Six - Noah

I opened my eyes and it was cold. I closed them again, hoping that by some miracle… but no, it was still cold. I moved slowly, sitting up, stretching. My muscles ached with stiffness. My ears and fingers ached with cold. But I was alive, and like every other morning since I had left my family, I thanked the Lord for that small factor.

I somehow managed to stand, despite the cramp that seized my legs, and made me bite my tongue in shock and pain. It was a bright morning, the sun shining pale through the clear, frozen winter air, but I could feel that certain charge in the atmosphere, that certain electricity, that indicated that we were in for a storm. Sure enough, when I looked behind me away to the west, a huge bank of black clouds filled the sky, tiny flickers indicating lightning over some distant part of the city.

I had spent the night curled up on the roof of a block of old flats and now I walked to the edge of the roof, carrying with me my holey blanket and the battered rucksack which I kept with me all the time. I never let go of it for fear it might get lost or stolen – at night I had taken to sleeping on top of it so that it could not be taken while I slept. Now I shoved the blanket into the main compartment of the bag and slung it across my shoulders, fastening the clips that held the straps across my chest and hips – there was no way I was going to let myself lose that bag, it was all I had in the world.

I made my way down the steps attached to the side of the building, holding tight to the handrail as the rusting metal creaked and shuddered with my every step. At the bottom I jumped down into the conveniently placed skip that stood under the steps where they ended midair – it was the only way I had managed to get up the night before. By climbing into the skip and standing on top of all the junk which filled the majority of its rusting yellow bulk, I had succeeded in grabbing hold of the bottom of the steps, and hoisting myself up. I had never weighed much, the scarcity of food and money at home – which had led to social services taking us away from our parents, and then to me running away – meant that I had always been skinny to the point of resembling a couple of match sticks, and my recent diet of food when I could find any and not when I couldn’t meant that I was as thin as I had ever been.

Unfortunately, it was as I was climbing back out of the skip, that I noticed the police car just down the street, and the two police officers, one male, one female, watching me with shrewd eyes. I didn’t stick around as they began to make their slow but purposeful way toward me, no, I took off like it was the devil himself at my heels. Of course I heard their shouts as they ordered me to stop, but once you’ve started running from the police you’re not going to stop just because they tell you to, are you?

No.

And I certainly wasn’t an exception.

Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t run in the first place, but fear had kicked in before I had time to think and by the time reason caught up with me it was already too late. In running I had made it appear that I was guilty; in running I had made everything worse.

Luckily I was used to running. From a young age I had taken to stealing, nothing big, just a little petty thievery around the markets: apples from the fruit stall, handfuls of nuts – taken while the shop owner was distracted, the odd loaf of bread when I could manage it. Only food though, and only when we needed it - mind you that did mean most of the time.

In any case, I got used to running. It was strange how, even though they must have known they would never catch me – a tiny wisp of a boy like me in the crowds around the market – the shop owners never ceased to give chase. I often wondered if they didn’t secretly enjoy it, it made them feel like something out of Aladdin no doubt, chasing the too-quick street rat who stole their mangos. I used to always laugh about it with my brothers and sisters while our mother watched us disapprovingly. She hated it when we stole, she was a devout Christian, but she was always unable to get properly angry, after all it was often only because of our thievery that we ate at all.

This was different though. These weren’t podgy street market owners who gave up after twenty metres or so, this was the police, and instead of the crowds of the market, the streets I ran down were deserted, impossible to get lost in.

I sprinted down a back alley, rounding a corner too sharply and nearly running smack into a brick wall, but I managed to keep going, only grazing my side slightly.

I had to keep going, there was no choice in the matter. If the police caught me they would no doubt look into my background; they would want to know who I was and why I had spent the night on the roof of a deserted building, they would want to know why the sight of police officers sent me sprinting down dark back alleys, and what could I tell them? Whatever happened in between, it was almost certain that I would end up back in the clutches of the social services – somewhere I planned never to find myself again.

And so I kept running, my stick legs pumping as hard and as fast as was physically possible. I kept running, my path taking me ever closer to the quickly approaching storm clouds.

 

Reviews

[Beatrice Mars]

ohh love it (again)
a little confuesing but i liked finding out more....