Young Writers Society

Spoiler! :

This is my FINISHED version of the story I posted a while ago. I am so glad to be finished with the draft Suggestions would be great! EDIT: I fixed the title! Yay!

A young boy of around the age of ten was huddled against the cold that was inescapable in the chilling night. His feet were bare, his clothes torn. His face was stained with a sort of filth that was deeper than just the surface of his skin. He stared unblinking with his wide, glassy eyes at a photograph the size of a playing card in his clenched fist, apparently indifferent to the dropping temperature. His hair was as dark as the sky overhead; not a trace of light escaped—the shining glow of the single streetlight didn’t quite reach the place where he was resting. The shadow concealed him.

Maybe, if someone walking by looked close enough, they would think to ask why he wasn’t at home in a bed with blankets and a pillow and a mother to kiss him good night. Maybe they would see that those wild eyes have locked away waterfalls and oceans of tears that have refused to fall. Maybe they would notice the darkness that cast shadows over his young heart—or that there might not have been any light there to begin with.

“I won't ever leave you, I promise.”

Keane raised his head. He sat with his back pressed up against a graffiti-covered brick wall that rose up to join the blackness of the sky above him. Clouds were sweeping in from the north, sheltering the world from the vast expanse of stars that threatened to swallow Keane up as he stared at it. His legs were folded in front of his chest, his pale hands clasped around his knees. Discolored, shriveled leaves skittered down the sidewalks, carried briskly by an occasional gust.

Keane leaned his head back onto the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. He could almost feel that warm hand reaching forward to banish the tears that had trailed down his cheek that night, so long ago. It had been about the same temperature outside then—not quite winter, but the air had a bite to it when the wind kicked up.

“Keane, we will be fine. You just need to trust me.” The hand left his face, instead reaching down and grasping his trembling fingers. They appeared lifeless in the dim moonlight.

A harsh wind struck just then, whipping his hair out of his face. Keane opened his eyes to a sudden clarity of his surroundings that had previously been obstructed, but this quickly vanished as the breeze died. A cold chill followed directly after; Keane pretended not to notice himself shivering.

In his hand Keane held his photograph. In it, Alena was standing beside him, an arm around his shoulder, tethering them together. She was just a few inches taller than he, and her warm, trustworthy eyes were fixed on Keane’s face instead of the camera. Keane bore an expression of happiness that was forced on his mouth and absent in his eyes. Standing behind both of them, her chin turned upwards and her cold eyes and plastic smile trained on the camera, was her.

Why had this photograph been taken in the first place? Keane imagined that she thought they needed to look like a real family, and taking a picture together would prove that they were happy.

They say that a camera can capture everything happening in a picture, down to every strand of hair, every eyelash, every speck of dust—nothing was missed through its lens. Each one of them, the two of them in the front, and the woman towering over them in the back, was clear in the picture. However, it did miss one thing—despite the smiling faces, he distinctly remembered the constant fear and anger that boiled up inside him whenever he was too close to her, who was an unpredictable, impulsive creature, despite her physical maturity.

She was like a wild animal that hides from prying eyes as it licks its wounds. There is an equal chance of it tolerating one's presence as there is of it lashing out at the intrusion, fangs bared, eyes narrowed. He had learned that the former was something to be grateful for, that the latter was inevitable at times, and that hoping for better was useless.

Keane couldn't stand to look at her cold, menacing stare, so he kept his eyes focused on the comforting arm grasping his shoulder.

“But how can you be sure, Alena? What if she finds us?”

“We'll be all right. Just as long as we're together. She can't hurt us anymore.” She looked into Keane's eyes with a determination that was so unfamiliar to him that he couldn't look away. Her hair shimmered in the light of the moon overhead in a way that made her seem strange, wild.

Keane looked up, searching the darkness above him and finding the luminous, silver crescent, which was soon covered by the advancing clouds.

