The sun had risen and had been warming the dirt, grass, water, rock and treetops beneath it for several hours already. It shone directly now on top of a house in such desperate need of its cleansing heat.

The Wakelin house was quiet and its inhabitants were all sound asleep, or something closely resembling sleep--all except for one.

Jude lay awake on his bed. The pillowcase wet beneath his head. Wet from new tears shed just minutes ago and wet from the sweat of a fitful and vaguely nightmarish sleep.

He brought the palms of his hands up to his face and pressed them against his closed eyes. Something had been clicked on, or off, deep within him, further down than the heart and far deeper than any corner of his brain, and he was sorely left battered and weakened within its long night and early morning of defeat.

His hands left his face and rested on his bare chest. He could feel and smell the sharp mixture of his sweat, tears, oil from his hair and pores, and last night's cologne and rum all gathered on the pads of his fingertips. He could not ignore it as he absently ran his fingers through his hair or wiped at the collection of moisture at the base of his nose. He hated the feeling and the smell of it all, but he also found it comforting and grounding.

Jude would ordinarily have taken a shower--a long and warm one--but that would mean having to go upstairs, having to remove his jeans, socks, and boxers. That would mean having to turn the shower on and adjust the water just so until his open hand found the temperature pleasing. That would mean having to hold the soap in his hands and attempt to wash away this part of himself.

He did not feel he deserved to have all of this washed away just yet, though. He felt he needed to stay enveloped within it, layer upon layer of him, him, him. From yesterday, last night, and this morning.

He did take a few steps to walk over to his small bathroom because he could not stand the fullness of his bladder any longer, but once he was finished he sunk back down onto his bed. He got a passing glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror as he did so.

Red-rimmed and puffy eyes. Greasy hair. The sheen of perspiration across his cheeks and brow, neck and collarbone. He could only remember looking like that one other time in his life.

He could also recall events that happened that could have led him to those same looks again in his past, but he had done everything he could to will it away. He had done all he could to distract his emotions from overpowering his heart and mind in such a painful and obliterative way.

It was far easier to simply shut down that it was to restart, so Jude remained still on his bed with only the sound of his breathing as company. Or so he thought.

The basement had no windows, so Jude was accustomed to resting his cellphone on his bedside table at arm's reach in case he needed some light. He also had a small nightlight in his bathroom that he would turn on before turning off the lights in his room before he went to sleep.

He heard a delicate thud against the wall directly across from him. He reached his hand out, instinctively, to his bedside table, but his hand was unable to find his phone. He lifted himself by propping his weight onto his elbows and turned his head to look for it. It was not there. For once, he did not care where it was.

Another delicate thud could be heard past the foot his bed.

His heart was not racing. He was not alarmed at the strange and soft activity before him, but he did get up to open his bathroom door wider and let the glow of the nightlight seep into his room a little more. He took a seat at the foot of his bed and it was then that he saw what had been used to make the faint thudding sound against the base of his wall. A tennis ball.

Jude exhaled with a quick sniff and brought his arms to chest and crossed them. He then waited, his eyes on the tennis ball, waiting for it to happen again. Of course, the longer he waited and the more he wanted it to, it did not happen.

He sighed, let his arms fall, and brought his face upward. He looked at the ceiling and thought about the last time he even played tennis. He was probably thirteen, and it was definitely with his father. No one else in the Wakelin family enjoyed the sport like they did.

His heart clenched achingly around an image of his father--laughing, a little unsteady in his worn sneakers, with his almost black hair in his eyes, wet from sweat, taking his glasses off to clean them with the hem of his shirt, waving at Jude to hold on for a moment. Jude gripping onto his tennis racket and then spinning it in his hands, yelling out, "You've had your breather, old man, let's go!"

Just as the tears were about to come again, the tennis ball thudded against the wall again--only this time there was a little more force behind the throw. Jude was snatched out of his memory and his eyes shot to the floor beneath him. The tennis ball was rolling, slowly, over and over, nearing his feet which were planted on the carpet below. As the yellow ball approached their destination, he brought his feet up and clasped his arms around legs, his knees tucked up under his chin.

He did not forget what had happened upstairs in the living room. The sound of the breaking table and the cries from his little sister were aggravatingly hard to erase.

He felt he did not deserve to have them deleted just yet either, so he even purposely made himself see and hear what happened over and over, along with all the times it played in his mind without him wanting it to. It played behind his eyelids on a constant loop it seemed throughout the entire night and early morning.

This was only a tennis ball beneath him. What did it want, though? Whatever moved the tennis ball and threw it---what did it want from Jude now?

It had wanted the abuse and venom that Jude had splayed onto his uncle to stop, and it did, instantly, but what did it want from him now?

