9. Chapter Nine
Choosing between being homeless and living with my mother wasn’t a choice at all. That’s like asking someone if they want to choose breathing over suffocation; freedom over a prison.
At my mom’s, I rarely slept through the night — being also homeless demands constant alertness.
My mom never had enough food — on the bridges and streets of Gondora, there are actually more options to find food than expected.
But on nights like tonight, where the heavens have opened up and soaked everything in the sky … I wish my life had panned out differently.
What if I’d had a mother who hadn’t tolerated me being abused?
What if my father hadn’t died?
The thoughts are useless, but it keeps my mind busy.
Huddled under the awning of a closed shop, I tuck my knees into my chest. My blood runs too hot for the water to cause shivers, but it can’t stave off the dampness.
Next to me is my duffle bag, looking a little worse for wear.
Multiple times, I’ve had to defend it from being stolen.
One of the handles is taped together from a nasty moment of tug o’ war with a fellow Sprite a few weeks ago.
I’ve been on the streets for six months, and though my belly is hollow and I need a real shower, I’ve never felt more free.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as darkness encroaches and the moons hide behind weeping clouds. Another stomach cramp spurs me into standing.
I steady myself against the wall, woozy. There’s a market a couple of blocks away; I’m sure I can scrounge something up, even if that means stealing.
I’m a thief now.
It’s a shameful piece of my identity, but I don’t hate myself for it. I’ve been a survivor my whole life — this is now another facet of that.
Slinging the duffle bag over my shoulder, I stomp through the puddles with my soaking wet shoes. The raindrops sizzle against my skin; an odd soundtrack to my movements. I feel like a campfire desperately trying to feed its flames in a storm.
Finally, the bright lights of the market draw closer. Happy families pass through automatic doors. I bet every single person in that market hasn’t missed a meal since yesterday. Maybe ever.
What’s that like?
Pausing at the delineation of where the light breaches the shadows, I observe. Waiting for the right opportunity.
A young Forest Sprite mother walks out, groceries in one hand and a toddler in the other. Projecting deep misery onto my expression, I approach her.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Do you have any corals you can spare? I’m really hungry.”
She looks at me with wide, tired eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Momma, why is she so wet?” The toddler gazes at me innocently, inspecting my soaked clothes.
The mother does the same with a frown. “You poor thing. Yes, here’s some.” She hands me five corals. Enough to buy a sandwich. That’s something.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Have a goddess-blessed night.”
“You, too.”
Corals in my clenched fist, I watch her walk away. The craziest thing about being a homeless kid is realizing how little people care about my age. It doesn’t make them pause to wonder what a teenager is doing on the streets. They either give a handout or they don’t. Never solutions.
It’s an anger not worth examining right now. Turning to the market, I search for another possible donor.
Instantly, I see a young girl, maybe about my age. Her skin is a dark golden brown, with black strands as wet as mine. She’s walking next to an older woman who’s probably her mother. The smile on the girl’s face tugs at my heart. She looks so carefree and beautiful. Happy.
They’re walking into the market, but right before she steps in, we lock eyes. A frown tugs at her mouth. She whispers something to the other woman. Both of them stop walking to stare at me. It’s more attention than I’m looking for.
I scurry back into the shadows, hoping they lose interest.
The duo disappears into the brightly lit market, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. Attention is unsafe. Attention could also mean rescue, but I’ve long abandoned the hope of being saved.
I wait for another single mother or maybe an old lady. Men are far less likely to give me anything other than a salacious word or proposition. I stopped asking them within the first week of this predicament.
It’s about ten minutes before the mother and daughter exit the market. Panic pounds in my heart when they look around — looking for me. A bulging bag swings from the girl’s hand. The mother holds three bags; a greedy part of me can’t help but wonder if the single bag is for me.
Another cramp seizes my belly. If it’s food, I can’t let fear stop me from a meal. I walk a little closer until they see me. The girl walks up with a shy smile, the mother a few feet behind.
Neither has an umbrella, so we’re all becoming soaking wet rats.
Stopping in front of me, the girl lifts the bag. “Hey. Are you hungry? We got you some food.”
Without thinking, I snatch it from her hand, afraid she’ll reconsider. “Thanks.”
Opening it, I see bread, chips, peanut butter, bottles of water, and other edible things. It’s the most food I’ve seen in … too long.
Emotions swell in my throat; it’s a struggle to swallow them down. Looking up, I can’t tell if it’s rain or tears trailing down my cheeks.
More earnestly this time, I say, “Thank you.”
The mother steps closer. Her brown eyes seem to miss nothing as she inspects me from head to toe, the intense scrutiny pausing on my tattered shoes. “Where are your parents?”
Pulling out one of the granolas, I split open the wrapper and take a bite. Mouth full, I say, “Dad’s dead. Mom’s a dunghole. I don’t live with her anymore.”
Orliana’s hand comes to her mouth, as if the average story of kids on the street is unfathomable. What is it like to find this kind of story appalling? A story that too many homeless kid have?
The mother’s mouth thins. After readjusting the bags in her hands, she asks, “Where are you sleeping tonight?”
Finishing the granola bar in one more bite, I motion to the world around us. “Somewhere, hopefully with an awning. The local homeless shelter is full tonight.”
The mother shifts closer. “I’m Talia. This is my daughter, Orliana. What’s your name?”
“People call me Kyri.”
Talia jerks her head. “Come on, Kyri. We’re headed home. I have a spare bedroom you can sleep in.”
I step back, mouth going dry. “No, that’s okay. I’m fine. Thank you for the food, though.”
“Absolutely not, young lady. You’re coming with us. We aren’t going home until you’re on a Dragxi with us.”
My wings twitch with irritation. If I take off, they can’t stop me or take the food back. What if they’re kidnappers? They don’t seem like kidnappers, but I know better than most that appearances often hide … a lot.
“We aren’t going to hurt you,” Orliana murmurs as if speaking to a flighty wild creature. “You can leave whenever you want.”
“But you can stay as long as you want,” Talia adds.
A tear definitely falls down my cheek. “Why?”
“Kindness needs no explanation. Now let’s get out of this weather.” Talia’s tone brooks no argument. Having a mother take me under her wing like this is almost more than my hardened heart can handle.
“I’ll leave tomorrow,” I’m desperately trying to crush the hope. No need to get excited over something I can’t control.
“As you like,” Talia says smoothly, already walking away. Orliana smiles, holding out a hand. A hand. To a total stranger. I stare at it; a line’s about to be crossed. For better or worse.
A crack of lightning makes me flinch. Sleeping outside tonight will be torture. I can sleep at their home for one night. That’s it.
But when I take Orliana’s warm, soft hand, I know deep down that it’ll be longer than one day.