I feel I should give a little warning: Levi is an angsty teenager with no friends. There are some suicidal thoughts and some tendancies toward self harm and obsessive behavior and child neglect. If that will make you uncomfortable (like... too uncomfortable to deal with) don't read this, please.

Chapter One: Cold Hands

December 24, 1960

Levi heaved a sigh, watching with dull eyes as the column of steam rose from his mouth and cut through the night air. He felt his earnings from the diner in his pocket, ripe for spending... on groceries. He and his father were out of almost everything and if he didn't go to the store tonight, they'd be eating peanut butter sandwiches. It was dark, and getting late. He knew his father was home now, and probably hungry and more than a little drunk and impatient. He sighed again. He was turning fifteen tomorrow. He wouldn't be getting anything, and he didn't expect it, but he didn't even have a friend to enjoy the day with. He would work at the diner for under the table pay, he would come home to an empty house, and he would be alone. His father never spent his birthday with him. It fell on a Friday this year, so he'd be at the local pub, drinking away his sorrows. The sorrows of losing his wife so that his son could live, of working his hands to the bone in dark mine shafts for pathetic pay, and many other grievances that his father carried. He didn't blame him. He understood that he'd loved his mother greatly, and he took her from him... and because of that, he couldn't love him. He was a burden, a chore, a responsibility, but not one of joy. Levi shivered as a sharp wind cut through his threadbare coat. His father often scoffed when he saw him shudder. 'If you think this is cold, boy; then you are weaker than you look. Poland would have killed you.' He remembered those words well, and knew them to be true.

He was weak. His father never failed to mention it. 'Get out of the way, boy. You can't do anything right,' or 'Did your premature birth stunt more than your physical development?' The insults didn't hurt anymore, thankfully. He didn't cry like a child when his father belittled him, because that was a weakness his father hated above all, and really it was all he deserved. His father was always right, and he knew that. A sudden noise from a nearby alley made him jump, but he'd walked this path everyday for two years, and nothing had ever happened. Aberdeen was a fairly safe town, since no one would dare cause trouble in a company owned city. He didn't move to investigate, but he did pick up the pace a little. As he rounded the next corner, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. There were more than one set, so that meant there were at least two. He dared not turn around, and instead moved quicker, hoping that a car would pass, or maybe the footsteps would fade away. He feared that if he ran, it would simply make the people behind him persue him harder. The footsteps were close now, and he took a deep breath and willed himself to be brave. "Hey there, Sokolof. What's a runt like you doing out by yourself after dark?" The voice was taunting and he'd recognize it anywhere. Thomas Aberdeen tormented him every chance he got. He kept walking, breathing easier now that he could see the company store ahead. "Hey, bitch don't ignore me!" There was a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around. "Going home, princess?" Thomas leered at him, his two friends laughing. "Oh, he looks scared, Tom. Maybe you should be gentle." Thomas laughed.

"Oh yeah. He won't feel a thing." With that, Thomas grabbed him by his coat and slung him roughly into the alley. His back hit the brick wall, and it knocked his breath right out of him. "Okay Sokolof. Turn out your pockets." Levi growled quietly. He stood his ground. Thomas Aberdeen didn't need his money. He never needed to worry about eating. He could have whatever he wanted. His father owned the damn mine, so he had real money, not the worthless company scrip. "C'mon Sokolof. Like you could fight me for it. Just hand it over. You don't want to know what I'll do if you don't." Levi knew that. Of course he did. He would wind up muddy and hurting, and his father would be angry. He'd be livid because Levi had failed again. He'd been too weak again... but at least if he stood his ground, no one could say he didn't try. The first punch landed hard in his stomach, leaving a sick feeling behind. The next blow landed on his ribs. "Hey Tom, he's pretty skinny. I bet you could break his neck if you tried." Thomas laughed and shoved him roughly to the filthy ground. They were kicking him now. It hurt. His slender fingers groped for something that would anchor him, to keep him from melting into the riot of pain that was currently exploding in every nerve. He hardly heard their insults, used to them as he was. There was 'fag,' 'Polack,' 'Jew,' 'Gypsy,' 'Piker,' among others. He was too used to it to care. "Empty out his pockets and let's go." One of his cronies flipped him onto his back, took his scrip, stomped his slim chest once more, and they left him there, laughing and congratulating each other.

