Chapter 2

I've changed it up a bit, so it would make more sense.

                 The sun rises. The vivid oranges, pinks, and purples penetrate the darkness with such ease it seems as if good still exists.

I’m not too sure if I will take the right way for everything. I will take the way that keeps me and Josh alive, even if that means using my knife without a second thought.

      Our legs feel fatigue as we have walked far from the area where the men invaded for over two hours. I glimpse over and see Josh kicking at a rock. I kick the rock from in front of him and it goes bouncing out of his view.

      “Hey!” he yells in surprise. He looks up.

      “Come and get it!” A smirk crosses my face. One arrives on his too. I run for the golf ball sized, grey rock and kick it away from his reach. He is much faster than I thought he was. I turn and see him right on my heels.

      “Where is the goal?” he pants.

      “How about the dumpster?” I yell. At this he increases his speed, and he kicks the rock sideways, and it bounces across the pavement making a thump every time it makes contact with the ground.

      A last blow is delivered and I am forced to accept my inevitable defeat. The rock hits, bounces off of the metal, causing a bang, and lands under some garbage.

      “Ha! Ha! I won! I won!” he danced his victory dance.

      “This time! But you won’t be that lucky next time.” This is the first time I noticed that he’s growing up. He’s faster, stronger, and taller that he was two years ago when our mother died. 

      Two years ago, we were not technically homeless, but we did live with our mother. We lived with our drug taking, abusive, tempered, and cold-hearted mother. No money left for food. No money left for shelter. No money left for anything but her drugs. Her drugs were like her children. Her happiest moments occurred while she was on them. A smile only crossed her cold face when she saw them, got them, and injected herself with them. Those are the memories Josh and I have of our “mother”. If you would even call her that. I didn’t. I called her Lisa.

      I obviously have a hatred for this woman. When Joshua was born she was so messed up on drugs, we didn’t know if he would live a full life or even five minutes. She signed “Jos” on a piece of paper before she passed out. It’s funny how we were even born into this world. There are no real “doctors” or “good” people. At least that’s how it seems.

A drunken woman helped my mother give birth to him, and a stranger helped with my birth.

      After she passed away, I was only fourteen, I had to officially become his “mother”. He knows I’m his sister, but ever since he was born, I was four, I have been watching over him and protecting him as a caring mother should. The pavement we called home was once known as Central Square. It was renamed Black Homes.

      Black Homes wasn’t even made of any houses. It was basically a mess of angry, selfish, homeless people. They lived with blankets, boxes, and anything they could find. It was so crowded because so many people need homes. They were not really homes, but they were someplace we could spend time. It wasn’t even safe there though. Gang member would take off with teenage girls in the night and young boys to raise into the gangs.

      After Lisa died, I felt as if life would become a bit better. At the age of fourteen I was wandering the streets in charge of a ten year old. I have always felt pressure to be the good role model and a good influence on him. I don’t know if I have been able to do a great, let alone, a good job.

      We resettle in another ally way with our things.

      “Hey sis? Can I go and see if I can find anything useful in the surrounding dumpsters?”

      “Sure. Why not? Don’t go too far though.” He takes off. I find some newspapers and a light blanket. I lay the `newspapers out crumpled up and lay the ratted blanket over them. Through the holes you could see the newspapers that lay underneath it.  I decide to dig through the dumpster right next to our pallet. I find the normal trash, and I get disgusted by some other things I find.

I continue my scavenger hunt for useful things. Most of this time is spent in vain. I reach underneath some more bottles and cut my hand. I retract it and hold it with my other against my chest. I check to see the damage, and see blood dripping from my palm.

      “Damn it!” It burns intensely. “Great.” I say sarcastically to myself. I shake my head and close my hand into a fist.

      I become very careful when I lift up the bottles that concealed what cut my palm. It was a mirror. I look at the broken piece. Blood still slowly crawls down my wrist as I hold the mirror to my face to see myself. The person I haven’t seen in at least a year stares back, almost lifeless, at me. This person surprises me. As I look at this stranger, I realize that I am not what I thought I’d look like.

      My faded green eyes with bags and dark circles beneath them catch a glimpse of my brown hair mangled and coated in a fair amount of soil. I turn my head examining myself. I see a scar I have on my neck, another one that I don’t know the cause of. My fingers gently rub over the lighter skin.

      I lower the mirror. I don’t want to see anymore. My scared and dirtied body makes me realize that I am a complete stranger to myself.

      I pull my knife out from my pocket and slash through the garbage. Another piece of mirror catches my eye. I throw it behind me and it shatters against the dumpster side.

I hear a bang, but this bang wasn’t the same one the smashed mirror just made. Instinctively, I grab my knife that was sitting by my hand and grasp it firmly.

      My eyes go up above to the lid of the dumpster. The sun still shines brightly while the lid is opened. Suddenly the lid closes and darkness engulfs me.

      “Hello?! Josh? Is that you?!”

