"Green"
Part 1 of 6
by Steave
Green.
This was the color of my mother's eyes. I loved my mother very much, and I always will. She was a very beautiful woman. She had the prettiest green eyes, like little stars gleaming in the night's sky, even through the grime which covered her body day in and day out. I remember her very clearly, as well as the day I was born . . .
I was born on the streets. This is no exaggeration, my mother gave birth to me in the middle of an alley. The alley in itself was nicknamed the "Alley of Life." The alleyway was full of trash beyond no compare. Blood was stained on the concrete from past births in this alley. Those mothers that weren't so fortunate to live through the event, were cast into the river which flowed in Greenland Park, across the street from the alley.
"Push baby, you have to push," my father told my mother. "I won't let you die on me, not now, not ever." My father was good at comforting everyone. I had heard stories that he was a very brave fighter, and that he even took out an entire family of thugs just trying to protect his future wife and family. Oh how things change . . .
My mother started to scream so loudly it echoed off of the walls in the alley and into the night air. After hours of kicking and screaming, she gave birth to me. "What is it Tom, is it a boy or girl?"
"It's a boy. What do you want to name him baby?" My mother looked forward, towards the park. She noticed a beautiful tree there, the leaves on it were a kind of olive green.
"Oliver, his name is Oliver." My father, did nothing but look at her and smile. He held me gently and gingerly. Like I was a precious gem that, if dropped, would shatter on impact.
"Kam, I would never leave our family for anything. Even if it was money to get out of here. I will stay here and endure the long hardships with you as long as there is a breath still in my body." My mother kissed my father on his lips. Not a deep, passionate kiss, but a small gentle peck. This was the beginning of my life, and I'm going to tell you, it wasn't easy.
My mother, was a very beautiful woman. I know, it is hard to imagine a beautiful looking homeless person, but this is the truth. She had long, flowing, almost endless blonde hair. This would explain the reason for my blonde hair. She had the most precious green eyes you've ever seen, as I have mentioned before. It was almost as if you could drown in the beauty of her eyes. My mother had a very loving smile as well. Her teeth looked like pearls, well, thanks to the help of a toothbrush and some paste we were able to steal quite often.
My father, was very gentle. He wasn't very built, nor an overly strong man. He was strong enough to survive in the harsh environment that we had been cast into, but that was it. My father always held me with extreme care, like he was going to lose me whenever I was put into his arms. He had very loving blue eyes. Which, I am grateful for having as a trait of mine as well. He stayed clean shaven, thanks to a stolen shaver. Do you see a pattern yet?
They raised me on the streets of Star City. Green, was the color of this city. Money ruled over anything else. If you had money, you lived on the East side of Star. However, like my family, if you had no money to even speak of, you were on the West side of Star.
As I was being raised, I learned one thing . . . you fight, or you die. You fought for your survival every day of the week. If you didn't fight, you would die. If you died, well, the homeless would reap the rewards from your corpse.
There was one day where my family were eating a rather scrumptious rat sandwich, the rat which my father killed with knife and the pieces of bread which we stole from someone's dumpster. Rotten as the bread was, however, it still tasted quite delicious. I was seven at the time, my mother and father in their thirties.
At this stage in my life, my hair had grown down to my shoulders. I was rather big for my size, my muscles had developed well, due to some labor as a child. Even at the age of 7, I was bigger than most kids I saw, including the ones that were older than me. My father said that I had a "chiseled" body. At the time, I didn't know what that meant, now, I know very well.
It was a beautiful night. I could only imagine what it was like on the other side of Star. I always dreamed of it being like an enchanted land you only heard about in fairy tales. My father had mentioned something about a "school." This facility was used to teach kids how to read and write and do other things. In West Star, you taught yourself everything you knew, or were taught by your kinsmen. I wished I could be in East Star. But, at the moment, I had to settle with my trashy hell.
