oh no, Chrissy don’t take your lamb. You’ll just get it dirty or lost.” Not that it wasn’t already dirty and raggedy. But Chrissy refused to give it up so she let her keep it.

”Give me the lamb and then you can go.” She held out her empty hand for Chrissy to hand it over.

Chrissy nodded to Blade and then stopped long enough to frown. She fingered the lambs remaining pink glass eye and then sighed and handed it over to her mother. "But you have to take him with you if you go." And put it in the dash board like she herself always does. Then she tipped her head back for a kiss so that she could leave.

Blade continued to stand outside. And wait.

(Bleh. Short. Sorry x.x)

”I will.” She took the lamb and then kissed Chrissy. ”Now go on. He’s waited long enough.”

Chrissy nodded and walked out the door to stand beside Blade and look up at him, blinking her big green eyes. Does it feel somehow unnerving when a child looks up at you with such trusting, admiring eyes?

Finally! They could go. And go they did. Blade didn't waste any time turning and heading away from Christa's house. He made sure to keep at a pace that she'd be able to easily keep up without having to run after him.

"I'm going to show you some of my art that I've done," he said proudly as they walked. He also had a surprise for her but he wasn't going to mention that at all because he didn't want to listen to her millions of questions about it all the way to the gallery.

It was about a twenty minute walk from Christa's house to the gallery. He'd made sure to stop every so often to make sure she was doing alright and wasn't getting tired just yet. Soon the gallery came into sight. "There it is," he pointed out the building. "That's my foster moms gallery," he said with a bit of pride in his voice. "Come on!"

Into the building they went. He waved at the man behind the counter. "That's my friend, Gattling. He's really awesome," he said as he led her to the back work rooms. "In here is where I keep most of my stuff."

She asked about a million questions anyways. Did you see that dog? I patted his head once. Have you ever been to the park? I like the playground on the park more then the Playground at school. Did you know Motzart's name was Wolgang? It's kind of a cool name. I like it. My mom's name is Julianna, did you know that?

She's curious, it's how she learns. But she didn't ask about his mom. Because last time he didn't want to talk about his mom.

Once she'd had to stop and rest. She's energetic but she's tiny and she tires after so long. But she seemed to gain back interest when he pointed out the building.

"What's a foster mom?" She asked in a whisper when they were inside the gallery. Blade didn't whisper but it felt like the kind of place where she should whisper. Like in a Museaum or on a feild trip. "Hi Gattling. Your names cool. Like Wolfgang." She followed blade closely.

"A foster mom is a woman who takes in a kid with no where else to go because the courts say she can," he answers as best as he can. "That's what Ellen did for me. I ain't got no where else to go, so she took me in. The courts gave her custody of me. So I live with her. And she takes care of me."

He started to set out some of his drawings along one of the longer work tables. All sorts of pictures that he's drawn and colored with colored pencils. All of the pictures looked pretty realistic. It's his talent. He's a wonderful artist for being one so young still. At the end of the table, he pulls out a box. It's sorta wrapped but it's not a very good job. He had done it himself.

She leaned over the table, but being so short, the table comes nearly to her chest. She leaned over one of the pictures and thought about it for a moment, gave it more attintion then a child normally would have. And then, after a few moments she made a small gasp as if she'd only just seen the picture. She'd not. It just took a few moments of collecting all the details like mad like a child does before she looked at the picture over all.

"It's so pretty." She looked up to ask him how he did it. "Was that?"

"Thanks," he said with a slight blush on his face. He'd noticed how long it had taken her to study the picture and such. He'd laid out about six different pictures. Each one different from the other. But all of them so realistic looking.

A grin broke out across his face as she noticed the box and asked what it was. "I dunno," he said jokingly. "Why don't you open it and find out." He lifted the box off the table and set it on the floor for her. It's a fairly decent size box. Not small at all. But not huge either.

She frowned. Chrissy now found herself absolutly stuck between curiosity and awe...between what was in that darned box and looking at the next picture. She hesitated, looked at the picture, a side long glance that only a child could make so adorable, then decided that the box and the picture were both going to be there in a few moments and that her curiosity wouldn't wait but her attintion could.

She walked away from the table and squat down in front of the box on the floor, her thin torso sinking between her knees basically. She was nearly sitting as she plucked away at the paper and opened the box.

She gasped again and then leaned forward a little until her knees touched the ground, her legs out to the side and her butt on the ground, then tipped her head back and looked at him with suprise and curiosity shining in the bright green eyes.

He stood by quietly, with a wide smile on his face, as the girl moved to the box to open it. His smile widened the further she got to opening it. His joy grew /very/ much at her reaction to what was in the box. And just what is in the box you ask?


........Drum roll please........


