Hazard - Chapter 22

[fbrobey.livejournal.com]

 Title: Hazard

Author: Fbrobey
Chapter: 22/28
Rating: PG-13 (Just to be safe, i expect there's some swearing in there somewhere lol)
Character(s): Clive, Greg, OFC
Summary: Based on the song Hazard by Richard Marx (Italics is in the past as with the previous chapters)

 

Greg found that the next few days were some of the more pleasant he spent locked up. He had written over two hours worth of stand up notes, which he sent home to Jennifer, with a note asking for her help. His week over a week previously had reminded him just how much had missed her and made him set his mind on writing to her asking for advice in his notes as he always used to find her opinion on his comedy useful and valuable.

 

He hoped that her address hadn’t changed otherwise he had just handed the new tenants his gold. Luckily Greg had enough spare time, paper and sense to make a copy of them for Jennifer, keeping the originals. He had also written a letter to his cousin Donnie who he missed like a limb that? had been detached. He had promised him that he could come and stay, but had forgotten due to being plunged straight into work, finding a house and meeting new faces.

 

An old face also came to visit him. Greg had been delighted to see Clive, who had been his rock throughout the ordeal of being labelled a suspected murderer. He found himself opening up once again to the tolerant Englishman. He had told him about his visit from his Mother, and how he eventually stood up to her, revealing the rawness of the topics brought up and exactly what she’d said to Greg. Clive just listened, mopping his brow occasionally and nodding his head subconsciously, enthralled in Greg’s tale. Once or twice he would make exclamations of shock or displeasure, as with Stanford, simply horrified anyone could be so hateful towards him. Clive’s heart felt Greg’s pain.

 

Once Greg had fallen silent, Clive cleared his throat.

“Mr P… I’m afraid the news I’ve come to tell you isn’t exactly belated birthday greetings,” he sighed sadly. He hated being messenger boy sometimes.

“The good news is Ryan has been let go… they couldn’t pin any evidence to him so they had no choice.” Clive smiled briefly, Greg’s face brightening for Ryan, despite the fact the two weren’t speaking. “The bad news is this means the finger is pointing solely on you.” he explained, laying a hand on Greg’s arm, comforting him before he got too worked up.

 

“As far as Hickson was concerned there was only one suspect anyway…” Greg sighed, kneading his temples below his glasses wearily.

“You do believe I’m innocent… don’t you Clive?” he asked tentatively in a moment of doubt. Clive nodded firmly.

“Yes Mr P, you have my back, though sadly my opinion doesn’t matter that much in court,” he reminded him, looking at Greg‘s expression with concern, his resolve weakening to see his sparring partner so low.

“When you get out of here, you’re staying with me for a few days. I’m not letting you go home alone.” Clive informed him determinedly. “I will get you out of here Greg. I promise.” He assured his frightened friend, who could offer only a cuddle of gratitude.

 

“Thanks Mr A. I just can’t help feeling a bit bummed out about this whole situation.” Greg smiled, making Clive’s face flicker with a former grin. “When I’m here I feel alone… completely.” Greg said, trying to explain the tornado of emotions the whirled within him every day. “I feel more and more like I have no home, no purpose, no niche to fulfil. My family fucking hates me and now the world thinks that I’m a goddamned murderer. A hazard to society.” Clive nodded sadly, cutting across him kindly.

 

“But you’re not, you’re a nice guy who has had sick and twisted path, Greg. I know it’s difficult but the sooner you can conquer it and put it behind you, the sooner it stops becoming your future too.” he said sagely, giving Greg’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Things will get better Mr P.” Greg nodded and watched his friend retreat sadly, but as always a sense of hope lifted his spirits making him smile weakly, peering through his cloudy glasses after the short host.

 

His glasses. They had been the start of it. He had told Bill of his poor eyesight that day. He had shot through the indistinguishable blobs, and inevitably hit his brother. He swiped off his spectacles, he longed to hate them. They were almost a curse; they had caused him to be bullied too. Yet, they had also provided him his trademark. His recognition. He was Buddy Holly, the Proclaimers, Elvis Costello. The speccy one. Greg smiled down at the grimy object, wiping carefully through the coat of filth, smearing it until eventually the stubborn grease started to give in. His glasses slowly were restored to their former state.