This section of West, was just like the rest, riddled with corpses of those who didn't fight, or died trying. Also littered with trash every half a block. This was not the ideal place for a vacation. I mean I had seen most of West and it was just about as horrible as it could come, but this section almost seemed worse. The lights had been broken by rocks, it seemed like an infinite, impenetrable darkness. Trash fires were what lit up this section of West. All showing the homeless which crowded around them, some pushing and shoving for the warmth, others . . . killing for it.
A man, no older than my father at the time, who had the regular looks of a homeless bastard like the rest of us came into the light. His grey shirt torn, you could see the scars which cut through his shirt and into his body. The scars were of various lengths and sizes, all of which I'm sure brought about a different memory. He had steel blue eyes and his hair seemed to have thinned out a little bit, if not pulled out. He had a very grave and gruff face, his beard came down to the middle of his neck.
His voice sounded like glass breaking, "What were ya doin' eatin' outta my dumpster," the cold and grave man asked. "Some of my boys been tellin' me that you and yer family been lootin' it."
My father, being the calm and gentle fellow that we all knew he was, looked straight into the man's eyes. He switched his glance, briefly, to look at me. An all too familiar sign my father and I had developed together. As he slowly started to get up, I slowly and gently pulled his knife out of his boot. I was even surprised with how fast and yet stealthily I was able to pull it out.
"Yes that is right," my father said with absolute gentleness and kindness. That is the one thing that amazes me, even to this day, his ability to remain calm and gentle, no matter how bad the situation was.
"Well, mister goody goody, how 'bout ya give those delicious lookin' buns over to me." I found this next sentence rather odd, as I noticed that he wasn't looking at any of our sandwiches when he said this. "I say it's a fair trade for stealin' outta my dumpster, wouldn't ya say?"
I looked up at my father, and what happened next, will surprise me until the end of my days. My father walked up to the ruffed up man, got within an inch of his face, and looked him straight in his eyes. "If you ever, threaten to take any of my family away from me again, you're going to have more than a scar to add to your collection."
With this my father turned his back on the poor bastard. The man eyed him carefully as he walked over to us, and my father looked at me, smiled, and gave a nod. With that gesture, I already knew what was coming next.
"You rotten little punk. No one talks to Scar McGraw like that. Ever! You hear me boy!" He started to hurry to my father, flipping out a switchblade as he drew nearer to us. He lunged forward at my father . . . he was one second too late.
My father and I know how to fight, it's not like we never had before. I knew the basis of the plan before he even came at my father. My father fell down right before McGraw could gut him with the switchblade. He took out a patch of father's hair, but that was the last thing that he would ever take out again. I threw my father's knife right at my father's head, well, where it was positioned, knowing that another, more ungentle face would be there. The blade spun and caught McGraw in his right temple.
The blood squirted out of his temple upon impact, spraying my father and I with it. McGraw fell down onto his left side, right next to my mother's lap. His blood already staining the concrete which my family sat on.
My father looked around and saw a homeless congregation heading our way, all with the same crazed look in their eyes for some meat. "Let's go, we don't need to see this," my father said to me and my mother. We followed him without question, however, as my father picked me up, I could see the men and women going to work on McGraw. I don't have the heart to tell you what I saw that day, nor the willingness.
All I could think about for the next eight years was that last image that was now engraved into my brain. The homeless, that had suddenly turned into animals, wanting the flesh and insides of that man still haunts me. I would not wish that sight on anyone else.
My father and mother continued to age. My mother, aged quite beautifully and was ever as beautiful as the day I was born. Something had changed about her, and I wasn't quite sure what it was yet. I had also noticed that we were getting more and more things, how we did, I wasn't quite sure. However, I was thankful for anything and everything that I had received.
In these eight years, I continued to get stronger, my muscles continued to grow and develop. My blonde hair, now a little in check due to the help of some scissors, was still shoulder length. I didn't have any facial hair to speak of, I stayed clean shaven, you can guess how we were able to manage that.
