72nd of winter 508av ♦ late afternoon
The Tent City was like a living thing, ever moving and shifting, bursting with the down-trodden and desperate. In such a large space, littered with so many bodies and makeshift dwellings, one would think it'd be easy to disappear - to blend in, go unnoticed - but such was not the way.. something a particular young boy knew.
It wouldn't stop him from trying.
Perched just outside the dingy, frayed tarp that was served as his 'home', he watched as his mother wiped a musty, once damp cloth over elbow and down a bony forearm before attending to a gaunt shin before shrugging deeper into the threadbare blanket he had wrapped himself in. He knew the ritual well and it caused his mind, sluggish and foggy from lack of food and water, to jump like a spooked cat to what the evening might have in store for him. The mere thought of it caused a replay of the previous night to come to the forefront of his thoughts and he shut his eyes tight, trying to clamp down on the thought and cease it from manifesting further. His body tensed as the anxiety seized him and he reached a hand back to grip enough blanket to pull over his head. In this man-made darkness, he found respite. But it was short-lived.
"You like seeing your mother get beat. Is that it, Ora?"
A sniff. A shift of shoulders. That bit of blanket he had tugged over his head slid away to pool roughly at his slumped shoulders. He said nothing, hazel eyes fixing on her face as she ran the cloth along the ugly mottling of colour that the old bruise around her left eye had faded to, her movements slow with the intent of making him see what he did to her. He said nothing. Whatever he said would be wrong anyways.
Her voice dripped of contempt, "That must be it." A long pause as she swayed, as if drunk. The silence cut deeper than her words. "You jus' want us to both suffer. Selfish little shyke. Y'know he always beats me worse when he's gotta hide you too."
His eyes dropped and skittered away as he released a shaky breath, hues moving to search the dilapidated piles of tents and shacks, suddenly acutely aware that Nasso could be within earshot. Bile hit the back of his throat and he swallowed it down as best he could.
A noise of disgust followed, coupled with the noise of a pop of a joint as she rose.
"Jus' think how it's gonna be when I'm not here an' it's just you getting it."
The cloth hit him in the shoulder. He gave it a reluctant glance before sweeping his gaze to her back. There was something about the way she spoke that stirred and stoked his fear. It wasn't the words but something unsaid. The ease. As if she was somehow unburdening herself of something. It sent a chill down his spine. Her raspy, wet cough followed her as she drifted away towards the Sanctela.
Knuckling at his nose, he let his attention return to the cloth. The bile returned, hot and burning, as he glared at it and then, in a flash, he shot his hand out just long enough to fling it away before disappearing beneath the blanket once more, arms folding over his bent knees and head burying down into the folds.
73rd of winter 508av ♦ pre-dawn
wc 1158
The Tent City was like a living thing, ever moving and shifting, bursting with the down-trodden and desperate. In such a large space, littered with so many bodies and makeshift dwellings, one would think it'd be easy to disappear - to blend in, go unnoticed - but such was not the way.. something a particular young boy knew.
It wouldn't stop him from trying.
Perched just outside the dingy, frayed tarp that was served as his 'home', he watched as his mother wiped a musty, once damp cloth over elbow and down a bony forearm before attending to a gaunt shin before shrugging deeper into the threadbare blanket he had wrapped himself in. He knew the ritual well and it caused his mind, sluggish and foggy from lack of food and water, to jump like a spooked cat to what the evening might have in store for him. The mere thought of it caused a replay of the previous night to come to the forefront of his thoughts and he shut his eyes tight, trying to clamp down on the thought and cease it from manifesting further. His body tensed as the anxiety seized him and he reached a hand back to grip enough blanket to pull over his head. In this man-made darkness, he found respite. But it was short-lived.
"You like seeing your mother get beat. Is that it, Ora?"
A sniff. A shift of shoulders. That bit of blanket he had tugged over his head slid away to pool roughly at his slumped shoulders. He said nothing, hazel eyes fixing on her face as she ran the cloth along the ugly mottling of colour that the old bruise around her left eye had faded to, her movements slow with the intent of making him see what he did to her. He said nothing. Whatever he said would be wrong anyways.
Her voice dripped of contempt, "That must be it." A long pause as she swayed, as if drunk. The silence cut deeper than her words. "You jus' want us to both suffer. Selfish little shyke. Y'know he always beats me worse when he's gotta hide you too."
His eyes dropped and skittered away as he released a shaky breath, hues moving to search the dilapidated piles of tents and shacks, suddenly acutely aware that Nasso could be within earshot. Bile hit the back of his throat and he swallowed it down as best he could.
A noise of disgust followed, coupled with the noise of a pop of a joint as she rose.
"Jus' think how it's gonna be when I'm not here an' it's just you getting it."
The cloth hit him in the shoulder. He gave it a reluctant glance before sweeping his gaze to her back. There was something about the way she spoke that stirred and stoked his fear. It wasn't the words but something unsaid. The ease. As if she was somehow unburdening herself of something. It sent a chill down his spine. Her raspy, wet cough followed her as she drifted away towards the Sanctela.
Knuckling at his nose, he let his attention return to the cloth. The bile returned, hot and burning, as he glared at it and then, in a flash, he shot his hand out just long enough to fling it away before disappearing beneath the blanket once more, arms folding over his bent knees and head burying down into the folds.