A brand new, /not/ used, violin case. And inside that case is a brand new, /not/ used, violin. Along with a music book. Mozart.

"Do you like it?" he asked with a grin. Now how on earth could a thirteen year old boy afford such a thing?

Something you must know about children, I'm sure you know already. Children don't care how much something cost. Not really. Price nor money means nothing to them at all. Even to a child who knows that mommy can't afford a Violin for her. Well, her reasoning would be that Blade's foster mommy pays the house money and the food money and the books and clothes money just like her mommy pays for their things. Blade can save his own money, just like one day, she can save her own money.

She picked up the book, not hearing him in the slightest, or rather, choosing not to answer. The girl opened the book, looked it over just as closely as she'd looked over Blade's painting, then leaned forward and touched the strings of the violin but not the bow. Most children didn't know this, but Chrissy knew that touching the strings of the bow would ruin it's oils.

Then, as if she'd finally heard what he'd said four minutes ago, she leaped up to her feet and wrapped her small arms all the way around Blade's waist, pressing her face to his stomach.

Blade had actually managed to sell five of his most favorite pieces in order to be able to do this for the girl. It hadn't been easy because not too many people want to buy a piece of art from a mere kid. Especially not a little Mexican that looks, dresses and acts the way he does. And he'd done it without the help of anyone. But he'd managed to be able to do so. It wasn't the best violin but it wasn't a crappy cheap one either. And it was so much better than the one she's using from the school. The guy at the music shop had helped him pick it out with what he could afford.

He stood there silently as she looked over the book and the violin. He was surprised when she suddenly leapt to her feet and wrapped her arms around his waist. Remember folks, the boy doesn't like to be touched. He fidgeted slightly before finally reaching up a hand and patting her on the back.

"So I guess you like it..."

"I love it! It's sooo cool! It's pretty and it's cool. I can really have it?"

No....Chrissy's never known that Blade doesn't like to be touched. (I didn't even remember that) Or she probably wouldn't have touched him at all. But I'll warn you Blade, telling her now might make her feel rejected. So she continues to hug him in her little, somehow firm grasp and then just as quickly as she'd leaped to him, she leaped away.

She touched the neck, the chin rest, the strings again. "Can I play it?"

Obviously she doesn't get the 'it's yours' part of a presant. The only presents she's ever gotten were from her grandmother and mom, before her grandmother had died. And then only from her mom.

His not liking being touched isn't something that he's always lived with. It's only really been since being raped by the incubus, Matthew. Yes. He still dwells on that incident. Being raped by anything can leave you screwed up in the head for a while. A long while in some cases. He doesn't tell her that he doesn't like to be touched though. She's only nine years old. She wouldn't understand and it would just bring more questions I'm sure. Questions that he won't answer.

"Yes," he says with a slight laugh. "It's really yours. You can really have it. It's a gift from me to you." He watched her touching the violin and such. "Of course you can play it. It's your to do whatever you want with."

Of course. Nothing you say or do will not bring on a dozen or more questions from the curious child. It would also not be appriciated by her mother because in the end, Chrissy would go home and either talk about it or ask questions about it and her mom might not like being questioned about rape.

"Cool! So cool!"

She lifted the violin with as much care as she'd lifted the school violin out of the case. She put it to her chin and picked up the bow and started a tune that sounded decent, though it certinally wasn't Motzart quality. It was, however, quicker, less hesitant and shaky then the tune she'd played for him in the front yard.

She even swayed a little bit and her green eyes closed. The tune ended abruptly, without an ending to it and she peered at him. Maybe because it's a tune she's just made up on the spot and hasn't thought of the end yet? Chrissy might just be a musical genius one day.

"Know what that reminds me of?"

The boy, himself, would not like being questioned about rape. Thus he says nothing about not liking being touched. Period. Nor will he ever. Not to the girl.

He smiled and listened to her play. "What does it remind you of?" he asked her when she stopped playing and asked.

"That." She pointed at the picture she'd been looking at, the first one she'd looked at laying on the table. "I made it for that." Made it. Genuis. If only she could make up an end for the song. Or even remember how it went tomorrow. "It plays prettier," she commented. She meant that it sounded better then the school's violin. She wanted to hug it, but that would break it and she didn't want to do that. And she wanted to hug him again but she didn't because she didn't want to put the violin down.

Poor thing. She's just too excited.

The picture she was indicating was a beach scene. The waves were crashing lightly against the beach and the sun was setting behind it. Lovely picture really.

"That's cool," he replied. The smile not once leaving his face. "So you really like it? The violin I mean..." Duh Blade. Can't you tell? Of course she likes it.

"Yes," she replies, no ounce of hesitation.

What I have the sense to ask that a child as young or innocent as Chrissy is is why Blade bought her the violin. Why would he buy a present for a child that he hardly knew and had seemed eager to get away from?