I continued to practice with throwing knives. I set up a practice area in a place we designated as our "home," which consisted of an alleyway, and a trash bin for the fire. I had found a few brown paper bags and filled them up with various rocks and other miscellaneous things that I could find. I set them atop box crates I had found lying around and stood at various lengths and angles perfecting my aim. I had eventually come quite accustom to it and wanted to try something else that would push my aiming skills even further.
Recently, my mother had grown somewhat ill. Father took care of her all the time and was always wondering if there was anything he could do to help. I too, wondered and asked if I could do anything. But my mother just shook her head and said, "The fact that both of you are here for me is good enough."
We were sitting around the trash fire on the territory of our "home" one night, and I looked on the side of a building next to our territory and there I saw a poster from long ago, before Star City was split into two. It read, "MARK'S BOWS! THE MOST EXPERTLY MADE IN ALL OF STAR CITY! GOT GOOD AIM? THEN MARK'S IS THE PLACE!" The sign said this in big bulging red letters that looked like they were going to come alive and jump out of the piece of paper which contained them. I didn't quite understand what the second word on the poster meant, but at the time, I didn't really care.
I went up to the poster and stared at what I saw underneath the bulging red letters. It was a picture of a piece of wood, however, it wasn't an ordinary piece of wood. It was bent into an arch and looked incredibly smooth. The two ends of the wood were tied together by a piece of string.
The piece of wood in itself was amazingly gorgeous. There were different carvings and engravings in the wood that made it look like something you could only dream of. One of the things that attracted me to it so dearly was the shade of green that reminded me of the beauty of my mother's eyes.
I tore the poser off of the wall which it was attached to and stared deeply into the greatness of the piece of wood which I found myself so fascinated with.
"What do you have there?" It was my father, he said as he approached me with a hint of curiosity in his voice.
"It's the one of the most beautiful things that I've ever seen dad. The carvings that were put into this are just fascinating." I sounded as if I was obsessed with this piece of wood. I felt that I should just be able to rip the wood out of the picture and have it right there in my hands.
"That is called a bow Ollie, it is a weapon, but can also be used to hunt for food. If we could find one, I would be more than happy to give it to you son," my father said with deep sincerity. My father looked at me and gave me a very loving look. I knew that my father loved me, and that he always would. He gave the poster another glance and looked back at me, "I think I know the thing for you, I saw it once, and passed it by, but we'll see if it's still there. C'mon son, lets go hunting."
My father had now piqued my curiosity. He lead me and my mother through some alleyways and side streets which eventually lead into a park. Greenland Park, the place where I was born. Father lead me through the park, past the homeless, which all gave us a nervous glance. There wasn't much love in this place, nor in any place in West Star. Once we got out of the park, he lead me to a building, the sign posted above the building read, in big bulging red letters, "MARK'S BOWS!"
I ran into the store without hesitation, like a child seeing the presents under the tree on Christmas morning and can't wait for his parents to wake up to open them. I wish that I could describe to you in words of the joy and excitement coursing through my very being, but, if I did, it would take hours. And unfortunately, I don't have hours.
The inside of this building, though it was dusty with a little bit of grime, was like a museum. All of these different beautiful bows that were in one of two places, strewn about on the floor, or placed on racks and mantles for display on the walls. None of these, however, were the bow I was seeking, nor were they near as beautiful.
My father and I searched for what seemed like hours through the endless supply of bows, and what my father had called arrows. "I'm not quite sure that it's here anymore Ollie. I'm sorry son." My father came to me and put his soft hand on my naked shoulder. His hands were still warm, they reminded me of the trash fires that warmed me when I was little, and had still warmed until that day. "Maybe we will find it, or another one like it someday."
"One second dad, I thought I saw some clothes in here, I'm going to go check it out."
"Alright Ollie."
I went to the back of the store where I saw the clothes, I thought that I would get some for my mother. Her with her sickness, which only seems to be getting worse, she needs clothes more than anyone else. On a clothes rack in the back, hung a black leather trench coat. It looked rather comfortable and warm, something that my mother would really like.