73rd of winter 508av ♦ pre-dawn
Hollow and empty, Orakan slowly wandered back towards the Tent City just as the sky was growing its darkest. Syna's light would follow but, for now, he drifted, just another husk haunting the twilight streets, stomach twisting from hunger, steps sloppy from exhaustion... and the pain. It lingered always; the trio his constant companions.
There was nothing to truly go back to yet he still felt the pull to return, the need to stay overruling the ever present desire to run. And so he followed the same path he always did, arms folded tightly across his thin frame, digging and dragging nails into the flesh of his left arm. A nervous habit. The self-inflicted pain a welcomed distraction.
A mangy looking cat leapt from a shady perch and landed in his path, its patchy, flea-bitten coat looking as raw as his insides felt. He stopped and stared at it, the feline's green-gold gaze meeting his own and holding it. In his current state, mind a mangled mush, he found it funny - his mother had worn that same look of disapproval. There was no escaping it.
Warily, the cat eventually moved on and so, too, did the boy. His feet carried him without any thought, mind elsewhere until a familiar voice penetrated his thoughts.
"The petch did you do to her."
His mind crashed hard back into his body as he blinked the scene before him into focus. His mother lying sprawled on his sleeping mat - not too unlike she would most other nights, bottles nearby - and Nasso standing over her. There was nothing unusual about this sight and a crease formed between his dark brows as he glanced up to the man. Although Nasso was not a particularly imposing man, there was something about him that was menacing in its own way and the look the pimp gave him now stirred his need to run. To escape. To avoid the coming onslaught.
"Look at 'er!"
The force of his words were so great that they caused the boy to sway. Every fibre of his being told him to flee yet his feet remained rooted in place. Fear gripped him and he froze, eyes dropping to fix on his mother's still form yet, at the same time, unseeing. He blinked frantically, repeatedly, until, at last, minor details came to light. The colour of her skin - or definitive lack-there-of, the lack of movement, lack of breath. He blinked once more.
Was she -
"She's petchin' dead ya moron." As if for effect, he dug the toe of his boot into her side, rolling her slowly stiffening body onto its back. "What'd ya bloody do to her??"
Reality came in waves, rolling in and then out as his brain struggled to process this, the rain of spittle carried on Nasso's words briefly bringing him back to the here and now.
What had he done? What hadn't he?
A hand was on him, grabbing at the arm he had previously been worrying away at and, suddenly, his feet became unstuck. Flailing, twisting, turning and ducking, the boy struggled to evade Nasso's grasp. The cloak he had worn twisted around his frame, momentarily choking him before he pushed the tangled material up and over his head.
Freedom.
He spun out of the man's tenuous grip, leaving Nasso with nothing with a handful of that cloak he had been in, and, without second thought, he was off, running hard back towards the belly of the city.
There was nothing to truly go back to yet he still felt the pull to return, the need to stay overruling the ever present desire to run. And so he followed the same path he always did, arms folded tightly across his thin frame, digging and dragging nails into the flesh of his left arm. A nervous habit. The self-inflicted pain a welcomed distraction.
A mangy looking cat leapt from a shady perch and landed in his path, its patchy, flea-bitten coat looking as raw as his insides felt. He stopped and stared at it, the feline's green-gold gaze meeting his own and holding it. In his current state, mind a mangled mush, he found it funny - his mother had worn that same look of disapproval. There was no escaping it.
Warily, the cat eventually moved on and so, too, did the boy. His feet carried him without any thought, mind elsewhere until a familiar voice penetrated his thoughts.
"The petch did you do to her."
His mind crashed hard back into his body as he blinked the scene before him into focus. His mother lying sprawled on his sleeping mat - not too unlike she would most other nights, bottles nearby - and Nasso standing over her. There was nothing unusual about this sight and a crease formed between his dark brows as he glanced up to the man. Although Nasso was not a particularly imposing man, there was something about him that was menacing in its own way and the look the pimp gave him now stirred his need to run. To escape. To avoid the coming onslaught.
"Look at 'er!"
The force of his words were so great that they caused the boy to sway. Every fibre of his being told him to flee yet his feet remained rooted in place. Fear gripped him and he froze, eyes dropping to fix on his mother's still form yet, at the same time, unseeing. He blinked frantically, repeatedly, until, at last, minor details came to light. The colour of her skin - or definitive lack-there-of, the lack of movement, lack of breath. He blinked once more.
Was she -
"She's petchin' dead ya moron." As if for effect, he dug the toe of his boot into her side, rolling her slowly stiffening body onto its back. "What'd ya bloody do to her??"
Reality came in waves, rolling in and then out as his brain struggled to process this, the rain of spittle carried on Nasso's words briefly bringing him back to the here and now.
What had he done? What hadn't he?
A hand was on him, grabbing at the arm he had previously been worrying away at and, suddenly, his feet became unstuck. Flailing, twisting, turning and ducking, the boy struggled to evade Nasso's grasp. The cloak he had worn twisted around his frame, momentarily choking him before he pushed the tangled material up and over his head.
Freedom.
He spun out of the man's tenuous grip, leaving Nasso with nothing with a handful of that cloak he had been in, and, without second thought, he was off, running hard back towards the belly of the city.
wc 1158
