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That’s when I finally take stock. My right eye is swollen shut. My jaw is inflated like a balloon and hurts like hell. My ribs ache. My back hurts like a motherfucker.
Christ.
“Don’t you have a place to go?” he asks and I shake my head.
Marty rolls his eyes and mutters something about stupid people and exposure. He says we’re expecting snowfall in the night Then he shoves me into a storage room with a long bunk. Tells me to sleep there but be gone by morning.
I don’t need much convincing. Exhaustion drags me down. At some point Marty wakes me up and shoves a bottle of water into my hand, saying something about dehydration, and I drink, then fall back into sleep.
I don’t surface until Marty shakes me awake, telling me I’ve been there long enough, and throws me back out onto the street.
By the way, Marty’s right. It’s damn cold. Snow blankets every surface. Looks like it’s afternoon. Or is it morning? How long did I sleep?
I wander the town, trying to keep warm, but the nausea and dizziness linger. Finding a place to sit becomes my number one priority.
My feet take me to a familiar place. State Street. The homeless there know me. The Family, they call themselves, and I’m an adopted son. Not many are there now in winter, most of them staying in the shelters.
I curl on a bench, shivering. My face hurts, and my stomach is trying to push its way up my throat. I swallow hard, blinking. So damn cold. People pass, throwing me curious looks. I curl up tighter.
A cover falls on me, waking me up from a fitful sleep. It’s a heavy-duty sleeping bag that stinks of old sweat and humidity.
“Come, boy. Get up.”
The shrill voice belongs to an old woman with a nest of curly white hair. I can’t remember her from before. She keeps tugging on my arm and telling me to get up. And go where?
“You lost?” she asks. “Where do you wanna go?”
I close my eyes. A safe place. A place where I can see the lake, watch the water move and shimmer. “The lake. The park.”
I like looking at the calm water; always have. Makes me feel good. Though by now the lake must be freezing over—like me—white meshing with the blue. Utterly still. Asleep.
Just like me.
She tugs on my arm again, not giving up until I gather the dirty sleeping bag close and follow her unsteadily down the pedestrian street. “Where are we going?”
Snow flakes drift down from the sky, landing on my face, as she drags me to a shop entrance. Warm air blows from a ventilation duct and I huddle over it, drawing the sleeping bag around my shoulders.
“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already hurrying away.
Evening is falling. Protected from the icy wind and the snow, I settle for the coming night as best I can. I’m damn exhausted, and my head is killing me. People rush by, not looking at me. I huddle under the sleeping bag, frozen to the bone. It’s slowly sinking in that I’m not going back home.
Home. The word irks me. I have no home. Never did. Just a house where I’m in danger of dying every time Dad starts drinking. How stupid to think I could change him.
And still the feeling of guilt lingers. Is it my fault? Is it because of me that he’s so angry? Because I’m never good enough?
My vision is beginning to clear, but my lower back is still agony and I have a headache from hell. If I don’t die from an internal injury, the concussion, or the cold, I’ll just probably starve to death, since I left my wallet at Dad’s.
Do I care? Not really. I’m drifting away and it feels peaceful.
That is, until hands begin shaking me so hard my teeth rattle. My back screams at me, as does my head, and I groan.
“Fucking hell, Ash, what happened to you?”
Zane. I shouldn’t be surprised. Who else would come looking for me?
In the flickering light of the shop sign, I see his face. The rings through his brow glint. I can tell by the curl of his lip that he’s pissed and I raise my fists reflexively to protect my sore head from any blow.
I’m that fucked.