Laying there in an empty alley, Levi wondered if there was even a point in going home. His father wouldn't miss him... and he'd just be angry anyway. He sighed and curled in on himself. He was useless. Useless, useless, useless. He'd cry if he thought it mattered enough. His body hurt and he was cold and hungry. His hands were freezing, and he wondered if he were to pull his gloves off, if his fingers would be turning a different color... maybe they were bruised? He forced himself to sit up, his head spinning and his stomach reeling. He trembled, but he wasn't sure if it was from the cold, or the shock of what just happened. He struggled to his feet, his legs shaking violently beneath him. His first few steps towards home were painful, and his vision blurred a little. He wondered vaguely if they broke anything. It hurt to breathe, to walk, to think, and because of that, the walk home was agonizingly slow. He lived on the opposite side of town with the other immigrant families. His house was one of the shabbier ones on their lane, but it was all he knew of home. His lane was occupied almost entirely by Polish families, though a few black families lived nearby, too. He felt worse for them than anyone. Not only were they poor, they were also treated like dirt. He always tried to smile when he saw them. They were uncomfortable at first; but eventually they would return them. It was a quiet kind of protest, but it was all Levi could do for them. He'd been trudging towards his house for about thirty minutes now, and every step was pure agony. He was so cold now that he could hardly feel his fingers and toes. He'd finally reached his street, but his house was all the way at the end. He was a pitiful sight, he was sure. He could feel himself limping and shivering. His father would be disgusted.

He took a steadying breath and hobbled up the road. Lights in the windows looked warm and welcoming, but there were no arms there to hold him. They all had their own problems, and no one wanted him, anyway. He was too small, too weak, too useless. He had nothing to offer anyone in exchange for their love. He stood in front of his house, afraid to enter. He shrugged, knowing it was time to get it over with. He counted the steps that lead him into his home, empty handed. As the door opened, his father emerged from the main room, surprisingly sober. "What the hell happened to you, boy?" Levi looked down, and told his father what had transpired. His father crossed his arms. "So. You came back into this house and didn't even try to come up with a good reason? Stupid brat, get out of my sight." Levi scurried by his father, glad that he never hit him. He wasn't sure if he could withstand another blow. Once inside his room, he succumbed to the pain and exhaustion. He fell onto his bed, the old boxspring groaning in protest to his slight weight. He could shower and brush his teeth when his father fell asleep. It wouldn't be long, since his father was up before sunrise every morning. He managed to kick his shoes off without too much work and crawled under his blankets. He curled in on himself once more, willing himself to ignore the pain in his ribs. He knew there were ugly bruises blooming across his torso, but they'd refrained from hitting his face. They didn't want anyone asking about it. He wiggled out of his coat, pushing the sleeves of his thermal shirt up to his elbows. He looked at the purple marks that ran across his slender wrists.

He remembered the thoughts that put each one there. 'I'm useless,' 'I'm weak,' 'No one will miss me,' 'No one can love me,' and 'This world will be better when I'm gone.' He never cut deep enough to do more than draw blood. Something stopped him from going farther. Some sense of anticipation... like there was something he needed to wait for. So he did. He waited. He bled for relief, to feel something, but he hadn't yet bled to die. He wasn't sure he necessarily wanted to die, but he knew that there was nothing to live for, either. It was a depressing place to be, but he stayed because it was his place. It was all he knew. He froze as he heard his father's footsteps stomping past his room. The door shook violently as he gave it a kick, but he said nothing and soon enough he heard the click of his door shutting. Levi breathed deeply, calming his racing thoughts and thundering pulse. He staggered to his feet and limped to his dresser, pulling out what he'd need for sleep tonight. Upon checking to see that the coast was clear, Levi moved to the bathroom as quietly as he could. It was on the opposite end of the house, away from the bedrooms; so Levi didn't have to really worry about disturbing his father. He closed the door behind him with a faint thud, and for the first time that night, he looked at himself in the foggy, cracked mirror. He looked awful. He was paler than he had been earlier that day, and there was mud smudged on his cheeks.