I placed my hand on the right shoulder of the coat and took it off of the rack. I wrapped my hand around the other shoulder and removed it from the rack, taking my hand off of the right shoulder. I noticed my handprint on the right shoulder of the coat, the coat was completely covered in dust. The leather smell that I imagined it once had was long gone by now. It had been replaced by the same musty smell that enveloped the entire store.
I took it off of the coat hanger, which it had been sitting on for a very long time, sorry to state the obvious. I started to fling the coat around like a madman, trying to get the dust off of the coat. It worked, which I am glad to say, however, you would've thought that I had just gotten into a fight with the dust under a bed, and I lost.
"Ollie! We need some help!" The voice belonged to my father, however, it was a shrill cry out for help instead of his normal gentle and calm voice. I ran outside with the trench coat in hand. What I saw there, horrified me, which wasn't very easy to do. This is the moment, where my life, and everything I ever knew about it, would change, forever.
My mother was standing on her own two feet for the first time in a month, but it wasn't of her own will. I could see a man holding her by her hair, her feet slightly dragging on the pavement. I looked closer and noticed something sharp pointed at her throat. A trickle of blood was streaming down her neck and down her tattered shirt. The deathly pale color of her face remained, and all I felt was anger and hatred.
The man holding her close to his own body was a big, broad shouldered man. He had long, dirty brown hair which came to his shoulders. He had a very animalistic and scary look in his eye. I say eye for he had a scar down his left one. All there was in that eye was white and grey. It sadly reminded me of death. This was like looking death in the face, and for once in my life, I was scared. As for the rest of his face, he was clean shaven, but that still didn't help with the cold unpleasantness of his face.
The men and women which were behind him, all were various shapes and sizes, like the knives that I had used in my life. All of them with blank stares on their faces, the moment almost seemed surreal. Like a bad nightmare that you wanted to wake up from, but then you realized, you wouldn't until the story was over. Unfortunately, the look that was in their eyes caused the one memory that I had pushed into the back of my head to surface again.
The man with the scar over his eye spoke, his voice was so low that it was almost a growl, this really was like talking with death. "What are you doin' on my property Queens? That is your name, isn't it?" The scared look in my mom's face I will never forget. The tears started to stream down her face. A clear liquid, until it got down to her throat and slid down. Then, her tears turned into blood.
"I said what are you doing here Queens? Answer me!" The man was demanding attention. I looked over at my father who was standing next to me, the terrified look in his eyes were every bit as unforgettable as the look in my mother's. I'm never going to forget this moment, was all I could think . . . and I never did.
"Just calm down Jack, and give me my wife. Please, I'm begging you, this is my family, don't do this." My father was pleading for this not to happen. I could feel the tears coming out of my eyes, and I didn't really realize it, for crying was the least important thing to me at the time.
"You know Tommy boy, I had a family once. And do you know what happened to them?" The man pressed his knife into mom's throat even further. The blood really started to flow. My mother was crying so hard that, if she wanted to, she could make a river right here in the middle of the street. "They were killed, right here, in this very spot. Do you want to know who killed them Tommy boy? It was your family Tom. Your friggin' family!" He continued to push the blade further into my mother's throat, I thought by the look in her eyes, she was going to faint.
"Jack, please, this is my wife."
"They were my parents Tom! They were my parents! You killed them, your parents were there but you did it. It was your blade slicing through them. It was your blade that scarred me, you took my family, you took my sight, you took my life. Well, now it's payback time you little bitch!"
My father charged at them with such speed it was scary. As he was running towards Jack, he took his knife out of his boot and threw it. It spun for what seemed forever, an infinite moment, one that shouldn't have ever been. Jack, being the man he was, threw my mother to the ground, her face connecting with the pavement. The impact of the side of her face was deafening to my ears.
I turned back and ran into what was left of the store. I was not turning tail and running, I was looking for a weapon to fight the mob with. I ran back to the back where I found the trench coat, which I was still holding on to. What I saw there was the biggest chance of hope that I had ever seen. The bow, the one in the poster, was laying there, propped up against the wall which the trench coat was in front of.
