2The world at best is at war.
That's my country's motto. Whether they're strangling debt money out of others' treasuries or dropping foreign soldiers like flies, our country is known for being violent and hostile. The government had conditioned the society into being selfish and reserved by leaving them on their own. In truth, the government could care less how the people interacted with one another. They were too concerned with battle. There weren't any exaggerated rules, but the staunch social standards acted as law all the same. Only supply for yourself. Do what's necessary for you- and no one else. Then only the strongest, in the people's eyes, would survive. To me, it was all weakness.
For as long as I've comprehended my existence, I've also comprehended that the cruelty I lived in would never change. Watching what people truly are in the heart of their survival. It's quite interesting. But also heartbreaking.
From these dark alleyways I contemplate this, thinking how conflict of the entire nation had torn my small family apart. My older brother, drafted away to fighting, was gravely injured, and had returned an alien to us and simply a burden to the already dwindling income my drunken father swallowed away into the swigs of his alcohol. My mother suffered from bouts of schizophrenia, as abuse had let her to paranoid insanity, convinced that the only way to save herself and her family was to never let it slip her grasp. She held onto her children; or more accurately, she held onto the memories of happy times, so tightly, in fact, that all that resulted was crumbled dust, remains of a once wholesome family suffocated into innumerable, broken pieces that could never be reconstructed. I tried to disconnect myself from my home life and sought elsewhere.
So often I'd have my heart crushed at the sight of poverty other than my own, but helping others was seen as foolishness, as suicide, and as a laughable effort.
My kindness plagued me as an outcast.
There was no use in crying, I realized. It'd only add to the numbness of my face in the cold. The snow accumulated in a thin layer on my clothes and skin as I stood in this desolate alleyway, motionless. I had grown accustomed to bitterly freezing nights alone, and had begun to recognize every minute detail about my frequent place of refuge.
To my left, a clattering metal sound broke the silence. Trash cans toppled over noisily, and I hear the humorous hissing of stray felines stirred from their warm slumbers. They claw at the figure, but he ignores them and pants nonchalantly. A scrawny ball of grey, matted fur made its way over to my side. His stench defined his place of departure. A limp corpse hung from the animal's mouth- a half decayed rat.
"Farview". I smile lovingly at the dog who had become my best friend.
He drops the rat at my feet. Immediately maggots burst out of its open wounds and squirm on the frozen ground. He wags his crooked tail excitedly, gleaming at me expectantly. I laugh lightly at this loyal antics.
"Nah boy. I'm not hungry. You eat up."
I hear the unsettling crunch of the rodent's body succumbing to his fangs. The meal is meager but satisfying, and devoured in seconds. His right eye shines at me happily, but the left socket remains a black void.
His lack of an eye used to unnerve me; however, now I find it a perfect match to the hideous emotional and physical scars I bear. We are one and the same.
Unwanted misfits.
Farview was named by me in a humorous light. Sometimes, he seems to understand the irony of it.
A phantom clock chimes with the arrival of 11:00. It's getting late. I feel a sense of urgency rise up inside of me.
They'll be expecting me soon.
Farview senses my nervousness and licks my hand, bringing my deadened fingers to life with his warm tongue. A tinge of blood is left behind, and I wipe it off on his fur, more amused than repulsed.
"Heh. You're disgusting. You're going to die of diseases you filthy mutt." I push him.
He teethes my shirt playfully, as if to say: "Your living conditions are pretty shitty, too!"
I throw him a hardtack from my pocket I had been saving for myself. He gnaws the bread thankfully. The action already sends a pang of emptiness to my stomach, but I know it will keep him occupied in my absence.
I slip out of the alleyway and down the open sidewalk. The neighborhood is quiet and shut up for the night. Only a few bother to come out in the cold.
I know my mother would never let me do this if she were to know. But she doesn't exactly know what's best for this family anymore.
I pull out a small slip of paper from my coat pocket.
440 Finch Avenue it reads. In faint graphite I had scribbled: midnight, fifty gold bits.
That's roughly an hour walk from here. I tighten my coat around my body and walk promptly.
My boots are laden and noisy. My steps are rhythmic, the only echoing in the streets. I pray that a nearby thug won't take me as an easy target.
As I turned the corner, I notice a figure sitting alone on the pavement. At first I mistook it for an animal. It is hardly recognizable as human due to the agglomeration of snow buildup and blankets hiding its skin. Despite this seemingly formidable shield to the elements, it is shivering profusely. Hearing the dull thumping of my boots, the figure pokes its head out of the blankets tentatively. I see now that it's a woman. Very young. A gorgeous thing without the bloody slashes adorning her. Tears highlight her face.
"Homeless?" I address her with a soft voice I find myself unable to use with men.
She sniffles, unsure if she should answer me. "Aye. My father and mother kicked me out."
A common and sad occurrence. "What for?"
She pulls the blankets away from her torso, revealing her thin clothing and feminine curves that would drive any man insane. Her frail hand lingers to her stomach, which is bulging with a rounded curve. She sadly gleams at it.
So, she is an expecting mother. Suddenly I know her life story. She was most likely a prostitute. Or perhaps she tried to escape her poverty by seducing one of the richer officers, only to find herself impregnated. Either way, I doubt her parents would want to fund the nutriment of a second child. What easier way could there be other than throwing her out?