“Keane, can you help me sit down? I just can't seem to—” a resounding cough escaped Alena's mouth, low and course-sounding. Her voice was coming in rasps, like it had been since the previous day. The rain pounded overhead, colliding with the roof of the small bus shelter they were standing in. Very little light penetrated the shelter; the darkness was heavy in the air.

Keane took her hand and supported her as she lowered herself onto the bench. Keane could hardly stand the look of her—her eyes were glazed over and sunken in, as if she had aged decades in a matter of days. They didn't seem to focus, either; they just stared off into the distance. Keane imagined that she was remembering when they first escaped—it had been equally thrilling and terrifying. How long ago had that been? Weeks? Months? It didn't really matter anyhow.

A chilling gust ripped through the street in front of them, but they were protected for the most part by the walls surrounding them. They couldn't stay long, since the first morning route would begin in a few hours, but it did provide a temporary sanctuary.

“Oh, I forgot, Keane, it's your birthday today, isn't it?” Alena reached forward and ruffled his hair, which appeared to take much more effort than it should have. Keane's eyebrows raised, his eyes widened. Was it really December already? There had only been one minor snowfall so far, and the cold didn't seem to penetrate them quite as much as it used to. He supposed that they had become accustomed to the constant chill in the air.

“That's a big number, nine.” Alena leaned her head back against the bench, closing her eyes; Keane had to lean forward to hear the end of the sentence. She suddenly wrenched her body forward, following with another several seconds of coughing.

Alena reached into her pocket. “Anyway, I have something for you. It’s a surprise. I was going to wait until Christmas, but I…I just wanted you to have it now, I guess.” She coughed again before holding out the gift. It was a small photograph, about the size of the hand that reached forward to receive it.

“I wanted you to remember us together. Just in case…we lose sight of each other for a while.” Alena ran her fingers through Keane’s hair again, and then leaned back, her eyes closed.

Several hours later, just after the sun had risen, Keane needed to find a new place to stay, which would mean leaving Alena. He had been reluctant, but Alena insisted firmly.

“It'll be faster this way, since I'd only slow you down. I'll be fine. Just trust me.” Keane had never doubted his sister before, but something told him that something was not quite right. Keane wanted to ignore this feeling, to believe her, but he couldn't help wondering whether her words were true.

“Please, Keane, for me.”

Keane sat up suddenly as he heard sharp footsteps rounding the corner. The sun had already burst forth on the horizon, leaving him temporarily blinded as he tried to focus. The sun's rays made bright reflections on the windows of the nearby buildings, which glared into Keane's squinting eyes.

Keane backed into the small alley close by in an attempt to hide himself among the sparse shadows. He crouched down in time to see a mother walking briskly down the sidewalk, her daughter being dragged along and trailing behind.

The girl was stumbling over her mother’s heels. She appeared to be extremely uncomfortable in the clothes she was in—her white dress and shoes looked tight against her skin. They were turned into a golden yellow by the blazing sun. Her hair, a silvery blonde, reflected the light behind her as well.

“Mama, slow down,” the girl pleaded, tugging on the hand that gripped hers.

“We’re already late, come on,” her mother said, not even looking back to see her. They were already almost out of sight, but in the instant they disappeared around the corner, Keane saw a pair of bright blue, wide eyes looking at him, the young, innocent face searching his. Then they were gone, the sound of their footsteps receding into the distance.

She saw me.

Keane stood up, hesitant. For one wild moment, he wondered if she had recognized him, though from where, he wouldn't know. He had the most sudden impulse to follow after the girl and ask why she looked at him. His curiosity threatened to overcome his fear of being discovered.

“Keane, you can leave me here for now, but don't talk to anyone, all right? Don't even look at them. If they find us, they will send us back to her.”

But he made his decision—shaking the image of her piercing eyes out of his mind, he ran through the alley, and then out to the street on the other side.

Keane wasn't even aware of where he was going—he ignored his burning lungs and the painful impacts of his bare feet on the sidewalk until he could no longer recognize his surroundings. Gray, nondescript buildings towered above him, blocking out the harsh winds, but also what little warmth the sun provided. They all looked the same, looking up from the ground. He glanced around, looking past the buildings that loomed overhead into the distance in an attempt to find recognizable landmarks. But mist had formed, shrouding what was left of the landscape in a dense fog. He saw nothing that he knew.

