A figure, in only a oversized, ragged sweatshirt, and tattered jeans wrapped around their painfully thin form, wisps of white hair slid from under the raised hood occasionally, coaxed out by a mischievous wind. A lightly tanned hand pushed them back under, the figures hands had long nails yellowing, and skin chapped from wind. The figure sat beside an old, metal dumpster. After a unbearable amount of shivering they hastily decided pulling their arms into the sweatshirt, along with their legs. Only the tips of their toes exposed to the cold, shoes stolen long ago.
The alley was dark, the brick behind their back was warm, the asphalt was colder than the biting wind that screamed outside the deserted alley. A pile of newspapers was pulled over now white toes, huddling into the cold metal, and thin paper, stomach and nose tortured by the scent of food, wafting to them along with the sound of hawkers loudly assuring those hurrying by of the superiority of their wares. Others who ignored them, thinking of getting to their warm homes, their hot food, and steaming drinks that awaited them.
A rumble sounded, and painful cramps assaulted the thin figure. A small, bedraggled, tabby cat appeared from the street, carrying a miniscule rat, it curled around the figure in the sweatshirt, laying on their feet and purring.
As the evening faded into twilight, twilight into night, and night became blue with the impending morn. A police officer parked his car in front of the alley, and entered, stopping beside the shivering figure. Jaded eyes became kind, sorrowful, and the officer picked up the figure, shoulders sagging at the lack of weight. The figure was laid in the backseat of the cruiser, the cat meowing until it was placed with its chosen companion.
As the first hints of dawn appeared, and the stars and moon faded away, the officer stopped the cruiser, and picked up the skeletal figure. They were at the police station, the lights still on as the officer entered, the cat begrudgingly following. The few they passed looked with pity at the sweatshirt wrapped bundle.
Finally, they reached a small office. The officer lightly kicked the bottom of the door, shuffling steps approached, and opened the door. A tired man, with long, thick black hair, dark skin, and tired black eyes met those shadowed by the officers hat. Silently, he accepted the thin figure, and turned back into his office, careful not to bump the adolescent's feet against the doorframe. The officer sighed heavily, then looked down at the cat, who was sitting in front of the door, ears down, tail wrapped around its feet.
"Even if we save and heal their bodies, it's their minds that need the most care, eh cat?" The officer sighed, an answering meow was the response. The officer returned to his cruiser, and began his rounds once again, leaving the the cat to wait for it's companion.
Inside of the small office, the dark haired man gently set the adolescent on a chair, frowning at the red, chapped fingers, and blue tinted shoeless feet. Carefully, he slid off the oversized sweatshirt, it caught on the skin of the thin figure, causing them to let out soft sounds of pain and distress. He made gentle, stroking the white hair, speaking reassuring words as if there was a cornered animal he had to coax from hiding.
There was a thin, ripped, once white long sleeve shirt, now a stained brown and dark red, partially healed and fresh cuts showed where the shirt was cut, blood stained the inside of the sweatshirt as well. His lips set in a firm line, white, standing out starky from his dark skin. "How old are you." He made sure his voice was quiet, calm, restraining his boiling anger.
The red hands raises slightly, the fingers flashing ten, then four. Their eyes met, and pain radiated from the adolescent's eyes, not physical pain, but the pain that came from mental abuse, the pain that came from being broken, over and over again, with no chance to heal.
"Can you talk?" White hair floated, reminiscent of a halo as the child nodded, tilting up their head, exposing their neck, to show bruises, shaped like hands.
"What's your name?" His voice was strained, black eyes snapping fire, all sense of grogginess and sleep deprivation gone. The child's lips moved slowly, white eyebrows furrowed, throat working anxiously.
"F, F," Coughs racked the thin from, quickly, he filled a glass of water, and brought it to cracked lips.
"For now, we'll call you F, alright? Until you're voice is healed and you can speak properly. I'm Christiano, or Chris if you prefer." Chris proposed, F nodded quickly, Chris took in F's features. Fine bone structure, more pointed. But the eyes weren't the usual round ones, they had more of the classic Asian shape to them, and the irises, were a brilliant violet blue, so bright they appeared to be colored contact lenses.
