Chapter 3 #2
My mom always told me I was going to hell. But maybe all those times I’d given up shelter beds for others who needed spots had bought me some credits, and instead of going straight to hell, I was given a little vacation first.
As the sweet warmth of the latte slid down my throat, I reached down and pinched the inside of my naked thigh. I made sure to do it hard enough that I yelped with the sharp sting of pain.
Well, I wasn’t dead. I was very much alive.
Even though I couldn’t bring a face into memory, I was certain someone had jumped into the fight back there in the alley. It was the only reason I wasn’t seriously hurt or actually dead. But who was it? Why did he help me? Was he the one who brought me here? Left that note?
I’d barely entertained the idea that maybe I knew him, maybe he was a friend, before dismissing it completely. I didn’t have friends. Having a friend implied trust. I trusted no one.
And sure, I guess I knew people—or rather, recognized faces of the other homeless people who frequented the shelters in Buffalo—but there was no one I knew well enough for them to save me. No one I knew had the actual ability or motivation to do so.
So was he a stranger? Why would he help me?
Maybe he mistook me for someone else.
That didn’t seem right either. I mean, the man clearly got a good look at me. Someone bandaged me up, stripped off my jeans—
My gasp was so violent that the coffee would have spilled over the side if I hadn’t already imbibed half.
Momentarily abandoning the drink beside the food and the note, I leapt up, spinning in a circle while looking for my clothes.
My gaze collided with a neatly folded stack of fabric on a tabletop beneath the TV hanging on the wall.
My hands made short work of the neat pile as I knocked it over, pulling my jeans and T-shirt into each hand.
My socks, which were folded together with the tops turned down, rolled across the table, but I barely noticed because… What was that smell?
Shoving my face into the fabric, I inhaled deep, then did it again.
Lowering them, I blinked back the sudden wetness clouding my vision.
Someone had washed them. The unmistakable scent of laundry detergent (the good kind) filled my nose.
They were also soft and wrinkle-free, the stain on the jeans that had been there for so long was gone.
Dropping the clothes on the end of the bed, I ran to the hook by the door where my North Face jacket was hanging and jumped up a little to tug it down.
The second my hand closed around the cash in the inner pocket, I let out a sob.
He had gotten my money back.
Pulling out the wad of bills, I blinked in disbelief, knowing instantly it was thicker than before. Dropping the coat, I moved to the end of the bed and counted out the money. Then did it again.
I’d had less than two hundred dollars. Now there was four hundred and ten.
I couldn’t stop the wobble in my chin or the burst of emotion that forced its way out of my chest. Pressing a hand to the back of my mouth, I stared down at the money in shock.
Mixed in with the cash was my library card, one of the only personal items I had.
He’d clearly seen it. Likely knew my name.
I knew nothing about him. Not even a recollection of his face.
Forgetting the money, clean clothes, and food, I flopped onto the end of the bed—okay, I crawled onto it; I’m just a little guy—and buried my face in my hoodie-swallowed hands.
I was overwhelmed, but not in a bad way.
In a good way, which was new and unfamiliar.
Kindness was so very rare, kind of like hope that you didn’t trust anymore.
In my life, I’d only known moments of kindness, most of it with strings attached and then, more recently, because of pity.
This felt different.
Real.
Kindness that didn’t expect anything in return.
Face buried in my palms, I begged my brain to produce an image. Even just a glimpse of his face.
I knew I was in no position to ask for anything, especially after being given all of this, but how unfair—no—how devastating it was that something like this didn’t have a face.
I caught myself sniffling, rubbing my nose into the sleeves.
That’s when I noticed it.
The bitter scent of burnt paper and stale tobacco making me lightly recoil.
But even as I did, I pushed closer to inhale.
When it wasn’t enough, I pulled away to tuck my chin into the neck of the sweatshirt, forcing my face inside and breathing deep.
It was more concentrated here, like the hoodie had been breathing cigarette smoke and man for most of its life.
No longer fabric but a mere extension of the man who wore it.
Honestly, it was a terrible scent, ashy and stale, but the more I inhaled, the more comforted I felt.
It wasn’t just cigarettes, though, but something earthier, making it less acrid. Leather with a hint of spice.
Home.
My cheek pillowed against leather. Gentle hands, cooing hums, and the sting of something astringent against the open wound on my cheek.
“Easy now, Pip. That sting ain’t welcome here.”
Warm, gentle breath. Battling against the pain and winning a war that wasn’t even his.
“Should have killed ‘em,” the gruff voice muttered, and my teeth began to chatter.
The rustle of clothing. Blazing warmth sliding beneath me and lifting while something comforting and soft tugged over my head.
My soft sigh.
The brush of something against my temple.
As it all began to recede, I grappled frantically, trying to hang on, not even caring if it was memory or imagination. Just wanting desperately to stay.
A barely there echo. “Stay out of trouble.”
My eyes stung, and even though my face was buried in the oversized sweatshirt, all the lamplight blocked by the midnight fabric, spots of light swam in front of my eyes, taunting me with scraps of memories I couldn’t recall but suddenly needed more than air.
Frustrated, I popped out of the shirt, gazing around the dimly lit room to focus on the window. I padded over, ignoring the cold floor against my feet, to push the curtain back and stare down onto the street.
It was dark, clearly the middle of the night. The street was illuminated, but it was empty, no one coming or going or loitering.
Speckles of ash littered the windowsill, and I pressed the pad of my finger on top, embedding them against my skin. I sniffed them, cigarette smoke like a ghost in this room. Lingering unseen just like the man whose face I couldn’t remember.
I didn’t wipe away the ash, just left it on my fingers while touching the latch on the glass, wondering if he’d used it to prop open the window to filter out the smoke.
How long had he stayed here with me? Why did he leave?
The hollowness in my chest hung uncomfortably, making me rub my palm over it, trying to wipe it away. It lingered, though, just like the smoke, and it felt as though I were mourning someone I’d never even met.
Eventually, I left the window to crawl into the giant, soft bed.
After eating, watching too much TV, and using my finger to trace over every letter he’d written in the note, I curled into his hoodie, watching the muted TV flicker shadows across the room.
“Thank you,” I whispered into the dark before falling into a dreamless sleep.
He wouldn’t hear it, but I said it anyway, letting the words linger there with his memory.