      “Shut up!” That isn’t Josh’s voice. The man behind the voice punches the lid. My knife finds its way, armed, into my hand.

      “Hey, anything over there!”

      “Nope! Nothing over here.” the unfamiliar voice says.  Who is he talking to? My mind races. What should I do?

      “OK. I’ll meet you back there in an hour.” Footsteps fade away. My knife stabs through the plastic lid of the dumpster. I stab three or four times very quickly.

      “Ahhh! Damn it!”

      I got him. I use this opportunity to throw my all of my body weight up against the lid. I grunt and it goes up and the man falls onto the ground.

      He’s grabbing his wounded leg.

      “What the hell! What did you do that damn thing for?!” Blood drips through his fingers.

      “You were trapping me in the dumpster. What did you expect!?” I yell back. I keep the knife raised and aimed at his throat.

      His eyes like daggers shoot at me. “I was helping you” his voice says strained. I glare at him. ”Ahh!” he screams in pain again.

      “Oh, shutting the lid on the dumpster trapping me inside is helping me? Well, I’m sorry if I don’t show you my appreciation!”

      He chuckles. I’m confused. Obviously I cannot hide my confusion because he laughs even harder at my facial expression.

      “What the hell is wrong with you?”

      “You!” he smiles. “You.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Did you not hear the man asking if I found anything? If you didn’t notice, I said no. He’s part of the boss’s gang.”

      “Whatever.” I glare at him cautiously. His fingers quickly become filled with blood. How deep did I cut? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about who this is. I leave him there grunting.

      “Really?”

      “What?” I ask.

      “Could I get a little bit of help.”

      “I don’t know you. You attacked me. I think you can figure out the answer.” I start to put our things away.

      “I swear I was helping you! I denied you were here. Did you not hear? Are you deaf?” He seems amazed to how easily I can walk away from him bleeding and moaning.

      “You’ll be fine. One of your buddies will find you.” I continue to put things up.

      “First, I hate them. Second, I think I hate you.” He glares and states.

      “Okay. It’s a mutual feeling.” I turn to face him. His face looks stunned. Should I help him? I did stab him pretty deep, but he attacked me. Moaning can be heard through my thoughts, but I decide to continue packing.

      “What is your problem?”

      “Right now? You.” I lie my bags down away from this stranger and sit.

      “You are just going to sit there? Wow, at least leave.”

      “I’m not sitting here for you. I am waiting for someone.” My eyes roll at his ego.

      “No, I think you’re staying for me.” He smiles.

      “Wow, somebody has a big ego.” He smiles at me again. “ I think you need more than your leg checked. That big head has got to make you unbalanced.” At this comment he laughs. I just snicker at him. “Here.” The towel next to me gets thrown at him.

      Not expecting the towel, it hits his chest, and he grunts. “Thanks.” He takes it bends while in pain and wraps his leg. His hand are now stained red.

      “Are you ok?” I finally ask.

      “Besides this canyon you cut into my calf. Sure.” Sarcastic comments. Great.

      “I..I’m sorry. Here.” I crouch down onto my knees to look at the damage on his leg I caused.  I was really just protecting myself.

      “Well, you don’t need any help with that.”

      “Yeah, I don’t”

      “You know, you are going to have to remove your jeans if you want it treated.”

      “You just want me to take them off.”

      “Um, no. Just take them off.” I don’t have time to argue with him.

      I watch him as he hobbles in an effort to remove them from himself, but I end up having to help him.

      “Sit!” I say as I’m trying to grab them from around his ankles. “You shouldn’t be moving.  I can see the pain in his eyes as he tries to hide it. “I said “Sit”!” He obeys and falls onto the ground catching himself with the palms of his hands.

      His dark blue boxers are ripped like the rest of his clothes. I fold his pants and put them aside so I could assess the cut.

      “Do you even know what you are doing?”

      “Not really.” A look of worry crosses his masculine yet fair face. His blue eyes tear up as I lift his leg to lay it on my lap. He sharply inhales. The soaked towel gets removed. I find a towel within reach and hand it to him to wipe the sweat off of his face.

      “Thanks.” He grabs it and brushes the towel over his brow and nose wiping away the sweat and dirt, letting me gets an actual view of his light skin. My eyes catch his and I look away. Besides Joshua, this is the first guy I have spent longer than a minute talking to and interacting with. It just feels unnatural. I find a towel with the least amount of dirt and unknown substances on it and wrap it tightly around his calf. I remove my shoelace and tie it around the towel to secure it. He grunts loudly as I lower his leg onto the ground once again. I place my backpack under it to elevate it.

      “I don’t know of anything I can do except for that.” I take a step back to see if it would hold and do, at least for now.

      Satisfied with my work, I sit next to him.

      “Do you got a name?”

      “Well, yes. It’s Zachary Coles.” I nod my head.

      “Mine’s Kristen Nichols.” He nods and looks at his wound.

      “Damn. You’re pretty tough. I really didn’t expect any kind of fight when I shut the lid.”

