1886 - RDR oneshots

How not to swim

John was bored.
Summertime was usually his favorite time of the year, for the sole reason it reminded him of the only good times he had spent at the orphanage. Usually, the guardians would let the kids out a bit more than usual, and not keep such a wary eye on them. John would use this precious time to 'bond' with other orphans and 'share' their belongings with each others.

Well, he did have a few friends there, but when a farmer needed extra hands, he would pick the sturdiest of them all, and when a doe-eyed couple was looking for a loving and cute child, they would pick the youngest. John was very, very far from this. He was all skin and bones, not to mention the dark circles under his eyes gave the impression he was sick all year round, coupled with his constant bad attitude, John was probably the least likely to get adopted one day.

Not that he cared anyway.

The four years he spent there were a blur, as if his brain had wiped out most of his memories from the orphanage. But, when John concentrated enough, he could still picture the dorm, always dark, the beds creaking with every breath, the silent cries of lonely children, some even sleeping on the floor, and the backyard.

This backyard was out of place compared to the rest of the orphanage. While the inside was dark and gloomy, the outside was welcoming and stunning. The grass was the greenest thing the young child had ever seen, compared to the always brown and dirty toned one from up North.

The trees were so tall when you climbed on them, little John swore he could see the end of the world. Their leaves never fell, autumn or spring, and winter through summer, they were always stayed, smelling fresh an leaving their scents everywhere. When the grass was covered in snow and the children were forbidden from going out, John would sneak out of his room at night and go to the library, where the windows faced the backyard.

He didn't fantasize about a lovely couple wanting him above all the others orphans like the rest, no, that was impossible. The adults had made it clear he was impossible to live with and a total disgrace, why would someone ever chose him? And why would he chose them, when he could have liberty? Landon Ricketts, Slim Grant, or even Billy Midnight seemed a lot happier than the teachers and high members of society everyone aspired to be.

The night he escaped, after weeks of planning, John found himself lost. He couldn't seem to remember where he and his father used to live, but instead of panicking, he was as calm as he had ever been. After all, he was finally free. It was the greatest gift he ever received, and tried to make the most of it... Until it got hard, and it weren't so nice no more.

He was lucky to be alive and safe, of course —and lord knows he had sworn himself to never, ever step foot in an orphanage again — but it was getting boring.

John was slouched by the campfire, trying to draw a horse that more or less resembled a potato. Frustrated, he crumpled the piece of paper in his hand and threw it behind him.

"What the...!" an exasperated sigh resonated. Surprised, John turned around only to be met face to face with Arthur, looking at him with the uttermost disdain in his eyes.

"Sorry..." the young lad muttered, avoiding the older man's heavy gaze. Generally, when he behaved for a few days, Arthur would take John with him out in town, to pick up groceries or help moving goods the other gang members had stolen. It wasn't the thrilling adventures he used to long for back at the orphanage, but it was a change from peeling potatoes or having to read the same three penny dreadfuls Hosea desperately tried to teach him how to read with.

He hoped Arthur would leave him be and just go on his way, but of course a twenty two year old had nothing better to do than to mess with a child minding his own business. "What do you want, kiddo?" scoffed Arthur as John retreated in his seat, almost falling off the log that served as a bench around the campfire — where many men complained about their lives late at night, bottles in hand.