Young Writers Society

~840 words

I was born and quickly forgotten about. I don’t remember anything before I was about six years old, and there was no one to ask. My first memory is a hazy one: I remember a picture of my hand, still a little pudgy from birth, reaching into a brown leather pouch. I remember there was bread in the pouch, but I can’t remember whose it was, what it tasted like, where I ate it, or when I stole it.

Memories are like that. They’re foggy, elusive things, but you remember the strangest things. I remember that that brown pouch had two layers of fringe on it, and my little ring finger had dirt under the nail.

I must have spent a good half of my young waking life with my hands in other people’s pockets. I’m not proud that I stole, but I am proud that I survived. Those early years were hard…

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I take to the streets the way water takes to the hill. The man is blustering behind me like a wild thing, eyes rolling back in his head, spittle falling from his lips. I can’t understand why. All I stole was an apple. My goodness.

I’m slipping down side street after side street, trying to get lost in the crowds. It’s market day in the city. I’m not too worried about getting away. I am worried about that knife in his hand though. I take two hard lefts, then duck into an alcove behind a barrel. The man goes barreling past like a hurricane. Hah. What a joke. I take a bite of my apple, savoring its crisp sweetness. It is fall, apple season. Winter will be coming soon. I’ll be able to curl up next to a fire place, maybe get some soup in my body. I shiver with excitement and with the cold. I finish my apple, eating it core and all, and step out from behind the barrel.

“Aha!” Shouts a voice, and two arms wrap around me. At the end of one of them is a hand that clasps a knife.

Oh no.

“So that’s where you were hiding, little thief. Are you going to pay for that apple you just devoured?” His voice is rough and low against my ear. I struggle against his grasp, but he just holds me tighter.

“I… don’t have any money,” I make out.

He chuckles like he knew it all along. I suppose he did. You don’t run around in rags and steal apples if you have anything to pay for them with.

“You’re coming with me, street rat.” I can almost picture the greasy smile on his face.

My heart quickens. Bad things happen to young girls on the street. I struggle even harder, and he holds me so tight I can feel bruises forming where his fingers grip my arms. I start to scream, and he slaps me. Hard.

I wake up to vertical lines. I groan. I’m in a jail cell. The man probably just turned me in to the city guard for the general reward of one iron coin. Jail is supposed to deter us street urchins, but it has never deterred me much. At least we get a little food, even if it does come with a beating…

There’s a little moan from the back of my cell, and this little mousy kid sits up. He blinks at me with one eye. The other is swollen shut and blackened. He grins a crazy grin and asks, “So. What are you in for?”

I like this kid already. He tells me his name is Gavin.

We spend the rest of our couple days in jail talking to each other, telling each other stories of our hilarious hi-jinks trying to stay alive.

Gavin opts to spend an extra day in jail just to spend time with me. It turns out he hasn’t really ever had a friend, just like me. The guards just shrug. They don’t care if some urchin wants to get his face beat in another day.

By the time we get out of jail, we’re both limping a bit, and my face looks similar to Gavin’s in terms of number of black eyes. That number is two. But I don’t care. I’m feeling better than I have in a long time.

Gavin and I spend the rest of the winter working together. It’s amazing how successful you can be with four hands instead of two. And it’s nice to be able to curl up to someone when the nights got too cold. We survive together.

It’s suddenly late spring. The time had melted away like the snow. Gavin and I are climbing on the roofs, scoping out a new source of food. A trash bin we had frequently frequented has just gotten a new security system: a ravenous dog.

Gavin points to a door, cracked open. It leads to a house with a pie resting on the windowsill. “How about there?” He asks.

My stomach grumbles, and I nod.