 

He had stood looking at the stands of brand new glasses nervously. Only Mommy and Grandma wore glasses that he’d seen. He didn’t want to be a girl. He also didn’t want to be a “four eyes”, which is what his classmates called the new girl, until she left for no reason at all. Greg had counted his own eyes before he had left to come and see the eye doctor. He definitely had 2. Not 4.

 

“Proops?” said a man who had hair like fluffy cotton wool, tufting out just above his ears. His head had a large bald patch, which was red and crispy like it had been sunburnt repeatedly. He wore very thick, very large black rimmed glasses, and his face was heavily wrinkled like a big raisin. Greg breathed a sigh of relief: boys wore glasses too.

 

He decided within moments of his Mom roughly grabbing his arm and leading him over to the ancient eye doctor that he didn’t like this man very much. For one thing he greeted Greg by saying: “Hey there little guy. Did you want your Mommy to come with you?” For one thing, Greg was nearly nine… well, he was eight years and four months to be precise, but that didn’t mean he was little, and certainly didn’t mean he needed his Mommy to have his eyes looked at. He knew it’d just make her angry at him anyway. Shaking his head, he followed the patronising man into his office, expecting him to take a look at his eyes, surprised to find all he had to do was sit in a chair and look at a blurred black and white board.

 

It wasn’t long before the optician had a prescription drawn up, returning Greg to his Mother.

“Why don’t you go with my assistant and choose some glasses, Gregory. I need to speak with your Mom.” He explained, taking Marion to one side. “Gregory has a very bad form of astigmatism,” the eye doctor clarified. “His eyes are like footballs in shape, so the light doesn’t focus correctly, which means that the poor little guy is extremely near sighted.” Marion nodded silently. Now she knew what her own Mother had been told when she was seven years old.

 

Greg wandered along row upon row of spectacles, the assistant trying more and more on, but he hated them all.

“I want black frames.” Greg announced. “Like the optician wears.”

“Sweetie, those are for grown ups, how about some nice gold frames?” The assistant persuaded calmly, trying to put yet another pair on Greg’s nose.

“No, black frames…” he insisted, pushing his crop of floppy biscuit curls away from his face.

 

“Gregory, you have what you’re given.” Marion snapped angrily at her stubborn son as she returned with the prescription.

“I want to be given shiny, black frames.” Greg repeated. Finally the assistant agreed, not wanting the young boy to be in trouble with his formidable looking Mom, picking out the first pair her hands came across.

“We can adjust them,” she explained, placing the large frames over Greg’s eyes, a little surprised at how well they suited the young boy, who reminded her a little of Buddy Holly in the spectacles he was currently wearing.

 

The young woman moved over towards the lens machine, keeping her eyes on the boy and his mother. The boy was gazing around the room, taking in his surroundings despite his inability to see anything clearly. His intelligent eyes drank in everything from what the distorted receptionists were doing, to the blurs selecting glasses. Finally they set upon her making his one hope at normal sight. His mother was absorbed in a well-read and battered book of some kind, paying no attention to the little boy, which saddened her.

“What’s that?” A voice cut across her thoughts, making her jump violently

 

The boy with his orb-like chocolate eyes was staring at her with intrigue, watching her insert his prescription into the heavy frames. The assistant proceeded to explain the machine and roughly how it worked for the boy who was listening attentively, mind absorbing everything she was saying, making mental notes of every bit of information.

“There…” she said at last, smiling pleasantly down at him. “All ready to be fitted. Just take a seat at my desk.” She pulled the chair out for him, seating herself opposite.

 

“Are my glasses ready?” He asked as she takes measurements and adjusted the spectacles accordingly to fit him.

“Almost…there.” She smiled, sliding on the frames. Greg gasped as blur became clear once more. Merged colours split and defined into sharp, clear edges. He could see. The assistant watched the brown eyes blink in their environment, quite sure those eyes had seen much more than he’d ever divulge.

 

Greg smiled. His glasses were clean; he was ready to face the world with clear vision once more.