Hello all! Thank you SO MUCH for your interest in my new story! The idea for this came to light very recently, as I was working on my other fic, actually. It stuck with me so much, and I was left with no choice but to go ahead and write it, because it just would not leave my mind. Anyhow, enough of my rambling, I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harvest Moon. Or the picture.
The twenty-third day of spring has never been a happy day for me. Never. Not when I turned five, not when I turned ten, and not when I turned fifteen. But this year might be different than the rest. I've spent practically my entire life in this poor excuse of a children's home, and today, this very day, I'm leaving. I'm finally free.
My parents are dead. A car accident killed them, to be specific. It happened when I was a baby, hardly the age of one. The only relatives I had were either dead or distant, unwilling to adopt me. So, to make it easy for everyone else, I was put here. I have no memory of my parents, only their pictures in a silver locket that I keep around my neck, tucked underneath my shirt. It's the only item I own to remember them by and the sole reason I know what they look like.
As much as I hate crummy Hawthorne Orphanage, though, I really shouldn't complain. They've clothed me, educated me, gave me a place to sleep at night, and, if slimy soups and stale bread are considered food, they've fed me. For seventeen years. Rules and regulations state that once a child reaches seventeen, they are to leave. Most see it as a death sentence; the idea of being set free into the real world without the protective walls of the orphanage can be a scary thing. Basic survival skills are necessary in order to stay alive. So I don't know why I'm giddy about leaving. All that awaits me outside these walls is a bleak future.
The reason I say this is because most of us that are released from here can't do anything for ourselves. We are taught to obey, not to lead. We lack the skills necessary for subsistence. In fact, more than half of the orphans end up as drug dealers or prostitutes just to have a place to rest their heads at night. Or at least that's what I've heard. Luckily for me, I don't plan on becoming either of those, but still. That leaves me with the burning question of what I'm actually going to do once I get out of this hellhole.
I don't have the time to think about it, because someone's at the door now and they're telling me it's time to go. I've already changed into something more casual than the typical white dress shirt, red tie and gray sweater vest they have us boys and girls wear every day. Disgusting. I'm much more comfortable in khakis, sandals, and a plain t-shirt. I rise from my bed and meet my escort at the door.
A part of me is a bit sad to go, I'll admit it. As we walk past the classrooms in the lower wing of the building I peer inside them, catching my last glimpses of the younger faces inside. I wonder how they'll feel when they reach their graduation day. Dread? Optimism? It's bittersweet for me. I know that uncertainty is what lies ahead, but what's out there has to be better than what's in here. As I study their little faces, I try to take pictures in my mind, because I know it's the last time I'll ever see them.
Before I know it, I'm outside at the front gate. It mechanically opens for me and I'm standing before the open world. The city. I take one last glance back to the place that I've called home my entire life. A prison. That's what it looks like to me as I stand at the crossroads of independence and captivity. The crunching of gravel beneath my feet silences as I take my first steps onto the smooth sidewalk.
The rattling of the gate behind me tells me that I'm truly all alone now. And the first thing I want to do is get as far away as I possibly can. So I walk. I shove my hands in my pockets and begin to take brisk steps in the opposite direction. The air reeks of pollution, but it's also sweet. It's the aroma that follows after a heavy rain. I like it.
I'm in the Slum. That's what they call it. It's the part of the city where the poorest of the poor live, hence the name. Hawthorne just so happens to sit in the middle of it. It makes sense when I think about it; every year they dump hundreds of homeless, jobless urchins like myself onto the streets and expect us to know a thing or two about getting work and a place to live and this and that. So why not start here? I laugh openly, earning myself a few hard stares. I'd be lucky to get a place here. Did I mention it's the part of the city with the highest crime rate? I wonder why.
