Being on the streets at sixteen was terrifying, being in a different country, and barely having a grasp on the native language was twice as terrifying. Toki had managed to pick up some English from people who passed him by, there were times he would run into other homeless teenagers who would help him learn more English than he had learned back in Norway. He remembered his parents being against the English language; Hell they hadn't spoken much at all. They mostly spoke to yell bible verses or to tell him his place wasn't among other people, he had been scared to speak around his parents. He would; he'd cry out in pain or try to plead forgiveness, but for the most part he had seemed mute as a boy. Too scared to talk and no real reason to until he had started sneaking out and going into town knowing quite well that his parents would know and would be outside waiting for him when he'd get back.

They weren't here though, they were far away from here, and there was a fraction of safety in that. There was safety in knowing they didn't know where he was or he hoped that they didn't know...

Toki didn't get a whole lot of sleep; it was hard to. His first night in the states he had realized too late that he didn't know where to sleep. Not like he'd had much back home; some nights he'd be privileged enough for a bed no matter how hard or bumpy it was, most times he'd sleep out in the snow or down in the punishment hole. Here the weather changed constantly, a lot of the time it rained. He found it was scarier at night, loud noises, gun shots, and people yelling. He spent his first night inside of an emptied out dumpster doing his best to ignore the rotted smell of garbage. He would change from place to place, mostly he stayed in the same city. He would sleep on a pile of bags or boxes, in emptied and decaying buildings forgotten by time, or in the dumpsters. The only thing he really managed to keep with him was his guitar even though the thing was beaten up to hell and back from being dragged around through the constantly changing weathers, the other thing he kept was the clown doll he'd had since he was little. He knew enough to know he should feel dumb for keeping a doll, but it was his friend. He didn't have many people to talk to, just other passing kids who had no place to live. They had all been kicked out or run away like him, but they were born in America; they knew where they were and where they were going to go. Toki wasn't like them, some people treated him badly. Some would kick him, tease him, and search him for money only to find he was more broke than they were.

He would spend as much time as he could playing guitar, even if it made his fingers ache and bleed. He never wanted to forget how to play, it gave him a feeling of comfort like he couldn't be hurt. It made him feel special, less like the pathetic kid on the streets that would probably die there one of these days. He tried to think how long he had been here, close to a year he was pretty sure. He tried to remember the last time he had eaten, but he drew a blank on that as well. The last time he had slept was five days ago, he'd awoken from nightmares; those happened a bit. He'd dream of being home, that rope collar tied tightly around his throat like a noose promising to kill him if he struggled too badly while his father attacked him with the whip. He'd wake up feeling paranoid, paranoid that his parents knew where he was. They told him often that they could find him no matter where it was that he went, they would find him, and kill him. It scared him how badly they wanted him dead, but he couldn't really blame them for that. They hadn't planned on him being born, they had kept him out in the cold nearly naked just praying to the Gods that he would die of pneumonia. He was Death, he still couldn't wrap his mind around that.

Toki scolded himself for thinking about that; that was back then and this was now. This wasn't all that great; he was cold as hell, he was lonely, and still starving. The biggest point was being far away from his mother and father knowing or at least making himself believe that they couldn't get him again.

One day while he sat in the alleyway strumming guitar to distract himself from the distant sound of gun shots somebody approached him. His body tensed in automatic response to another person being so close, especially when they stopped and stood next to him. He could feel eyes on him, he only dared a small glance in the stranger's direction enough to notice white shoes and white pants. The person knelt down in hopes of getting the homeless teen to meet their eyes.

"You play pretty well"

The stranger, a man had a deep voice; he had an accent...It sounded familiar, Swedish?

Out of curiosity Toki turned to look in the man's direction, his playing went from decent to bad when he met the older man's bright blue eyes. The strange man was attractive, feminine actually; he had long wavy golden blond hair going down to the middle of his back, high cheekbones, and full lips. His outfit consisted of nothing but white, Toki would have thought it looked stupid on anybody other than this man. He tried to guess his age and figured he had to be in his early twenties.

"Thank you" The teen whispered feeling nervous all over again.

He didn't think the other man was dangerous, he didn't seem dangerous or cruel. He seemed nice if anything.

"I'm Skwisgaar, you have a name?"

He nodded slowly, "Toki" He replied making himself look at the older man again.

"Where did you come from?"

"Norway"

Skwisgaar glanced back behind him like he was looking for somebody, he shrugged then looked back at Toki.

"Long way from here isn't it, how did you get here?"

"By plane, a friend gave me the money."

"How old are you?"

"I'm sixteen"

He still couldn't figure out why this man was talking to him. He looked clean, like he had a place of his own to live, probably a girlfriend, and friends. Toki hadn't been lucky enough to see a mirror in a week or two, but he knew he looked terrible. He couldn't imagine somebody like Skwisgaar wasting his time on him like this.

"Shit and you...You live on the streets?"

"Yeah for about a year now, I think...I lost track of time." he answered stumbling through his English.

The older man winced at his reply, he looked sad; Toki couldn't exactly figure out why he would be sad.

"Hey Skwisgaar get your ass over here!" A deep voice called from somewhere back out of the alley.

Skwisgaar sighed, he stood brushing off his white jeans.

"Are you always here?"

"Yeah"

"I'll come and try to talk to you again sometime, that okay?" He asked shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He stood there awkwardly, again the deep voice yelled for him again.

"Skwisgaar you fucking douche get your ass over here, Murderface is getting his ass kicked again!"

"Alright!" He yelled back over his shoulder.

He turned his attention back to Toki, he shrugged apologetically.

"So can we talk again?"

"Yeah sure, I'd like that"

"Good, I'll see you later Toki" He said smiling kindly at the teen before turning and leaving.

Toki held his guitar close to his body, he could just faintly hear Skwisgaar and his friends talking or more so yelling at one another. He wondered what they looked like, what they were like. He still couldn't figure out why Skwisgaar had spoken to him in the first place or why he said he'd see him again, but he doubted that. He'd met people on and off who promised to come talk to him or to meet up with him again. They never did though; they all moved to different cities, states, died, or got arrested. Nobody ever came back or remembered him, he found he was apparently very easy to forget about. He began playing again to try and forget that, he told himself that maybe the blond haired man dressed all in white would come talk to him again. Maybe he could make a friend, a real one not made of straw.