Hale's Decent { One Boy, So Much Darkness }

Hale walked down the busy halls of Eisenhower Prep, ignoring the glances he was given and continuing to walk with a boyish spring in his step. He was the new kid. The one who was all too happy to be attending a fine arts school. In the wee grade of 5th, Hale had made it into Eisenhower and was all but bouncing off the walls excited. His day had started off great, and the thrill of being surrounded by talent shook the boy to the core.

At the time Hale was still youthful and jolly. He always held his head up high, and his confidence and full features were seen as attractive to a large population of little 5th graders. (girls and boys alike, though Hale had eyes for none of them.) He was strict about who he hung out with, mostly because he wanted to get better at his music. That was why he was there. And after attending his boring math class and impossible English class, Hale was itching to step into the music hall and impress some scouts. A bright smile lit up the boy's face as he guided himself through the large building.

A larger boy shoved past Hale as he worked his way to whatever art class he had signed up for, and though it had hurt his shoulder, the young boy ignored the rude gesture. "This is the show business, Hale. You have to get used to people pushing you around." Hale clutched his backpack tighter and continued to walk, finishing off his hike in a dead sprint. The blonde seemed to always have extra energy stored up, and a spare smile in his pocket. It was obvious to even strangers that Hale was a positive person, and it reflected well in his music.

As he approached a piano to warm up, Hale cracked his knuckles and felt a sting in his shoulder, right where the older boy had shoved him. Without realizing it, the boy mumbled some curse words in Ancient Greek and turned to his grand instrument. He was impressed by the selection of high class musical toys Eisnehower had to offer, and though he wanted to hold it back, Hale let out a youthful giggle. He was really about to play song for Californian talent scouts.

"Boys and girls," a clear, striking voice shouted over the hubub of music. "My name is Mr. Flore, and you will all get to know me as your music director. I was trained in several different wood and string instruments at a college in France, which is the country I grew up in." Mr. Flore paused to scold a girl talking loudly to another little girl before continuing on. "I know most of you have heard this story countless times, but we have new students, so at least try and behave." Hale blushed upon remembering he was one of the only nameless faces; just a new kid. "Let's start with hearing our new students? Sound acceptable?"

Hale nodded eagerly before standing up. "Hello!" the boy greeted cheerfully, waving energetically to the class and motioning back to the piano. "I'm Hale, I play piano, guitar, flute, and sing. And I hope it's alright if I go first." Hale remained standing and smiling as Mr. Flore nodded stoically. Awkwardly, Hale shifted his weight around, before it registered in his head that he was supposed to preform. Comfortable in the piano bench, Hale shifted everything around so the rest of the class had a profile view of the young musician. His hands fingered the keys without applying any force before he smiled to himself and began to play.

"Sometimes we fall down, can't get back up . . ." Hale began to sing, concentrating on playing at the right pace. That was always his downfall during a performance. His ADHD made it hard to concentrate on timing, and as he plucked away on the keys, playing a song that had recently become popular, he relaxed into the lyrics. He knew "Live Like We're Dying" quite well. He had practiced for this moment, and he was sailing through the song effortlessly. "We gotta tell em that we love em while we got the chance to say! Gotta live like we're dying!" Feeling more and more confident by the second, Hale continued to belt out the lyrics. "You never know a good thing 'til it's gone . . ." The gifted boy played through the song before reaching the last note and grinning. He played it on the piano and ignored the throbbing in his shoulder. He had just given one of the best performances of his life, and all of the kids looked stunned.

Mr. Flore was not impressed. "Your timing was off in the Bridge, and I've seen better. If you want to sound good, sing something you wrote yourself. You're nothing compared to professionals." The bell rang and Mr. Flore dismissed everyone, but Hale couldn't seem to work his legs. He's was frozen to the piano bench. The rest of that day had been erased from his memory. He would only remember what felt like being crushed at the piano. 'I've seen better, I've seen better, I've seen better. You're nothing . . . You're nothing . . . You're nothing . . .'

