A Taste of Copper

A short story I wrote in February of 2020, while I was still trying to get the hang of making satisfying short stories with artistic prose. I may turn this into a full novella.

I’m running. I’m running and running, and my feet are kicking up water from the gutters, and my lungs are heaving, and three times I nearly stumble and crash into the grit and discarded trash in the alleyways. I’m keeping away from the crowd, from the hustle and bustle of the open streets for as long as I can; I can’t risk letting them slow me down. Someone would get hurt if they did, and I can’t guarantee it would be me. I keep on running, heart hammering, shoes thundering, my breaths coming in cold and dry, parching my throat, hurting me from the inside-out. I wasn’t about to turn to see if they were still following me- I hadn’t heard them for a long while, so they had probably lost interest and went back to sucking from a half-dead blunt behind that ancient pancake house at the corner of 18 Avenue. I keep running anyway.

I run until the rain and the cold and the heaviness of every part of me gets to be too much, and then I stumble to a stop. I bend double at the waist, shaking, shuddering, bracing my palms against my knees, keeping my head low while my vision fills with little black spots like galaxies. The rain had soaked me through to the skin a long time ago. I heave, listen to my breaths fill the alley and the water drip from the gutters and fire escapes of the apartments above, and try to ignore the cold press of the switchblade under my waistband. It wasn’t the smartest place for it, but I didn’t have many other options. They hadn’t left me with much of a choice. I hadn’t had to use it yet, though…

I shiver again. The flannel around my waist hangs heavy with rain, the yellow fabric like a dandelion amidst a sea of concrete. I strain my ears, straighten up a bit. Was I being followed? Has anyone seen me? Who? What was that? Who’s there? I let out a slow, uneven sigh. Up in front of me was the sidewalk, then the street, full of people and cars and all manner of distractions. A world. A world, separate from mine. One which had been taken from me before I could even tell there was a difference. I clench both hands into fists, feel the blade glint in my belt. It makes me feel sick.

I cough a few times, muffled by my hand. When I pull it away, I taste blood, which doesn’t alarm me. I had been on the receiving end of a vengeful swing before my marathon sprint. When I slide my tongue forward, I can taste the patch of warm copper where that guy with the battered jacket and the gold tooth had busted my lip. He’d called me a ‘pretty boy’ before he did it. I’m probably less pretty now, but finding a puddle or windowpane to examine my wounded pride in isn’t high on my list of priorities right now. I take a deep breath and hold it in, like I’m just trying to prove to myself that I still can. There’s a spot on the left side of my rib cage that aches, but I don’t exhale. My legs shake, I should probably sit down.

I don’t feel good, I realize. I lean up against the side of the alley, on a brick wall, bleached from sunlight and filthy from decades of neglect. When I slide down to sit on the damp cement, the rough texture catches my hood and tries to lift it up over my head. It pushes my soaked hair over my eyes. I can’t be bothered to move it. I curl in on myself, and hate the ache in my ribs, and my bloody lip, and the switchblade in my pants, and most of all I hate that this both is and isn’t my fault, and I still can’t relax because someone might be trailing me, and if they do, that could be it…

Once upon a time I was a smart kid. I had a mom who loved me, who made me snacks after school, and threw me birthday parties and kissed me on the cheek when she tucked me in at night. I hadn’t seen her in a very long time. It was someone’s fault. A man, I thought. Maybe two. One of them might’ve been a woman. I was so small at the time…

A car horn blares several dozen feet down the road. I hear pedestrians voice their acrid protest. The rain drizzles down and creates a rhythmic beat on the metal trash cans pressed near my right side. I take another breath and hold it, one...two...three...four...listening to the music the rain is playing for me, letting my heart catch up with the rest of me.

I need to get up. I think. I have to get home, go dry off, be someplace safe. I think about getting up, I even try to get to my feet, but I’ve stopped for too long already. My muscles scream in protest- I quiver like a child, then fall ungracefully on my a*s. I groan to myself, barely audible, while I contemplate my options. I’m already drenched. I can’t stay out here- it’ll only get more and more difficult to leave. If I’m out after dark, I could be found. Those kids from the pancake house weren’t just going to forget about me. I got lucky the first time, and right now I’m in no shape to make use of that stupid knife. I shuffle my feet, driving the toes of my muddied converse through a puddle forming a couple feet from my resting place. I had to call someone. I didn’t want anyone to see me, but someone had to. I swallow thickly, my mouth dry and metallic. My fingers tremble as I fish my cell phone from my hoodie.

5 new texts, it tells me, 2 missed calls. I note with a wince that they’re all from the same person. I had been gone all day, hadn’t told anyone where I’d be. He must’ve been worried sick.

