The Abandoned

Chapter 3

MAX POV (flashback):

The new boy was dragged out to the playground by that horrid lady at the desk. What a witch. He looked lost; he just stood there for a while before he walked over to the sand box. He looked about ten, my age. Iggy was sitting in the sand box too. He moved over to the new kid. They started building stuff together in the sand. It made me sad. Even the new kid could have friends. What about the kid that had been at the orphanage for her entire life? Well, seven years of it anyway. Why couldn't I have friends? Why couldn't Iggy want to build things with me?

I arrived at the orphanage when I was three, going on four. My dad had been a heroin addict and mother died at childbirth. Finally child services came for me after a neighbour had looked into the window of our home, only to see me playing with dirty needles. When the had leasd me away, my dad had put a gun against his head and threatened to kill himself if they took me away. They did. I didn't see him die, but I heard it. The women leading me away picked me up rushed me over to the van that they had arrived in; some other blond kid was in there, too. I soon found out that his name was Iggy. He was a good kid coming from a similar situation.

The orphanage was completely foreign to me. I hadn't been exposed to children yet and found it strange that they wanted to play with me. I ignored them and played by myself. They eventually learned to stop asking to play with me because I always said no. I was my own undoing, really. I had no social interaction as a child, so that set me up for some serious jealousy when I really needed friends. Apart from my social isolation, the going was good. There was food and nice people to take care of me. What more could I have asked for?

Anyways, back to the boy. I watched him grow up. From age ten to fifteen, he went from depressed to happier, but still sad. He was the one I wanted to be friends with. Iggy was always around him, so I could have had two friends. I didn't seize the right opportunity, in my opinion. I picked escape over happiness. I found a grubby old apartment in the city next to ours and I took what I could get. There were some pretty creepy people living around here, but what can you do when you live in a shoe? You could tug on the laces and break the holes or you could be content that you even had a shoe. I took the shoe.

I preferred not to think of the days gone past. What were they going to help me with now? They just made me lonely, knowing that now I didn't even have the comfort of the social workers at the orphanage. No one had wanted to adopt me, and that had also made me sad. Being sad was the opposite of what I wanted: happiness. So I forgot about all of those things and focused on the good. Nick, who apparently preferred to be called Fang, was in my life now, my long lost but never had friend. I found him in a park on the outskirts of town. He was bawling on a swing on the playground. He looked so disheveled that it was hard to watch.

I sat down on the swing next to him. I started to swing in an attempt to get his attention. But he just sat there crying. Grr, this was going to be harder than I thought. I started to say something but stopped. He was still bawling; it just didn't seem right. So I used a different tactic. I got up and stood in front of him. He looked up and stopped crying. He gave me a quick up and down. He got up and walked away. Okay, different tactic. I chased after him and put my hand on his chest to stop him. He looked kind of happy that I had chased after him. I asked him why he was crying and he just paused and said, "Umm… nothing." This was going to be frustrating.

He scooted around my hand, so I chased after him again. This time, I still blocked his path, but he let me walk with him this time. I offered him a drive and he took it. It turns out we were from the same orphanage! No shit, Sherlock!

I took him back to my apartment and attempted bacon. Should have been simple, right? NO. I really needed to get a microwave. This stovetop stuff was far too difficult. I called him over to the table, and he sat down in my chair. No matter.

I handed him a plate of my specialty, crispy stuff, and he ate it politely but his face gave him away. It was contorted trying not to look disgusted. I didn't blame him. I didn't eat any of it. Who would be crazy enough to eat my cooking? Apparently Fang was. No matter. The thought was what counted.

We meandered into the living room/bedroom area when we were finished. I let him sleep in my bed; it had been a rough day. His buddy, Iggy, had died. My could-have-been buddy, sigh. I snuggled up on that horrid carpet and tried to fall asleep, but Fang started to cry a little bit. I shimmied my stuff closer to him, so that I was sleeping on the floor right next to the bed. I reached up and patted his arm awkwardly. I don't do emotions, except for anger and sarcasm. Is sarcasm even an emotion? Because I think it is.

I woke up the next day very stiff. God, that floor was hard. Ouch.

Fang was still asleep, and snoring quite loudly I might add. I didn't attempt food again. I walked quietly to the fire escape and skipped stairs on the way down to the street. I ran to the McDonalds across the way and bought a couple burgers and some French fries for breakfast. The cashier knew me by name. I really had to stop buying McDonalds so often.

When I got back, Fang was awake and hungry. He shut down completely when I tried to start conversation. Fine, be that way, I thought. We ate in silence. In fact, we spent the whole day in silence. I was used to it, and he was messed up, so I didn't bother pushing any unwanted conversation on him. I had nobody to talk to anyways, but now that there was somebody to talk to, it made a world of difference. I don't blame him for not talking to me; his best friend died on his birthday, ya know.

END.

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