A small boy sat cradled in his mother's lap, humming along to a song she sang with so much joy. Hale had never seen his mother happier than when she sang her song. She claimed this song was the very same Hale's father had written for her. It caused Hailey Drem to fall in love with Hale's father, and now both of the Drem's had the entire song memorized, and the music written down several times in several different places. They never wanted the song to die. 'You'll sing it to your children, won't you, Hale?' Hailey would ask whilst tickling her little boy. Hale always comforted his mother by nodding, and promising he would. He loved his mother, more than he ever loved anything, and he knew the song would keep her spirit alive, even when she was gone.

On the particular night, Hale was playing with his mother's hair. He wasn't exactly a young child. He had just recently finished his first week of 5th grade at Eisenhower, and despite the negativity in his music class, Hale had never felt more at home. Hailey could sense the excitement radiating off of Hale, and she had come into his room, only to find him singing her song. The two had spent a good few hours together, repeatedly singing the song Hailey had titled "Apollo." Hale didn't understand the song title, but he found it beautiful all the same. "Dream, at night, even when there is, no light. Please dream, of me." Hale smiled and waited for his mother to realize he was singing along. "When dreams seem lost, you're on my mind. When I am gone, you're on my mind. When we are lost, you're on my mind. So please, dream of me." Hale giggled and buried his face into his mom's shirt. "My sweet dream sun."

Hale looked up expectantly at his mother, and once she looked down, he climbed off her lap. He was still so small even then. He rarely grew, which Hailey didn't understand, because his brothers and sister were average height. Not Hale. He was small. Like her baby. "Goodnight, Hale. Remember Apollo, will you?"

The little boy had crawled under his covers and was now beaming up at his mother. He felt warm after sharing a song with the person he cared about the most. "Mom, of course. Everyday. For us, I'll sing it everyday." The boy's eyes were heavy, and he struggled to stay awake, so Hailey kissed her son's cheek and walked out of his room. Hale was sure he would keep his promise. He couldn't imagine feeling as if the song was lost.

In the future, Hailey dies giving birth to a baby girl. Hale hasn't sung the song since. He remembers it, but he has promised himself never to sing the song without his mother. She is gone, and so Apollo must be, too.

Hale, a boy around the age of 10, hesitantly reached out to touch the museum display. A sign written in English, Spanish, and French had warned the child about the no touching policy of the Getty Center. Hale's mom had taken him to the museum while dropping off all three of his other siblings off at a movie and warned them to stick close to Hale's twin brother, Trent, though everyone knew that the children's only sister, Toni, was the most responsible.

Hale himself had been taken to the museum with his mom, which he didn't question. Hailey had always been eager to educate the little boy that was always striving for more knowledge. Under the loose observation of distracted Hailey Drem, Hale continued to extend his hand until his fingers brushed over the statue and a loud ringing went off. Hale panicked and searching for his mother, trying not to look overly worked up. Everyone around the mother and son were giving them backwards glances, and Hale's face burned bright red as he blushed under the attention. "Am I in trouble?" Hale asked as his mother embraced him protectively.

Hailey shook her head supportively, though she was frowning. Several museum security guards came rushing out of a nondescript door and they pulled Hale's mother from him in order to talk to her privately while one younger, strikingly blonde guard stuck with Hale. "Hey kid, enjoying culture?" the man asked whilst flashing the young boy a cheesy grin.

Hale stared blankly at the guard and crossed his arms. "I can't read very well. You should have a sign in that language." Hale pointed to the base of the statue he had been touching, once again mesmerized by the shine of the man. "That one makes since. Unlike your confusing, three languaged explanations." Hale returned the man's grin and tiptoed around his question, though the guard caught on and tiptoed around Hale's requests in return.

"That's a god. Apollo. They didn't quite get the nose right, though, and that hair. You'd think they would respect my hair, right?" The guard continued, glancing over the marble piece of art and sighing. "But what can you expect from anyone but myself." The man's teeth appeared to be glowing in the sunlight, and for a few seconds Hale was utterly distracted. He completely missed that the man had called himself Apollo and nervously waved.

"My mom's calling for me. Did you . . . Are you the man in the song? My lullaby?"

The god smiled and ruffeled Hale's hair. "Don't die, Hale." With that, the blonde man disappeared into a different, equally nondescript door. As he exited, the door shimmered and faded away, which only confused the little boy more.

"Mom!" he shouted, barely avoiding tripping over his own feet as the new fear settled in. Had he met his father?