Chapter 38
I’m stubborn, pig-headed, and when I’ve got my mind set to something, I’ll do it. Consequences be damned.
But as I pull the sleeping bag closer to my shivering body, I find myself regretting the life choice I made earlier in the week. Because had I known it would be this sodding cold, I think I’d have come up with an alternative plan.
On Tuesday, I left.
Walked out of the one place in the world that I had called home, because without him, it wasn’t home anymore.
It was hell.
They would be looking for me, for sure, but London’s a big place. It’s easy to get lost in London. It’s easy to be invisible. I’m just another homeless person on the street begging for money.
Just another person who the commuters walk by and ignore.
I’d wished for the last four years that I was invisible to anyone but Owen. But now, now that I’m truly invisible, in a city that is bustling and full of life, now I regret what I did.
I regret not thinking things through a bit more.
What would Owen do?
Owen left.
He left me to that monster.
I’m still angry, I’m still hurt, I’m still so bloody cold.
My teeth chatter together as I try and get comfortable on the hard marble doorway of the shop I found, desperate to seek some respite from the biting wind.
The shelters are all full.
“That’s my spot.” A gruff voice and the stench of body odour overwhelms my senses, causing my gag reflex to kick in. Do I smell like that?
Mind you, I don’t drink, so I can’t be that bad.
“You deaf? I said that’s my fucking spot.”
I peek out from under the sleeping bag. I’ve managed to stay out of trouble so far. Sure, I’ve been begging for food, money for the hostel, because nine times out of ten the shelter spaces are already gone, but there hasn’t been much trouble.
Until now.
“I didn’t see a reserved sign. Move along.” I put as much force into my words as possible, but the stinky man stays, standing over me. Everything he owns carried haphazardly in his arms. Carrier bags, a broken rucksack, sleeping bag.
It’s sad, really.
How this is someone’s only choice.
The street is still busy. Friday night in London means people are constantly milling around until the early hours.
But I’m invisible, remember? So even as the man starts shouting profanities at me, a young girl, everyone ignores us.
Or expect someone else to step in. Why would they put themselves out?
It’s two homeless people, two scum. Just two people who don’t deserve to be given any sort of acknowledgement.
“You’ve got quite the mouth on you, haven’t you? But you’d be stupid to open that pretty little mouth again, otherwise I’ll have to ram my boot into it.”
My eyes fall onto his broken trainers, and I raise an eyebrow. “Promises, promises. You’re not even wearing boots.”
“The fuck?” he spits, dropping some of his belongings. “You’re too wet, girl, you don’t know the ways yet. Let me teach you some ways of fucking London.”
“No thanks.” I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I’ve no idea why I’m answering back. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t give a shit anymore.
Maybe it’s because I am so completely dead and broken that I’d rather have his foot shoved into my pretty little mouth because I can take the physical pain over the emotional turmoil.
He steps towards me, and I realise that I am completely cocooned in my sleeping bag. There’s fuck all I can do to get out quick enough before he descends.
So, I do the only thing I can. I cover my face and curl into a ball whilst the stinking arsehole teaches me the way of the streets.
He teaches me that this doorway is his, and I shouldn’t be here.
He teaches me that pretty little mouths should be shut when he’s talking.
He teaches me that, like James, some people just want to beat on the little guys to make themselves feel better.
This arsehole is no different.
Lights from a car shine over the scene, casting my body in his shadows, whilst he still kicks me.
And l just lay there, taking it. Staring off into the distance, wondering if this was what it was like for Owen.
Choosing an object and staring at it, wishing you were anywhere but there in that moment. Wishing the pain away.
Except he didn’t stare at an object. He’d stare at the wardrobe door where I was hidden. Sometimes I’d stare right back, sending him strength.
But no one is giving me strength right now.
I thought the physical pain would be easier, but it’s not, because as I take my beating, I think about how Owen took his…to protect me.
There it is again, the emotional pain.
Now I’m feeling both.
Emotional and physical.
And here I am again, regretting my choices and wishing I was invisible.
“Hey. Hey.”
The lights are blinding between the gaps in my arms that protect my face.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?”
Someone grapples with the stinking man, and he’s thrown onto the ground, the sound of his body cracking against the marble doorway radiating straight through me.
Tears pool in my eyes. They track down my cheeks as splinters of lightning crash through my ribs and stomach.
“You piece of shit,” the man, who looks to be in his late thirties early forties, spits towards the homeless man, whose motionless body is now half lying on my sleeping bag, half on his own belongings.
He crouches down in front of me, dark hair with a peppering of grey and bright blue eyes that stare at me. “Are you okay there, little one?”
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I take stock.
“Can you move?”
I don’t speak, but I nod and attempt to sit up. The man’s arm comes under my armpit, and I cry out.
“You’re okay there, little one. I’ve got you. I’m Andrews. What say we get you out the cold and to a doctor?”