"Chris." F grinned, showing slightly yellowed teeth, with a slight gap in between the two front teeth. F looked somewhat like an imp, or elf. Even the ears were slightly pointed, and a small silver cartilage piercing adorned the left.
Chris sighed at the pronunciation, which sounded exactly like the word curse, but nodded his head in acceptance. "We don't have any beds here, besides holding cells." At F's panicked expression, he laughed softly. "Don't worry, I'm not locking you in for the night. You haven't broken any laws, that I know of." He looked meaningfully at F, who's hair once again made a halo.
Chris stood, and picked up F, who let out a high pitched squeal. "Are you male or female." Chris muttered, allowing slight sarcasm into his voice.
"B, b, bo, boy." F said, his voice cracking, but triumphant when he completed the word. A large grin seemed to split his face, making him seen ten, instead of fourteen. He couldn't be more than 5' 9', and when he looked at F's chest, the ribs showed far more than they should, F resembled a extreme case of anorexia, the kind that usually lead to death.
While Chris mused over F's malnutrition, and possible causes, while he quickly made his way to his car. "The station doesn't have proper equipment to care for you, we're going to my home. Alright?" F nodded slowly, Chris could almost see gears turning in the young teen's mind.
"S, sa, saf, safe?" F croaked out, his speech stammering, and eyes narrowed and untrusting. Chris sighed in frustration, then his eyebrows furrowed as he remembered something, stopping next to the passenger side door of his car, he looked down at F.
"What happened to your cat?" F's eyes immediately went wide, and he struggled to get out of Chris' hold. His eyes went wide, panicked, exclamations of half formed words fell from F's mouth, he was extremely distressed, and was thrashing wildly, acting like a deranged animal.
"At! At!" F cried, his voice hoarse, and choked on his words, as if his tongue had slid down his throat. He gasped to breathe, his pale face quickly gaining a blueish tint. Chris set
F down quickly, then opened F's mouth to try and see if something was blocking his throat.
There was nothing, not even his tongue was choking him.
Chris glanced at F's throat, there were marks of hands on his throat, as if someone tried to strangle him. "F! You can breath!" Chris yelled, F's gasps slowly stopped, evening out into deep, quiet breaths. His sudden inability to breath faded, along with F's consciousness.
Chris' thoughts spun wildly, F had obviously been abused, and something about the cat, or the absence of the cat, triggered some of his memories, when F had the cat around, it was like F's assurance that he wouldn't be hurt, without the cat, memories resurfaced. Memories of abuse, pain.
Gently, Chris placed F in the back passenger seat of his car, and buckled the slight teen in. Chris then went around the car, and climbed into the driver's seat, and drove the car from the parking lot, to the front of the police station. Chris parked the car, and climbed out, leaving the window partially open, and locking the doors.
Returning inside, he hurried to his office, and saw the cat, sitting quietly, staring up at him. Chris knelt, extending his hand toward the small feline. It didn't even blink, just simply put it's front paws on Chris' hand, then climbing up the rest of the way.
It sat on Chris' shoulder, giving off a rather large amount of heat for a tiny animal. When Chris returned to his car however, F wasn't there. Frantically opening the door, a blood red feather sat innocently on the seat. Folded neatly under it, was F's torn sweatshirt, that Chris had purposely left in his office.
Chris felt his heart skip a beat, where was F? Chris drove an old police cruiser, you couldn't open the doors in the back from the inside, and the doors were locked on the outside. Unless someone opened the door from the outside, picking the lock in the process, there was no way F could have gotten out.
Chris bolted back inside, and quickly went to the security room, there was a camera at every imaginable angle, at least one of them had to have seen what happened to F in the forty eight seconds Chris was gone. Slumping in his chair, a meow caught his attention. Glancing down, he saw the little tabby cat, the red feather carefully gripped in it's mouth.