I stare at the lock screen for much longer than I mean to- it’s a photo of me and the guys. Well, me and the guys plus Ashley, who’s still a member of the team, but not a guy. In the photo, we’re in middle school. Out on a field trip, high on pizza and sugar, not even thinking to check over our shoulders, or to ask that little blonde kid with the hair that was much too close to a bowl cut why he never wanted to go home. I grimace when I see him- a perfect reflection of me, terrible hair, genuine smile. That kid was being put through the beginnings of hell in that picture, he just didn’t know it yet. I unlock the phone and swipe directly for the contacts. I lift the phone to my ear, close my eyes as I listen to it ring.

It only rings twice before someone picks it up. I recognize his voice in an instant. He yells for me. My heart jolts, I sit up straighter, I feel my muscles tense.

“Cameron?” He yelps. The line muffles his sound, but I would recognize him under any circumstance, in any weather, no matter how bad the connection. I lean closer to the phone, as though I am leaning into him, the crook of his neck, or his shoulder.

“Yeah.” I croak. I sound worse than I thought I would- it almost surprises me.

I hear him stammer for a moment. He makes a sound, then cuts it off with another, then breathes and starts again.

“Where are you right now?” He demands. “I woke up this morning, and you- you were…”

I hang my head, look down at my white t-shirt, semi see-through in the rain.

“Alleyway.” I rasp. “Somewhere, uh...somewhere up on 17th street. Between some apartment buildings.”

I hear a sigh. I grip tighter until the phone’s edges are digging into my palm, leaving red indents there, evidence of my mess, my losing control.

“Which apartment buildings?” He mutters. He sounds youthful, naive, even though he’s a year older than me.

I shake my head. It doesn’t do any good, so I mumble, “Dunno.” He sighs again.

“Cameron,” he says my name again. I love it, the way it falls from his lips so easily, so gracefully. I wish he was saying it when he wasn’t at his wit’s end with me. “What are you doing in an alley on 17th Street?”

I bite my lip, then taste the blood, feel the sharp sting, and recoil.

“S**t.” I hiss under my breath.

“Cam?” He asks again, his voice pitching in that way it tended to when he was certain I was in over my head.

“Sorry,” I murmur, “I, uh...I thought I might have a lead. I thought maybe...see they knew her name, and I…”

I stop before I choke. I lean back, look up at the gray sky through the endless black slats of the fire escape hanging over my head. A few misty raindrops catch in my eyelashes. I blink them away.

“F**k, Cam…” he said softly. “S**t, I…”

He doesn’t say anything else. I try to laugh, to give a harsh scoff, to put off the inevitable, but it comes out as a messy sniffle. I wipe my nose on my sleeve. Pathetic. If he noticed, he doesn’t say anything. Too good, I think. He’s too good for this.

“Stay. Right. There.” He tells me. “Don’t move, I’m coming to get you.”

“There’s a florist across the street,” I tell him hastily. “, If that helps.”

He doesn’t say if it does.

“I’m coming to get you.” He repeats.

Then the line goes dead.

I tuck my phone away and go back to shuddering alone in the alley. I bring my knees up to my chest, rest my arms on top, shielding my knees where they come through the tears in the denim. Every once in a while a pedestrian will shout out of place, or drop something on the pavement. Every once in a while, a sound breaks the barrier, carries on above the rest, and each time that happens, I jolt involuntarily. Each time, I flinch like I’ve just been struck. I hate it each time.

While I’m alone there, dreading and flinching, I think of him. Of the one I’d been given to, the one the system had decided was fit to raise me. I think of him, his roughness, how he stood like the Empire State Building, demanding my attention, my awe, my fear. Even though I don’t want to, I think about how he said the things that kid in the battered jacket had said.

‘You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?’

‘You should be proud- desirable, that’s what you are. People ask to see you. It’s an honor.’

‘With a face like that, you won’t be out of a job.’

I grimace and spit. My lip stings. Across the alley, a starving cat peeks out of a grimy green and black dumpster. It’s mostly white, with black spots covering each ear. I can see its ribs through its fur, and it regards me like I’m a vulture, just waiting for my chance to swoop. I stare back at it, looking into its terrified amber eyes, its pupils like slits, its pink nose working overtime, sizing me up. I want to offer it something, but I have nothing, so I just sit and watch, unmoving, hoping it will decide to move along. It pads out of cover, flicks its tail as the rain sticks to its pelt. It takes two steps towards me, stops, scents the air, then dashes away, further down the alley, so far I eventually lose sight of it. I sigh and lean back again, eyes closed, letting the water run down my face.

My knuckles are beginning to throb. I hadn’t noticed them before, but they had been pounded rather raw- my doing, not the pancake house kids’. I clench my right hand into a fist, use my left thumb and gently rub over each bruised digit. I don’t know how long I’m like that. The rain is beginning to slow- less a shower and more a light sprinkle. The cat is long gone. I feel my eyes grow dewy, but I refuse to open them. I’ll just wait it out. Wait out the storm, wait out the fit.

It’s hearing his voice that finally brings me out of it. I snap to attention as soon as it reaches my ears. He’s standing far down the alley, on the end with the flower shop. He’s poised like he’s preparing to run, one leg ahead of the other. He’s mostly dry, in jeans, a zipped purple and green jacket. His dark hair glistens with caught droplets, he sees me and I see him, but I can’t think of anything to say.

