So guys, here's a lil' two-shot I wrote. I should have the next chapter up soon-ish (though in my terms, that could mean anything from 5 days to nearly a month) so don't lose heart! Also, a big thank you to Scarred for giving me a hand!
Oh, yeah, and I don't anything, except from the storyline, which is entirely fictional. (:
2006.
I'm nine years old.
One.
Mikey begins to count, and I find myself darting through the crowded high-street as fast as my stubby legs can carry me, Ray keeping pace at my side.
Two.
I coil my way through the throng people of busy, bustling people, snaking into any slight crack or crevice I can place my eyes on. I lose Ray somewhere among the commotion.
Three.
My senses are burning bright. Different smells, sounds, and sights are sneaking in from every direction—freshly brewed coffee, sunlight splashing off lazy, drizzly sidewalks, exhaust fumes, the mindless, jovial chatter of strangers… Cherry blossom flutters through the air, catching to my clothes, like snowflakes. The world is still fresh from the spring rain.
Four.
I dash across the road, scraping past a taxi cab, causing it to screech to a halt. The driver smashes his fist off the horn, rolls down his window, barks some disgusting profanities, but I don't take much notice.
Five.
My mouth is dry, now. I pant, lapping up the air, but there is very little oxygen reaching my lungs, and I fear I may need to stop soon. That's just what I get for being lazy.
Six.
I pause for second, hands on my knees, bending over, savouring every last drop of oxygen I gulp up. My body being jostled through the masses, I peer through strands of long greasy hair to find that Mikey is still within sight, hands clamped over his eyes. I need to get a move on.
Seven.
I snap back into motion. Picking up more speed than ever before, I flash past the bystanders, trying to interrupt their busy schedules as little as possible. I know where I'm going to hide now.
Eight.
I make a sharp turn into an alley way, into the shadows. My lungs are filled with the stench of rotting takeaway meals, musty alcohol, open drain pipes, and smouldering cigarettes. I gag, but carry on.
Nine.
Blasting to the back of the alley way, dodging the festering rodent and used needles which bombard the floor, I push my body behind a trash can and wait in the silence, emptiness, and loneliness.
Ten.
But I'm not alone. There's someone else there.
He's a boy, around my age probably, maybe a year or two younger, with short brown hair sticking up at all angles, like stalks of grass, mud smeared across his cheek—war paint. He's crouching down; his lips sealed tightly, like making even the slightest noise could endanger his life. He doesn't acknowledge my presence, choosing to continue staring round the corner of the metal vessel.
"My name's Gerard", I announce, although he does little to show he has heard me, "And I'm hiding from my brother. We're playing Hide and Seek!"
The boy's eyes flicker a little, but he doesn't switch his gaze from the alley way's paved floor, like he was caught in a trance.
"Are you playing Hide and Seek, too? Are you any good at it? How long have you been hiding here?"
The boy doesn't reply immediately. He wrinkles his nose a little—sniffles—his throat making a crackling, croaking noise, but when he does, his voice is smooth, flowing like velvet, completely unexpected for being such a small child.
"I guess I've learnt to get pretty good at it… And I've been hiding here for quite a bit, now…"
I giggle a little.
"So, what's your name? You still haven't told me it."
The boy bites his lip, rolling his teeth across the flesh a little before proceeding.
"Frank."
His voice is slight, but it bounces off the walls, echoing like the ringing of bells, tickling the air with its delicate touch, yet seeping through, thick like syrup.
Smiling, I hold out my hand to his, and he takes it warily, gently shaking it. That was how Momma always told me to greet new people—you've always got to be polite.
But it made Frank's face light up. Grinning wildly, showing his newly developed 'adult teeth', creases forming round the corners of his lips, his eyes screwing up as his giggles cut through the silence of the alley way. And that laugh! Before, he had seemed grown up, mature, but his laughter reminds me that this boy was nothing but nine years old—naïve and youthful.
And, suddenly, his face crumbles as pounding footsteps and barking voices make their way into the alley way, abolishing the light hearted atmosphere we had created.
"What's wrong?" I ask, apprehensive.
"I'm not playing hide and seek…" His voice trembles and quivers, as his eyes begin to swell and go bloodshot, little pinpricks of water forming in the inner corners. He starts to gnaw at his lip again.
"Then what are you hiding from?"
He sighs, deep, melancholic.
"I'm hiding from them."
I gaze to where he is pointing. The entrance of the alley way is guarded by three boys. They're the type of boys that are big built and bulky. They're the type of boys that name their dogs' things like 'Killer' and 'Sid'. They're the type of boys that are always in fights. They're the type of boys who would love to kill boys like us.
Casing his arms around his knees, pulling them into his chest, Frank began to rock back and forth in time with his staggered breaths, whimpering like a lost puppy dog.
"Please, don't let them hurt me…"
"Hurt you?" I shimmy my body closer to his, looking into his eyes, our noses nearly touching, his warm breath stroking my face as his pants became even more panicked. "They're not going to hurt you!"
"But they always do." His throat is scraping out words, now, like nails down a chalkboard. "No matter how much I hide, they always find me, and they always beat me up…"
Shaking my head, I placed my hands on his shoulder, pulsating his body as I spoke.
"You don't need to worry about them."
He looks at me like I'm speaking in foreign tongues.
"You don't need to hide from them anymore. Just think of it this way—the more you hide, the more they'll hunt you down. So you just need to be brave—you need to put on your game face, look them in the eye and tell them you're not scared of them anymore. They need to know who's boss…"
Frank's breathing calms down a little, as he breaks his gaze from mine to peer back through the trash cans at his fear. He lets his lip free from teeth, a raw red mark now left on the pastel of his skin. He flickers his eyelids before consulting my eyes again.
My voice unexpectedly changing to a soothing, barely audible undertone, I clasp his sticky palm in mine.
"And I'm going to be here to help you."
His face stutters, changes into something which, maybe, just maybe, hints at a smile. That, in itself, causes me to beam. Ever so slowly, I rise to my feet, pulling him with me.
We march towards the boys, hand in hand.