I keep walking until I'm sure that Hawthorne is completely out of my view. Pausing for a moment, I try to see where I'm at. Sketchy, run-down apartments line the sidewalks. An intersection is clear in my sight a few yards ahead. A couple of young boys, brothers I assume, are playing barefoot in the middle of the street. Where are their parents? I resist the urge to bang on the door of the apartment they live in to get them. Who lets their children play in the streets like that? With the occasional car zooming by, it's an accident waiting to happen. I don't know why, but for some reason anger swells in my chest.
A jagged yelp cracks through the air, and for a moment, I think it belongs to one of the boys. But it doesn't. Too feminine. I tear my eyes away from the children and look ahead. The cry belongs to a young woman, who appears to be fighting with a man over a brown paper bag. She stands her ground and holds a death grip on it, while the man, who is much bigger than her might I add, tugs hard. Then the unthinkable happens.
He rips his arms away from the bag and in a quick yet brute movement, uses his size to his advantage and shoves the woman to the ground. Fueled by my rage triggered from the event with the boys, I charge ahead with my fists tightly balled at my sides. My eyes are locked onto him as he picks up the brown paper bag, and he doesn't see me until I'm right at him. I raise my right fist and put all of my power and momentum right into his left cheek; just inches shy from the nose.
He tumbles hard onto the pavement, the bag falling from his hands. As he stumbles up, he looks me dead in the eye. I see a hint of something familiar in his rusty brown eyes before he dashes off like a scared puppy. The contents of the bag on the ground are splayed all over the street, and it is then that I realize why I experienced the strange feeling of déjà vu. He was robbing her for food. Not money, just food. He was so hungry that he had to steal food from someone. Most likely someone from Hawthorne. Someone I know I've seen before.
After I make sure the scumbag is good as gone, I turn my attention back to the woman behind me. She's on her knees now, having recovered from the fall and now frantically scrambling to get her groceries back into the bag.
"Let me help you," I offer as I squat down.
Her hand shoots up, palm facing me. "No!" she shrieks in a jolted voice. "I got it!"
To show me she's capable, she picks up the food even quicker than she was before. She must think I'm like the guy who did this to her. I don't really blame her. She stands up on shaky legs and begins to scurry away when I spot an orange on the ground that she must have missed.
"You forgot an orange!" I call after her.
She doesn't even look back. "Keep it!"
I sigh, and reluctantly shove the orange in my pocket. That's something I never want to see again. Sickened, I keep walking.
My leisurely stroll ends when I notice it's getting dark. These streets are even more dangerous at night. I have no money, only the clothes on my back. So I figure that maybe it's time to rest for the evening. But where? In my tired and hungry state, I'm in no condition to search for a place to rest or get my face beaten in by some punk, so I slip into the closest ally and settle into a tight nook, where I'm hopefully hidden in the shadows. When my stomach rumbles noisily, I remember the orange in my pocket. I eat it, and while it doesn't fill me, it's better than nothing.
As if my situation couldn't get any worse, I feel a small, prickling sensation on my arm. Followed by another. And another. These sensations continue all over and into the lighted area in the ally beside me as small black dots that seem to appear from nowhere and darken the pavement. It's raining. I look up. Much to my dismay, there's no form of cover anywhere. The small pitter-patters eventually turn into a heavy downpour.
My name is William Parton, and today I am seventeen years old. Happy freaking birthday to me.
Now, I know his name is Chase. But he doesn't. Muahahah.
I hope you liked it. I know this was a bit short, and I hope none of it feels rushed, and I usually like to make chapters a bit longer, but this is more of an introduction to things. And also, not a lot of dialogue, but I promise there'll be more. C:
I really shouldn't have published this, because I'm still working on my other fic, All About Us. And the idea of working on two stories at the same time seems exhausting, hahaha. XD So I'll probably switch back and forth. By the way, if you're a Gill fan, check it out!
Please leave a review! I love constructive criticism! If you're reading this, I love you! If you leave a review, I'll love you even more! :D
I'm super excited for this fic. Until next time!
P.S: I may change my title and/or genres later on.