Without a second thought I picked it up, the grooves of the carvings already feeling welcome in my waiting hands. I ran with it and picked up as many arrows I could find. I could hear the shouts of the gang, rooting for Jack. The grunts, the sliding of their feet on the concrete, the fight was sure to be talked about in West Star for years to come.
I ran out the door and saw my mother, having not moved from her position on the ground. I wasn't paying much attention to the fight between my father and Jack, but I was pretty sure that my dad had things under control. I saw grubby hands getting ready to touch my mother. The flash of McGraw ran through my head, the disturbing sight of him was enough to tell me what to do.
I dropped the trench coat and all of the arrows, save one. I fitted it against the bowstring as expertly as I could, having not shot a bow before. I raised my bow and stared straight down the shaft of the arrow, until the closest homeless' head was straight in line with the arrowhead. My mother looked at me, and smiled, for the first time in a month. I could see the pearls that were her teeth, and I cried.
"Bang."
I released the arrow. It went as straight as straight can be, fitting perfectly into my opponent's head. He fell after letting out his final breath, which came out as a shrill scream and grunt. His body smacked against the pavement next to my mom. Mom made a small scream after looking into the now dead eyes of my fallen adversary.
I quickly grabbed my arrows and stuffed them into my jean pockets, the two at my hips and the two on the back. I was running towards my mom, continually releasing arrows. The arrows ripping through the homeless like my knives would sometimes rip through the paper sacks back home. Homeless after homeless fell from my onslaught of arrows. Once I reached my mother, and thirteen I had counted were dead, I hoisted my mother onto my right shoulder and hurried her to the store as fast as I could. That was my intent, but that's not what happened.
"Where do you think you're going boy?" I already recognized the voice, but all I could do was freeze with terror. I felt a sharp pain in my gut, not from a knife, but what felt like a fist the size of my head. I flew backwards a good 5 feet, with my mother landing on top of me.
I felt and tasted something that wasn't spit. Without warning, it came out of my mouth. I looked and saw what was a small pool of my own blood. As I was looking down, I saw a boot come and remain in front of my face. I didn't have to look up at who the boot belonged to, for I already knew that it was Jack.
"How does it taste son? Want some more?" I quickly glanced past his foot and saw my father on the cement. He looked, well, let's just say that he's looked better. He gave me a blank stare, and for a moment, I wondered if he was even alive.
The next thing I felt was the sole of his boot, meeting the side of my nose. I immediately went to the ground and lied there. Blood was flowing from my mouth, but now, it was not from internal injuries. It was from a severely busted lip. I spit to get some of the taste out of my mouth.
I could hear some scrambling around, I knew it was my father. I looked up to see what he was doing. He went to the front of the store and picked up the black leather trench coat which I had left. What he did next, was something all to familiar. He looked at me, and smiled.
"What are you smiling about Tommy boy," Jack said, turning to look at my father. There was a long pause, and a long stare between the two. During this time, I gathered my senses and fit an arrow into my bow. I had to pull this off perfectly, or my family would be alive no more.
"I'm giving you one chance Jack, give up."
"Why should I give up Tommy? Giving up is weakness, and I am by no means like your family."
"Have it your way Jack. Your about to lose more than just your eye." With that last sentence my father threw the trench coat just over Jack's head. The wind filled the jacket and it seemed as if an invisible man was wearing it.
Many things happened in this moment. Jack caught on pretty quick as to what was about to happen, and if he didn't act fast, his life was over. He spun on his heels and started to fall on his side. In this same instant he threw his bloody knife and it tore through the trench coat. The knife, clearly aimed at me, was coming straight for my face. I had just enough strength to turn onto my side, dodging the knife, it did however slice my stomach slightly. I saw his face through the hole for not even a second. This was it. I had just enough time, this might work. No, it has to work. In this infinite moment I had enough time to say one thing.
"Bang."
