I’m running for my life with two packets of original flavored chips firmly grasped in my left hand while my right hand shoots into the air, trying to propel myself forward. My legs slap the ground hard each time I plant them. My forehead has sweat running down it and the wind helps keep me cool as it whips past me.
Behind, a man chases me, his thumping feet telling just how close he is. I only dare look behind once to see the overweight man still running after me. Looking at him, you wouldn’t have thought he is even able to jog. Instead, he comes at me with alarming speed and, rather than his heavy stature looking like it might hinder him, it now just makes him look more menacing.
He’s yelling something, though I can’t catch what it is. Listening to his verbal abuse isn’t something I decide is worth doing. Instead, I stay focused on the path in front of me and happy to avoid any people I pass as they give me wild looks. No one tries to stop me.
I’m rounding a corner when I run into someone solid. We collide and fall down hard to the ground. He has a briefcase in his hands that hits the cement road, slams open upon impact and his papers fly everywhere.
“You idiot!” The suit pushes me off him angrily.
I find the two packets of chips have been squashed and are scattered all over the pavement in front of me. I look back and see the man that has been chasing me hasn’t given up yet. He’s still coming for me. He has anger and determination covering his face, although he looks like he might pass out soon, too. His breathing is rushed and his face is now the color of a fire fighter’s truck.
I push off the ground and speed off down the side street, hearing new calls from the suit I crashed into. He doesn’t sound too happy, but I doubt he’ll chase me since his paperwork is flying down the street.
Ten minutes of solid running later, I finally feel safe enough to look back.
No one is there.
I slow down to a walk as I catch my breath and wonder where else I can get some food. I haven’t eaten in two days. Soon, I’ll be too weak to run. I can’t go to the local homeless shelter for food because I’m too young and they ask too many questions. They always want to place me with a new family. I do fine on my own, I don’t need family. I ran away from my family when I was fourteen-years-old. Mom was killed when I was only two so I had been placed with the only other family I had, my Aunt.
At first, it had been fine, but soon after my Uncle Sid came back from the war, he would have fits of panic and anger. I was always on the receiving end. Then, the fits turned into pure rage and they started to happen every night. Aunt Lesley conveniently developed a severe drinking problem around the same time. It meant she didn’t notice all the bruises I would have the next day.
I didn’t need family, I had me. I have lived on the streets for the last two years. I know what streets are safe to go down at night and where to steer clear of. I know where a safe place to sleep is and where I should avoid. My only problem is food. At first, it was easy to steal. I was a kid and if I did get caught, they just felt bad for me. Now, though, I just look like a bratty teenager needing to be taught a lesson.
Feeling coolness soaking into my knee, I look down at my pants as I walk. There is another hole in them. I had stolen these from a second hand clothes shop. They always have the worst security so it’s easy to steal from there. You can never have too many layers of clothing in winter. My first winter, I nearly froze to death. The only reason I survived was Gavin. He’s the only person I trust. Despite the thirty or so years in age difference, Gavin is a good friend to me. He is my one and only friend.
As I continue walking, I see the shops all closing up for the day. The wind is starting to become freezing and I almost wish I had a coat to keep warm. Almost. Generally, if you have something warm enough worth stealing, then it gets stolen. It’s better to stay cold and keep the clothes you have.
I round the corner and keep walking. I usually stay near the city. It makes for easier food. If I’m not able to get anything tomorrow, I’ll have to break into one of the homes on the outside of the city and raid their fridge. You get more food that way, but it’s worse if you get caught. I heard a story of a guy that was shot dead because the owner came home and freaked out. The guy only had an apple in his hand.
I finally arrive at the abandoned lot that many homeless people call home these days. The builders had gone on strike and work stopped when they were only halfway done. There used to be security keeping people out, but the company went bankrupt and the site closed. Now, we call it home.
I move to a mound of dirt towards the back of the lot, look around and make sure no one is watching. It’s already dark and hard to see.
I search behind a pile of old piping and find the sleeping bag I’ve been using at night. I found it a while ago and it’s the most valuable thing I have. Standing up straight, I shake it out and then sit down in a corner and make myself as small as possible. It’s easier to keep warm that way.
My stomach starts to hurt now. I can last a day without food easy, but once I get to two days, it starts to hurt. I’ve been eight days without food and I nearly died. Gavin gave me his food to keep me alive. He sometimes says he wishes he hadn’t so I could have gone to a better place. I’m not really sure there is a better place.
Rain begins to come down around me and I’m glad this part is undercover. If a strong wind picks up, I’ll get wet, but hopefully the wind will remain calm.
I cover myself in the sleeping bag and let the consistent rhythm of the rain and cars passing by in the streets surrounding me, lull me to sleep. I try to keep my mind off my thirst and hunger.