I feel the cold currency against my hands. I only have two copper bits. Could mean a hot, steamy meal, two meals, maybe. I throw it at her anyway and keep walking, hoping no one saw my little Samaritan act.
She picks up the money, her eyes widening and feeling its texture for authenticity. I feel her eyes on me, feel her warm tears against her face, feel the growing life inside her happy to live another night. She trying to get me to turn around with her eyes. I know this. But I turn the next corner before she can say a word.
Such a beautiful girl. Too bad girls like her don't amount to scat on the streets. Her baby probably won't make it through the first week.
I nibble my fingers, moving on to more important thoughts. The thought of me bearing children crosses my mind nevertheless. It wasn't an idea I was fond of, but what of prostitution? I frequently envied the lump-sums of cash being flaunted around by the voluptuous women, and decided their arrogance and voyeur's games weren't for me. I would never be that desperate in my poverty. Then again, what exactly was I doing tonight? Despite all my attempts, I can't get the pregnant woman out of my head. I can't get the sickness and filth out of my head. Off of my skin. Even if I lived with riches and wealth, it would always be in my blood. Always be me.
No amount of tears, charity, or dedication would change it.
I hate thinking these cruelly necessary thoughts, but they circulate in my mind the entire walk.
A graciously uneventful hike later, I approach the address on the paper slip. I don't notice a difference in my ease here. I'm still looking over my shoulder, the constant paranoia hanging over me. I see a few homeless ones rummaging around, but it's still deathly quiet. It doesn't seem any different than my sector, except that a lone lantern hangs over the crowded buildings, illuminating the neighborhood with its faint flame.
I wander around curiously, nervous that they won't show. What'd be more fun than tricking some poor sector slut with the idea of money? Good laughs, yeah?
It's cold, I'm far from home, and I miss Farview. But I need this money; my family is depending on me, whether they are aware of it or not.
No one shows. It's been a while with no results. I shuffle restlessly, peering every direction like a lost toddler. The homeless trashies even acknowledge me, offering me a warm seat by the fire if I'm willing to supply them with alcohol and a little fun. I decline.
I hear the slightest shift behind me. A foot against the ground. I jump, the hair rising on my neck. This is what I came here for, I'm sure of this somehow, yet I am suppressing the instinct to run.
A heavily clad person forms from the unseen. Male. Voice is gruff, old, and impatient, like he's in a hurry. "You Nevada Faivey?"
I nod my head slowly. I had never really thought of how this would go about, but I hadn't thought he'd be alone. He nods back at my answer.
Suddenly, he lifts his wrinkled face to me, revealing a smirk that I've seen too much on the streets. My defenses are on the rise. His eyes are calculating, dangerously calculating. I feel as if he knows everything of me, of my intentions, thoughts, anything. The pupils don't follow me normally. I begin to think that he is disabled, or maybe even blind, but I realize with fear why I keep turning away from his glare.
His eyes are robotic.
"Alright, eh just answer a few questions for me, and you can get your gold bits." His tone is monotonous, slightly bored. He's obviously been through this process many times.
"What is your age?" He begins to call off.
"Seventeen." My hands are shaking. I swallow the lump in my throat, trying to appear strong.
"Are you a virgin?"
What did that have to do with anything? I ignore my distrust, remaining respectful. "Yes."
"What does your daily diet consist of?"
When I actually got the God-given chance to consume enough food to be considered a diet, I hadn't really paid much attention to something as menial as that. This man's questions seem to be mocking me. I blurt something out, unsure how to answer it truthfully.
"Bread n' water?"
"What diseases have you contracted in a time span of five years?"
I ponder this for a moment. I recall being bed-ridden for weeks with the dreaded Hans' Impetigo. It was extremely contagious, extremely painful. I had sores lining every inch of my body, all of them swollen and exploding puss with the slightest touch. It was a nasty bacterial infection I'm sure only existed in conditions such as mine.
"Hans' Impetigo." I answer, slightly embarrassed.
"How long did this last?"
"About a fortnight."
I try to read his expression, but it's nothing but a stone.
"Finally." He concludes. "What is your opinion on the government?"
I smirk, and use all my strength to hold back the laughter his question induces.
"The government", I start. "Can kiss my ass."
He laughs gravely. "Splendid. I have some interesting news for you, Nevada Faivey."
I force myself to ask. "What?"
"You're being relocated! Isn't that wonderful!?"
I am stricken with confusion. This wasn't part of the plan at all. I feel my legs go numb, my heart racing against all nature.
He laughs. And then I see the weapon. It shines silver in the dark, and glows a strange blue on the top. I've never seen anything like it before, but I know it's dangerous from the look on his face.
I'm pretty sure my face turned as white as the snow. I sprint in the opposite direction, sure that I've got him beat. I keep Farview in my mind to keep me going.
Farview, I'm coming home.
I thought he'd be slow due to his age, but I was entirely wrong. He's on me in a second, digging the glowing stick into my side.
The world spins. I hit a streetlight pole in my confusion. It knocks me uneven, and I find myself admiring the night sky. I feel a weight on my chest. A soft whisper in my ear.
"Here comes the fun." The male says. "Fifty gold bits sure as hell won't be worth all this fun."
I slip away right as I feel hands lifting me off the ground.