In a way, Simeon didn't spend all of his time in his bedroom. Of course, the door was always locked, and the window was the closest he could get to the outside world, but the young boy wasn't one to let himself drown into a dull cloud of sleep one could barely tell from death, no. Simeon often closed his eyes, opened his pencil case, and travelled. He could feel the sun upon his skin, the electricity in his fingers, the softness of the paper under his hand as he drew. This was his way out of the room; out of everything. And it had been like that for so long that he somewhen had stopped wondering whether he drew because he was locked, or whether he had always dealt with things this way. Colours ran in his veins along with the crimson blood.

Simeon didn't think much while he drew, it just happened. He would often draw birds, because they were so colourful and full of mysteries, and also because sometimes he felt as if he'd rather be a bird, able to fly along the streets, around the world, under the sweet wave of the sun. That day, after hearing the call, the boy felt himself full of an old feeling he hadn't felt for a very long time, and so he felt the urge to lay on paper. You know, before it faded away. A colourful, blue winged songbird slowly was given birth, on the paper on the table under the window in the baby blue room in the house.

The sun had come up in the sky and down again, and the drawing was almost finished, when Simeon suddenly heard a noise. He shrugged and didn't look up, assuming it would just be a trick of his imagination, as it sometimes happened. But it wasn't. The noise sounded again, clear and loud, and the boy rose from his chair in fear, hope and excitement. Someone was throwing stones at his window.
Someone was throwing stones at his window.

Not quite believing what was happening, the boy carefully opened the window -which he had no right of doing, but it wasn't locked so oh well- and hid behind his bed to prevent any flying stone from hitting him in the face, which would be hard to explain later. When he was sure no stone would be thrown anymore, he slowly, carefully, walked to the window and leaned on the ledge, staring at the one that had finally gotten to talk to him, for the first time in a long, long time.

It was a boy of his age, though much taller and stouter, who wore a leather jacket and a ripped jean. He was exactly the kind of teenager his mother would tell him to stay away from, if she had thought he'd had anyone to stay away from. Punks, thugs, and future jobseekers, she'd spit with disgust. But, perhaps because he was desperate for human contact, or perhaps was he just not as dumb as his mother, but the boy didn't see any punk, nor thug nor future job seeker under his window. He only saw a boy of his age, baithing in the sun, with a huge grin plastered on his face.

"Hey pal!" he called, and the boy identified the voice from the earlier call. "It's been a while, isn'it? I've missed you, mate! Wait, you remember me, right? It's me, Jack!"
"H-hi", Simeon shyly answered as a chuckle found its way across his face. What had he had to lose, after all? He remembered no Jack anyway.