Witches and Vampires
A.B.T.
Erik's Story
The sun hung lazily in the sky, the temperature finally beginning to wane even as the floating orb, exhausted and panting from the long day, resisted still it's impending descent. An hour or so later, the children would be called back inside to eat a meager dinner and then, only a few hours after that, they would be in their beds, recharging for another day. It was the same routine every day in El Mundo del Dios, the only orphanage in this no name village in South America. Surrounding the village itself was dense jungle with only one break in the trees – the singular dirt road that led in and out of town, which in turn led to the next nearest town, filled with Enchanters.
While the other children played in the yard, one stood away from them, hands intertwined in the links of the rusted old chain-link fence mean to keep the children from wandering off into the giant death trap that was the surrounding jungle. After all, children were prime targets for the creatures of the wild: weak and defenseless. The orphanage was run by a convent (with a name like El Mundo del Dios, this fact wasn't all that surprising) and, because of this, it was also a Catholic primary school, where all the children wore the same bland uniform – a black jacket worn over a black vest which was, in turn, worn over a white button up shirt, followed by a pair of black shorts with a black belt to hold them up, and black shoes worn over black socks. This boy, standing on his own and looking through the tiny bars of the fence, was no exception to this rule, though it was a wonder as to why, in one of the hottest places in the world, they were made to wear so much black. But he, like other children, accepted it because, in the long run, what could they really do about it?
With a sigh, the boy ran a hand through his hair, cut in a short bowl cut like the rest of the boys in El Mundo, and silently hated it. He put that hand deep into his pocket – empty save for some lint – and continued to look through the chain links with his steel blue, almost grey eyes. Opposite him, on the other side of the street, was an older looking man with a saxophone, playing a slow song that seemed to creep into the heart with a melody so sorrowful that the boy couldn't help but appreciate it. He thought it sounded nice, though he didn't have the capacity to relate it to what his life had become. Once the saxophonist was finished with his bluesy song, he crossed the dirt road and sat with his back against the fence, and in turn to the boy. The child expected this and sat also; leaning back against the fence in what had become a daily ritual for the two.
"Hey there, niño What's happenin' on your side of the world?" the man said, his voice something like a Spanish jazz hipster. The sunglasses he wore hid his eyes from view, though a calm smile played on his weathered tan face. The boy heard a rustling and knew that the man behind him was reaching into the pocket of his faded and torn canvas jacket. Furthermore, he knew that the item he would pull from it would be a silver zippo lighter and a pack of cigarettes, a brand that sported no label other than a black pack. Sure enough, the boy heard the metallic click and the grating sound of the zippo before the smell of tobacco filled his nostrils.
"Same as every day," the boy said, his voice decidedly American. This was something to be expected, since his parents were from America before they had died. The boy was seven then, and it had been three years since.
"Nah," the man said after a long, slow drag from his cigarette, "That's where you're wrong, niño. No one day is ever the same as the last. Life is always changing, ¿lo pillas? Even our little thing here is different every day," the man replied, laughing a little.
"What do you mean?" asked the ten year old, somewhat confused by the concept.
"Well, you can't say you were sitting exactly in that spot yesterday, can you?" the man asked simply, looking back over his shoulder at the boy, who was now sitting with a hand on his chin, thinking.
"No…I guess I can't, huh?" the boy answered finally, now digging random patterns into the ground with his finger, "But if life is always changing, why doesn't it feel like it?" An image of his parents passed through his mind as he spoke, and tears threatened to form in his eyes, but he stifled them: he was too old to cry. He let out a sniffle and rubbed his eyes.
"Now, niño, thing may seem to be goin' nowhere right now, but you give it time and things will start going your way, I can promise you that, one cat to another. And don't worry about those tears, neither. If you keep your emotions all bottled up, you'll regret it." The boy said nothing in response, but took some solace in the man's words.
"Take it from Sad Sax Samm, niño: life will go your way, so long as you keep it the way you want it, ¿lo pillas?" The boy nodded slowly before his head whipped up in attention at the shrill voice of one of the Sisters calling for him to come inside.
"Well Samm, I gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow," the boy said, standing and dusting himself off before joining the other children. He didn't know that this would be the last time he saw the street busker just as he didn't know that the very next day would lead to a very new and very dangerous existence. All he knew, at that moment, was the calling of his name as he slipped through the doors leading into El Mundo del Dios Orphanage: Erik Altezio.