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The color of silence	By : hereticangel Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > New Kids On The Block Views: 2039 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of the New Kids on the Block. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The color of silence
- 1
The color of silence - by Heretic Angel

Title : The color of silence

The color of silence
" Take a look around, see how hard it is to survive these days
But sometimes you wonder how long can this keep goin' on
I guess the only thing you do is keep your fingers crossed "

- NKOTB, keepin' our fingers crossed, The FTM album -

Part one: Jordan Knight, suburbs of Boston

A lone figure walked down a dark and silent street, in the midst of winter, when it was cold, too cold to walk around in town. But this person did.

He walked in a steady pass, fast enough for him to keep warm at a reasonable rate and slow enough for him not to slip out on the iced sidewalks. His hands were tucked deep in his windbreaker, the one of the kind that were sold at cheap department stores at ridiculously low prices, and didn't prove the needed warmth to warm this weary person's body.

Cursing again at the weather, he walked past the last block of flats to arrive at his house.
It wasn't in a very good neighborhood, you heard a lot of police cars and shootings, but with that aspect Jordan was familiar. After all, he had grown up in a neighborhood similar to this one, in the same town. Sometimes he even wondered or if he really could live without all this turmoil, without all these obvious signs of the troubles of humanity, this rotten earth.

And he certainly didn't want to sound dim and depressed about this world he was living - and his own life - but facts are facts, and facts don't lie. And life had not given him one chance yet - one chance was all he needed, for the love of God - to change his life.

And here he was, stuck with the painful memories of the past that could never be erased. But his name could be wiped off the earth easily. That's what had puzzled him for so many years; he could not lose his memories, but yet could be killed as easily as an annoying fly. The call of suicide had been so tempting, but it didn’t come to it yet.

Somewhere deep in himself he believed that if he just held on - just for one more day, just to try - perhaps a new future would unfold before his eyes. Something better to help him forget this past, these dim fu of of his. And he also believed, somewhere deep inside, that life only had to get
better. It had to be. It just had to.

The weary figure walked on, past the block, crossed an empty street without paying much attention to the still working lights. One part of him felt relieved that he was almost home, another told him that he could do better than this. Much better. Sick and tired of the fighting of the two voices in his head, he tried to make both of them shut up, wondering once again if life could come any better than this.

It probably would. But Jordan hardly felt compassion with the homeless and junkies and 'lost' teenagers on the streets, although he knew that their life probably had been harder than his.
He was thirty years old now, up to thirty-one and a good twenty of them had been a nightmare to him, destroying every inch of what had been still the innocent little child deep inside him. To him people still wanting to be young were fools.

He paused for a couple of seconds, long enough to retrieve his house keys from his pockets and turn the lock of the building he lived in. It was one of those infamous illegal buildings, mainly populated by the Irish, a people for whom he had a never-ending respect. He suddenly remembered a quote by Willem Dafoe in one of his movies. " A lot of Irish live here. They don't have a phone. So they don't call. "

' True , Smecker . ‘, Jordan thought wearis hes he descended the slippery stairs in the utter dark, knowing exactly where each turn was, where the croaky steps were, where by example the bike of the kid of the Mullins family would stand. He knew this apartment nearly as good as himself. And although there were rats and cockroaches all over the place, Jordan loved it here.e pee people surrounded him with more or less the same problems as his, and that more or less helped some.

He was Jordan Knight, thirty years old, and tired of life. And yet he felt ready to choose ... and he knew for sure that nobody would care.

He unlocked the door of his own flat and found it as he had left it behind; messy, unlooked after, uncared for. And that relieved him. It was the only thing he could control. The mess would never go beyond his control; and that's the way he liked it. Messy. Uncared for. Unlooked after.

Too tired and weary, too depressed and down to even undress himself properly before he went to bed, he laid down on his foldable bed, pulled a few sheets over him and drifted away to an uneasy sleep.

°(-)(-)(-)°

" I live here with three fools! My own wife, who's a dumb bitch, and her two stupid kids, who can't even properly say ' Here you go, Mister. Thank you mister! "

The voice had called out loudly in the little boy's ears and the boy squeezed his eyes shut, his arms trying to stop the heavy blows that were beginning an assault on his body. Why was he doing this?

He had not done anything wrong.

" Stop it! Stop it! "

The boy knew that it wasn't him, who was begging to the angry man to stop, neither was it his brother. The voice was a female one, and he realized that it must be his mother, possibly drunk, possibly crying, possibly on her knees begging.

He could imagine it all toll, ll, because it was something that happened all too regularly, even though his eyes were closed. He could taste the iron taste of blood on his tongue, and the sharp pain in his lip, and knew that the man had managed to hit him there. The wailing became louder, almost painful for his ears, and the man's shouting loosened as well.

What had he done wrong? What?

°(-)(-)(-)°

The assumed asleep body shook awoke with a shock, and if one had been there, he would have seen that the body was trembling violently. Another nightmare had taken its toll.

Soft morning light seeped through the curtained windows, but that did not calm him down in any way. Bringing up a shaky hand up to his head, he wiped away a few lost strands from his face, breathing rapidly as he did so.

After a few moments of calming down, trying to catch his breath again, he finally got up, disgusted with the idea of having a day off from work, and not to be able to sleep through the day, and sat down at the kitchen table.

A can of cold coffee still stood there from the day before, and Jordan had no problems with drinking cold coffee. He wasn't a difficult man and that ... had helped through some difficult times.

He always got his paycheck and it was more than he could live off, more than he needed. He was not the kind that bought new clothes once a month, not even the type that bought them once a
year. He bought them when needed, and he liked them cheap as well.

The nightmare was still fresh in his memory and he needed to drink that away. And as Jordan was no fan of alcohol, he drank it away with coffee. Smoked them away as well. No day was started without a cigarette. So he lit up one and as time passed away, he ticked off the ashes of it into the ashtray and then finally crushed the butt of it against the cold metal, lost in memories and thoughts.

What had happened to his brother? To the few friends of his bitter childhood? He had not seen them in a good ten years, and doubted the fact that they could be still living right here in Boston. He didn't even know what had happened to his very own brother, which was a shame. They had been the best buds, especially in those crucial later years, when both of them had the choice.
He didn't know what had ght ght them both to this situation, because he felt like he needed his brother even harder now.

The choice. Jordan sighed once again as he lit a new cigarette. There had been the choice between living in all honesty, and the choice of perishing away in gang battles and life in the most dangerous way.

He had not chosen one of both really. Normal life was not made for him, and so wasn't a life stuffed with violence. He despised violence. It didn't lead anywhere.

He was very well aware of the fact that some of his old friends had indeed turned that way, and he didn't wish to see them. They knew his ideas, knew his wishes. And friends’ playing around with violence wasn’t his thing. Jordan felt his eyelids become heavier, and knew that he had got, once again, a few hours sleep too short, which was now working on his system. He wasn't able to do those long hours again, and would lose money. And even if he had stacked some money in the bank, it still wouldn't be enough to survive for two months.

Jordan stood up, and went over to the battered fridge that zoomed loudly. As he opened it, it was clear that he needed to restock on food. Not much was left but some old pizza, some rotten oranges and a half full bottle of milk.

“Okay JK, let’s go.” he muttered as he retrieved his wallet and vest and went out the door.
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The color of silence