“Cameron?” He breathes.

“Eli!” I finally manage. My voice breaks when I say it. I clench my teeth, reach out with both arms, like a needy child.

He’s clutching something in both hands. I don’t comprehend what it is until he’s already on top of me, falling to his knees in front of me, thrusting the bundle into my hands so he can take my face between is fingertips, delicately inspect my busted lip, the bruise on my collarbone, the way I breathe more shallow than I should. I come to realize that the bundle he has shoved into my arms is a bouquet. Seven bright sunflowers, wrapped in crisp green tissue paper and held in place by a rubber band- not something from a store, something he’s assembled himself. They’re so full, so warm, that I can barely see what Eli is doing to the rest of me, though I can tell he’s being ginger about it, trying to gauge exactly how pissed he should be about my running off.

When he finally sits back on his heels, I look up at him through the yellow petals. He looks at me, and leans forward again to cup my cheek in his hand. He’s so close I can smell his shampoo. It’s light, soft, something like lemon. He presses his thumb under my lip again, and I fight a wince.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

I want to tell him ‘yes’, or ‘sure’, or any number of things that aren’t technically the truth. I want to spare him from me, for at least one day, but as soon as he asks the question, my throat closes. I nearly bite my lip again, and when I blink, I am surprised to feel tears, full and hot, slide down my face. He pulls his sleeve over his palm and wipes at them. They’re replaced with more in a heartbeat. He doesn’t back away.

I shake my head, helpless. He brings his other hand up, rests it on my shoulder, near my collarbone. I hold the sunflowers close to my chest, feeling the sob building there. His brown eyes are soft, rich like chocolate. I look into them while he inches closer.

“God, you’re pretty.” He murmurs, relief in every twitch of his muscles.

I close my eyes then, duck my head, and cry. Eli squeezes my shoulder. I look up at him through a blurry lens, and his arms open for me. I thrust myself into them, the sunflowers between us. The rain has stopped, leaving us cold and damp and together. He lets me stay that way for awhile, hiding my whimpers on his shoulder, breathing hot into his jacket and trying to keep my voice down. He has one hand entwined in my hair, and the other on my back. We stay there, then when I finally pull back to scrub the tear stains from my cheeks, he cups my face in his hands and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. He parts from me, waiting for my reaction, and I manage a broken, genuine, grateful but tragic smile. He smiles back, takes my hand in his, and helps me to my feet. I’m steady this time, and I link his fingers with mine while we leave, holding those sunflowers like a toddler holds a teddy bear. On our way out, we pass that cat again. It’s yellow eyes watch me as I leave, and without saying anything, I wish it luck.

Author's Note

I haven't had many people go through this one yet, so there may be mistakes that I have missed. I would really appreciate it if readers were to point it out, so don't be afraid to let me know.

Reviews

[Chris]

"so he can take my face between is fingertips," - is?

Text corrections - other than typo's - would be my words rather than yours... so not this time. A fair self-edit hint though that I have found that works - READ your work ...SLOWLY... and aloud. Definitely ALOUD. Read what is there - NOT what your mind says is there or meant to put there. Listen to what you say and the HOW you say it (really great for dialogues) - this gives you an order to what you or a character may see, feel, perceive, say ...even think, and makes it all the more real behind a reader's eyes. If something (anything) sounds or somehow "feels" "wrong" or lacking - it usually is. Also A-L-W-A-Y-S review a post AFTER it's posted. Some software for websites change text in unforeseen ways AFTER you press the enter key.

Don't wait to make corrections - life always gets "busy". If it is someone else that points out something you agree needs correcting - do it, if you don't agree you ARE allowed to say so and should. If a reader takes the time - their time - and it IS a real "fix" ...well, most people get offended and won't bother the next time UNLESS you have somehow mentioned that their previous perception of error was something YOU intended after all.

With a prose piece of fiction you have one chance at a "first" impression... a rule of thumb that is a silly truism. Typo's bite, multiple typo's are a killer. A reader has to WANT to turn the pages to continue. They invest "themselves" in our thoughts. Readers forgive many things ...but only so long as they care about turning the pages because they just HAVE to know what is happening to "their" character(s).

Again, welcome to WC. Some really good people here. Above all have fun, make longterm friends ...and learn as you feel best.

[Teagan Glendower]

Hello, and thank you so much!

That typo is certainly embarrassing. I've recently begun reading my own work aloud before I even share it with friends, just so I can be sure to iron out all the wrinkles. I hadn't gotten into the habit when I posted this piece, however. I'll definitely go back through and correct anything which needs correcting.

Again, thank you very much for taking the time to read and respond to my work. I am trying very hard to be the type of writer who can create meaningful, artistic work, so it's encouraging to know that someone has put aside some of their attention and effort to examine this piece.