She walked over and looked at another picture long and hard and then looked at him, looked at the picture. She was smiling too. "This ones pretty too. Watch." Or rather...listen. She started up another tune on the violin.

Why had he bought it for her? Because, after having heard her play on the crappy one she was borrowing from the school, he thought about how much better it would sound coming from a nicer one. Why had he bought it for her? Because, after having noticed, and yes he did notice, the bruises on the girls mother, he had wanted to do something nice for the girl.

I won't say that he felt sorry for her but in a sense he does. And, in all honesty, even though he'd been around her only the one time and saw how she looked at the not so nice violin she was borrowing from the school, he thought about himself and how he had looked at the not near as nice things he had to work with to do his art with. He sees a little bit of himself in this young girl. She deserves a chance to do what she loves just like he'd been given the chance to do what he loves... his art.

The second drawing that she'd studied and then created a tune for was that of a random person off the street that he'd studied and drawn. It was a child dressed in rags living on the streets or perhaps in the slummier part of Bayfield. None the less, he'd been able to capture the situation perfectly in his drawing. All the way down to the joy in the eyes as the child had been handed a scrap of bread to eat.

It didn't matter the joy in the child's eyes. That was obviously not what she was playing for. Can you hear it? It's in the music, the lower notes, she uses them more often then the higher notes now. Can you hear she feels sad? Can you tell that the picture is pretty, the child is pretty, but it's all so sad.

She played much longer for this picture then the other, until the notes shook more and she grew hesitant. Then the perfect flow of the song dwindled off into random notes until she stopped playing entirly. Is it possible that such a young child can really feel such emotion? Yes, but it's rare. Chrissy's always been happy, never have they been well off, mom always had to work hard, but she'd always made sure Chrissy was happy. And this little girl wasn't happy, even for that bread and moment, she wouldn't be happy later.

"Where's her mommy?" What about daddy? She doesn't ask because the thought doesn't even enter her mind.

Yes. He could hear it. He could feel it really. And he can feel the emotion that the girl puts into what she's playing. He actually feels that way when he's drawing something. You should have seen him after he'd sketched out that drawing. He'd gone into a dark room by himself, locked the door behind him and cried. Cried for that little girl in the picture.

"That is her mommy giving her the slice of bread," he tells her. "But it wasn't her mother that I wanted to portray in the picture. It was her. I felt compelled to draw her. And so I did."

She frowned more, lowered the violin to her side, lowered the bow on the other side, tip toed to get a closer and better look at the picture. "Why does her mommy let her look like that? Why doesn't she take her home and give her a bath?"

There were a lot of homeless people in England, all over the streets. But she'd rarely gotten to question it. When she'd asked her teachers they'd told her it wasn't something a lady should talk about. And her mom had worked so hard and so often then that she didn't get much time with her except bedtime. And then her thoughts were elsewhere. She sounded so sad for the child.

He sighed as he reached for a chair to pull it over and sit on. "Her mommy looked like that, too," he told her quietly. "They have no home to go to. The streets are their home. They have no money. No home. No place to take a bath. Getting food of any sort brings joy to them for it means that they'll actually be able to eat something instead of always going hungry."

Her frown deepened, became...twisted and controted into a very sad look. Most kids didn't ever look like that. Her eyes watered at the very thought that she would go home to mommy, help mommy finish cleaning and worry about playing her new violin and and do her homework and there was a little girl without a home at all.

"Why doesn't her mommy work?" Poor child, she's having a hard time grasping this. Poor Blade that he has to explain this. "Why doesn't people give them money!?" That time she sounded a little angry.

He fidgetted with his hands folded in his lap for several moments as he watched her and listened to her. And sighed.

"I don't know," he answered. "I honestly don't know. There are just some people in the world that are unable to work for various reasons."

He paused and tried to think of how to answer her second question.

"Because not all people are nice and caring," he answered finally. "A lot of people think about themselves first in the world. I know. I was one of them." Yes. He's always thought about himself first. Growing up with a bunch of thug gang members does that to you.

She watched him fidget, wanted to sit on his lap when he sat down and cuddle up like she did with her mom, but she didn't, because she didn't want to put the violin down yet. So she just moved a little closer instead.

"That's stupid," she claimed in an innocently spitful tone that only a child can manage. It's like telling their best friend they were stupid and ugly and then being best friends again the next day. So very innocent because the didn't understand how harsh their words are yet.

"When I grow up more like mommy, I'm gonna give them money." She looked at him for approval.

"That's good," he said with a nod. "That's good that you don't want to grow up to be a selfish person." He smiled slightly at the girl as she watched him.

"But don't forget that you do need to do things for yourself too. Otherwise you'll get burnt out on things in life."

(Gah! Crappiness!)