      “Hell. I already said that I am sorry.”

      “I know. I know. I’m good. I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m pretty tough myself,” he says matter-of-factly.

      “Ha. Says the man who is bleeding and cannot move.” I say with a smirk.

      “Pssh. Whatever.” He lays back and crosses his arms behind his head. I stand.

      “I’m going to go continue my interrupted search.” I jump into the dumpster. For a split second I look over and see him watching me. A smile crosses my face, but I quickly forbid it and go back to my normal emotionless facade.

      I search for more useful things. I throw a towel, lighter, and a jacket for Joshua out onto the pavement.

      “WHO ARE YOU!?” I hear these words screamed and shatter my thoughts by a familiar voice.

      “Joshua?! He’s ok.” I stumble out of the dumpster. I see Josh holding his pocket knife at Zachary. “Josh, it’s ok.”

      “Who is he? Why is he here?”

      “His name is Zachary, I guess, he somehow helped me? Yeah, he did.” I replied hesitantly. Josh sensed the uncertainty in my voice and didn’t lower his knife. “I promise. He is ok.” I can see that I somehow assured him. “It’s not like he can do much damage.” I shoot my eyes back and forth between Josh and Zach’s leg.

      “You’re lucky my sister trust you.” He says to Zack as he starts to put his weapon away.

      “I never said I trust him.” I say.

      “What would you have done anyway?” Zachary spits the words defensively at Josh. In a split second his knife is out again pointed at Zack’s throat.

      I laugh. “This is how we met, and you know you’re not in a good position to be acting all tough.” My eyes wander to his leg. His eyes jolt down, and he slightly bites his lip in reply. “Put it up Josh.” He obeys. 

      “Who is this anyway?” Zackary looks Josh up and down assessing him.

      “It’s my little brother, Joshua.” Josh looks up from sharpening his knife in the corner. “He is eleven and acts twenty. He is a pretty tough kid though. I obviously don’t need to worry much about him” He grins as he grinds the slab of rock against the blade of his knife carefully. After my run into the gang, I can see Josh is shutting up his scared side and forcing his brave side out. I sit down.

      “How old are you?”

      “I’m seventeen. I think. I lose track of time.” I half smile.

      “Oh really?”

      “Yeah. Anyways, how old are you?”

      “I’m just two years older than you….nineteen.”

      “I know. I can do math.” I hiss at him.

      “I didn’t say you couldn’t.” I look away. Josh continues to sharpen his already sharp knife without acknowledging our bickering.

      “What’s your story anyway?” I ask while still holding my gaze onto the can in front of me.

      “Well, that’s a boring one.”

      “Tell it anyway. I can’t trust you without knowing anything about you.”                                  

      “Well, I was born here, in the Black Square.” I look up at him. “My mother died after childbirth and my father was in a gang. I was raised around guns, men, and having to prove yourself” he pauses. “I always tried to prove myself to my father. Nothing ever seemed to be enough. I got food for him. I got more men for him. I got girls for him. Nothing was enough and after he died in a “playful” fight between many gang members in enjoyment of the boss, I realized this isn’t how I want to live.” His voice slightly cracks, and he clears his throat. “I just can’t break away from the “Boss”, that’s all I know him by, because I’d for sure get killed.” He explains,  “I try to help girls and women and men like you and your brother when I see you. I lie and dismiss the cause for them to take you because they don’t know you’re there. They do not question me because I’ve been with them since I was just a baby. They don’t have a reason to.”

      I notice how he is staring off into nowhere, and I resume my looking down.                            

      “That’s pretty much it.” He comes back to the real world.

      “That seems to be like a lot of people’s stories out here. Mine and Josh’s are not a happily ever after story either.”

      “Well, I never said mine was special,” he said defensively.

      “Well,  it’s not.” I look away. He doesn’t talk for a bit. I sense him looking at me.

I return my gaze to see Zack looking at me. “Got a problem?” I ask.

      “Kind of.” He grabs his calf that has a blood soaked towel around it. His eyes glaze over and roll back.

      “Zack?!” Zack!” I run up just in time to catch his head as it flings back. He fainted.

      “Josh! Get me the other towel! Now!” He runs to our little pallet and brings me the towel quickly while stumbling over everything. “Here!” I settle Joshua into a position and move Zack’s head onto his lap. “Don’t let his head fall!” He nods. My heart races. What just happened?

      I don’t want to kill anybody. I don’t.

      I kneel down by his leg, remove the towel, and throw it aside. His leg has a much deeper wound than I thought. Why did he play it down? This should have hurt a lot more than he was showing. It didn’t look like I cut through any muscles or bone. The cut didn’t stab all the way through either.  Thank goodness. I went through the side of his calf. I wrap the towel tightly around his leg and apply pressure. I see his unconscious face cringe from pain.

      I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

 

Author's Note

The entire book is still being written, so all writing is still under review, construction, and has a chance of being changed.