Suddenly, the tennis ball rose up, floating up into the air in front of him. It got as far up as his eye level and then it was thrown against the wall, gently, and came rolling back to Jude. This happened again. Again. Again. Until finally Jude caught on to what it wanted.

As the tennis ball waited on the floor, not yet lifted up into the air, Jude set his feet back onto the carpet, still seated on the edge of his bed, and leaned over to pick it up. He threw it against the wall a lot harder than it was thrown before and right when it seemed the ball was going to strike him in his chest, it was caught and thrown against the wall again, with equal force, but at a different angle. Jude caught the ball in his hand before it was able to fly past his shoulder.

He threw the ball. It bounced off the wall, and it was caught midair and then thrown against the wall again. Before it could soar past him again, Jude's hand caught it. He began to slowly revel in this repetitive play between himself and whatever it was that had helped him to stop.

Each time the ball met the palm of his hand with a smack, Jude's vision became a little clearer, the sweat near his temples began to dry up, and the heaviness he felt weighing his heart and mind down to the ground with the swiftness of a cannonball began to lift. Slowly and pleasingly.

Jude felt happy. Not about himself or his life, but about the fact that whatever saw him behave the way he did in the living room was willing to throw a ball back and forth with him in the basement, in the almost dark.

As their game continued, Jude got up to stand, and shortly thereafter he raised both his hands in the air, the tennis ball then hovered between himself and the wall, and he then jumped onto his bed and waved his hands toward himself. The tennis ball was thrown through the air again and Jude, without even realizing it, let out a laugh.

This laugh lit his face up and perhaps whatever was left of that adolescent spirit within him that had sadly remained dormant for too long.

The spirit that had looked forward to the summer weekend tennis matches with his father. A time when the boys could be boys. A time that Michael Wakelin reserved for his only son--whose eyes looked up into his father's both playfully and adoringly as they joked around. As they ran and darted across the court out of breath and tingling, with comical outbursts and grunts, smacking a tennis ball back and forth. All of the time underneath a bright and yellow sun.

Laughter began to rise up through the Wakelin home. It reached up and out with outstretched arms and met the rays of the nearly autumnal sun, together, warm and true and perfect.

A/N: (WARNING, SUPER LONG NOTE!! I've been silent for so long. It was bound to happen.)

I did not intend on having this chapter be shorter than Jude's other chapters (ya know they ran kinda longish, haha), but this is how it turned out. I did not feel I needed to add anything to it at this time.

This idea (I don't remember how or what I was doing at the time) for this scene, Jude and Daniel and a tennis ball, had been in my mind for some weeks now. I loved seeing and feeling what it was like for this 'player' to actually play (see what I did there? ;) ) with someone again. Play like a kid again.

I did not know that this little tennis ball would somehow be connected back to his father---that happened as I was writing it. (I just shared that bit in case anyone would find it interesting--I am always interested in how ideas/scenes for stories are formed in a writer's mind.)

I will make no promises as to when I will have the next update up, but I can tell you it will be a Juliette chapter.

I chose the song "A Bad Dream" by Keane. I recommend the entire album that song is from. Those songs really helped me through hard times and maybe someone out there needs a boost, a I'm-not-the-only-one sort of boost in their playlist. "A Bad Dream" also is so fitting for Jude, and for Daniel, too.

<3

P.S. I wish everyone had a Daniel to bring them out of their own darkness.

The past several days have been so up and down and saddening for me. My daughter is growing rapidly and is a constant reminder to me of what is pure and beautiful in this world, as are all of its children. I'm so thankful she is growing and learning, but I can't help but to want her to stay as she is. It's bittersweet.

Also, after the funeral of a family member, I did what others in my family, and I'm sure others all over the world do--you think back to others that have passed. My mind always goes back to another family member that passed from suicide when I was a young teen. As you may know, suicide has been in the news for the past week or so. It's also in social media and in popular shows and movies and such. I feel it is good that after such unthinkable things happen that people are more open to discussing it, but I find it hurtful how it may start coming off as, well, normal.

It's not normal to take your own life. It's also not normal to think going through every day of your life at 70% or less is normal.

If you can't find what you need to get your soul battery up to 100% on a consistent basis, please, ask for help. It is out there. Search for hotlines and forums and meetings and resources in your area if there is no one you can talk to physically.

Don't forget that you can make great change in another's life. Maybe a simple and small act, like a hug or a smile, could revitalize someone else's battery. And you know what? Giving that smile or hug will surely revitalize your battery as well. It's a win-win.

You know what I am trying to say. I don't know why I got carried with a battery metaphor (oh, well, I do. Jude's cellphone, haha), but don't let that silly bit take away from my message here that I really feel can't be shared too much---

You have been given life. It's a gift. Try your very best to treat it and others as such.

<3

Leanne