The sun continued to rise, but it didn't quite cut through the expanse of gray. Keane shrank into a dark corner near one of the buildings, sinking to the ground with a sigh.

He returned to the bus stop after searching to see that the strong, infallible Alena was lying in a way that seemed infantile. Her eyes were half closed, unmoving. She had never looked so young and fragile until recently, and now she was broken. She had fallen asleep and would never rise again. Keane stared at the still face of his sister, while something in the back of his mind told him that he needed to leave her behind—he held a risk of being found the longer he stayed. Scared and now alone, Keane grasped the photograph in his hand and ran.

“Hello.”

Keane's eyes shot open—he hadn't realized that he had fallen asleep. A wave of dread washed over him as he looked into the face that peered at him. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, how he imagined an ocean on a crisp day, or a cloudless sky away from the city. The mist had cleared, leaving a streak of sunlight shining directly behind that obscured the child's face in dark, but seemed to set her hair on fire. Keane lowered his gaze to her dress to see that it was significantly less white than it had been that morning—it appeared to have several stains on it, though from what he couldn't tell.

Despite his curiosity, Keane could not force himself to speak. Why was she trying to talk to him? Was she trying to reveal his existence? In his mind he pictured hoards of police officers arriving, pulling him up with strong arms, and carrying him home to his mother, who would be waiting with open arms and closed, tensed fists.

“It's okay if you don't want to talk.” He had been staring at her for several seconds—not for any particular reason other than confusion. He felt guilty for refusing to open his mouth, but if his existence was revealed, one conversation with a girl would not be worth his punishment and future torment.

The child sat down beside him, her dress splayed out around her. “My mama made me come with her to a meeting in some big office place, but she wouldn't let me come inside. Said I wouldn't be good and quiet. So I walked around, and then I found you. But, I don't think you were here before, were you? You were a few blocks down that way.” Her thin finger pointed down the street to a place that he immediately recognized, despite his failure to identify his location after having studied it earlier. How had he not known where he was? It seemed so obvious now. The fog, he decided, it had been too thick.

“Is your mama here somewhere, too?”

Keane shuddered at the idea, but she wasn't even looking at him then; her gaze was fixed on the building across the street, where her mother was evidently staying. The child fidgeted with discomfort. “I do not like this dress,” she added with a sort of finality that made Keane's mouth rebelliously turn up.

The two of them sat like this for some time—Keane, still and silent, cautious, and the girl, quiet yet content. She was holding a small purse that matched her dress, whose purpose was lost on Keane, since it contained nothing save a phone and a small bottle of water, which she now retrieved to drink from.

“Did you want some?” the girl inquired, and Keane realized that he had been transfixed on the crystal-like clarity of the water. Despite himself, he nodded. She held out the bottle, and as he drank, he wondered how long it had been since he drank water that was not of a fountain, or tap water of questionable cleanliness. Even so, he restrained himself, handing the bottle back to the girl.

Have I made a mistake? he thought. She did not reach out to take the bottle back, and for an instant he just knew that he had done something wrong. His fingers became visible in the sunlight; the fact that they were shaking was apparent.

The girl didn’t even turn her face to look at him. “Oh, you can keep it.” She waved his hand away dismissively. “I think that water is bad, anyhow. My mama got it for me, even though I told her I don't like it.”

Keane took in a sharp breath and let it out slowly, and he was not entirely sure how much time had passed before he relented and allowed himself to speak.

“I—” his voice was raspy from lack of use, barely discernible over the roar of traffic that surrounded them. “Thank you,” he finished quietly, not trusting himself to say more. The girl did not seem to hear him, though she turned her attention to the clouds overhead as they drifted by unobtrusively, wispy and white, unlike the charcoal storm clouds that had passed over the city the night before. Her irises were bright, the blue of them radiant and refreshing.