Levi grimaced as he peeled his shirt off. He took the time to study the bruising. It looked a bit like a Rorsach inkblot. It bloomed from the center of his chest and scrawled across his ribs and up to his prominant collarbone. It could be pretty if it didn't hurt so badly. He found more when he dropped his pants. These were smaller and fainter, and one set was the distinct impression of fingertips in his thigh. He sighed as he let the water run over his hand. It wasn't getting warmer than room temperature, which wasn't unusual. Their hot water heater only worked right half of the time, but such was the lot of the poor residents of Aberdeen. He stepped under the tepid spray and immediately began scrubbing the dirt from his hair. He scrubbed at his scalp until it felt clean enough, then moved methodically downward. His face was next, and he scrubbed at it mercilessly with a soapy rag. By the time he finished, the water was frigid and his skin was raw and painful... but finally clean. He toweled himself dry, sighing in relief. He always felt better after a shower, like removing dirt from himself somehow made him less ugly inside and out. He refrained from looking in the mirror afterwards, knowing what he saw would only make him unhappy. He hated how he looked. He was too small, too thin, his features too sharp, and his complexion was sallow and sickly. No one would ever call him handsome, and he held people at arms length at all times, so no one could ever see him as anything but an awkward, scrawny Polish boy. He winced as he pulled his shirt on, covering his bruises and bony body. He brushed his teeth with the same ferocious methodology, trying to scrub every germ from his teeth. As he snuck back to his room, he replayed the events of the day.

He could only hope that tomorrow would be better. It was his birthday, after all... and Christmas, for those that celebrated it. His father was nothing but disdainful of the holiday. Hanukkah had already come and gone, not that he or his father were particularly devout. His father had tried to Americanize himself as much as possible, and that meant adopting American religion and American opinions. Levi himself was fluent in Polish and English, but he spoke very little Yiddish (mostly just insults), and his mother had passed away before she could pass on any of her people's traditions or knowledge. She'd been a fortune teller named Florica in Warsaw. That was almost all he knew. He'd seen her in photographs, and she was very pretty; almost doll like with her small stature and inky hair. He'd asked his father what color her eyes were; and, because times were easier then, he'd replied: 'The same as yours.' It had been a simple response, no hatred, no bitterness. Just an honest response. He missed those times. He was younger then, maybe five or six. His father was home more, he tried to be a loving father, but as Levi grew, he began to look more and more like her. His father drifted away entirely when he was eight and never really looked at him again. On his eighth birthday, his father had cupped his cheek, and told him he looked like his mother. He told him he was lovely and had kissed his forehead. That was the last time he touched him. After that, his father had nothing but disgust for him. He asked himself what he missed, what he'd done, for he must have done something... but he couldn't think of anything he'd done.

He shut out his light and collapsed onto his bed, curling into a tight ball in an effort to still his shivering. Despite being cold and hungry, he actually felt rather content to just lay there in the dark. He never had been afraid of it like many children were. To him, the darkness was warm and welcome, like a velvet blanket that covered everything that was ugly in the world and made it invisible for the time being. He could close his eyes and imagine smiles and laughter, warmth and soothing words. He smiled softly, his posture relaxing, the pain in his small body ebbing away as the warm tendrils of sleep curled through his limbs. His eyes grew heavy and his breathing became deeper and more even, and the topor claimed him at last. In his sleep, he could feel gentle fingers tracing across his back, up each knot of his spine, across his shoulders and across his neck. The phantom fingers played with the ends of his hair, allowing it to slip like gossamer through them, message his scalp, and trace lines across his cheeks, leaving butterfly kisses on his eyelids before resting on his lips, thoughtful and silent. The touches left warmth and a kind of lightness in his heart. This is what he is waiting for. This touch is what should keep him anchored to the world. The owner of these fingers would love him. He just needs to hold on. It can be easy. Just hold on. Hold on...

Sorry for the delay. I know I took forever to finish this chapter, and all that. I just wasn't happy with the way it was working out. For those of you who are wondering, this work is a slow burn, so please: don't ask me when things will happen. Just let it go. Enjoy the story. If you are wondering, Levi's family came from Warsaw, Poland in 1940, before the Nazis closed the ghetto and trapped thousands of Jewish families there. For more information on it, google the Warsaw Ghetto. He's half Polish and half Romani, for those who are confused by the slurs used earlier. I never liked the idea of him being French, since he looks more Eastern European to me. Just my opinion. Anyhow, please keep an eye out for chapter two, I'll try to get it written by Christmas.