“My name is Clara,” she said after several seconds.

“Keane,” he said, the response purely impulsive, and he regretted it immediately. His cheeks flushed slightly and he stared at his feet.

In that moment Clara had decided that they were friends. It wasn't spoken, but it was felt, and it was seen in the way Clara studied him. She was trying to figure something out, but what it was Keane didn't know.

Clara's lips parted slightly as she took in a breath.

“Keane, why are you scared?”

Clara's question was extremely intuitive, even startling. Keane made an effort to withhold his facial expression, but he found that he wasn't entirely successful. He had experienced a simultaneously uncomfortable and uplifting feeling within him, as if a barrier that had been built up for some time was slipping away. With those few words, Clara had broken chains that had bound his mind. He hadn't even been aware of their existence, but this caused a flood of emotions to escape, and within several seconds a certain transformation came about. Keane found that boiling hot tears were running down his face. He could no longer contain his hidden past; Alena was no longer there to listen to his grievances and offer her condolences, so he had to tell Clara.

“My mom,” he began tentatively. He was unsure how to continue from this point, but he knew that what he was going to say must be said. “She...used to hurt me, and she hurt my sister.” Droplets splashed onto his clothing, and they soaked into the thin fabric, leaving large circles of moisture. “Alena decided to run away. We both left her one night. But—” his throat grew tight as he struggled to finish, “but Alena got very sick while we were hiding. She had this horrible cough and everything, and...” He took a shaky breath, “she didn't make it.” Keane was overcome by the memory of their last conversation.

“I wanted you to remember us together. Just in case…we lose sight of each other for a while.”

“Keane.”

“I'll be fine. Just trust me.”

“Keane, listen to me.”

Keane tried to look at Clara's face, but tears distorted his vision—the cerulean of her eyes, although he couldn't bring himself to linger on them, were no longer visible, not was the small hand that reached forward to take his. His vision cleared suddenly as he blinked, and finally he was able to look at her.

“Keane, I know that you're afraid of me, too. But it's okay.” She didn't seem to care about the dirt clinging to his skin as she squeezed his fingers. “I'll help you.” She stated this in a very confident way, and Keane believed her. He knew that they had made some sort of connection, one that he had been without his entire life, even when Alena had been there to protect him.

“How?” Keane knew from her tone that Clara meant what she had said, but he suspected she hadn't thought of any kind of solution.

Clara opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by a muffled vibration that came from her purse. She pulled out her phone and opened it in a sharp movement.“Hello?” She said quietly. Keane thought he heard shouting on the other end, but he wasn't sure.

“Mama, no...I was just—but...Okay. I'm on my way.” She didn't say goodbye as she snapped the phone closed. Keane noticed that her expression was more strained than it had been, as if it took her a great effort for her to remain smiling.

“I have to go now, Keane.” She glanced up at the building across the street. “I'll help you, I promise. Just trust me.”

“How will I see you again?” Keane asked, doubt lingering in the back of his mind.

“I'll find you.” This was such a sure statement that Keane could not help but to be encouraged by the sound of it. As she stood up, he thought her heard her say something else, but he wasn't entirely sure. Before he could ask, she was gone in a flurry of white and clacking of heels. Despite himself, he was greatly upset by the sudden lack of companionship, and already he could feel the deep connection that he had been so sure of before fading, a memory of a dream.

Keane was consumed by the idea of hope, which he had not allowed himself to feel previously. Later that evening, instead of police cars and the angry eyes of his mother, he imagined, while staring into a blazing sunset—full of pinks and oranges and the reddest of reds—a new path, one that led to hope and dreams happiness and Clara. He closed his eyes and smiled, remembering the brief time they had shared together, the words so simple yet so incredibly significant. With these thoughts circulating his mind, he drifted into a contented sleep.

Some days later, Keane was discovered and, after being questioned and scolded severely by authorities, was returned to his dear mother, who hugged him in her tight grip at the doorway in sight of the officers and then, when they were finally alone together, slapped him until the tears came, just as he remembered.