Souvenir

Disclaimer: Just own the words, not the folks.


A Program Of


It’s so cold.

I just wish it wasn’t so cold.

I could handle being on the streets before because it wasn’t as cold. Besides, the clubs stayed open later, so I would be inside for most of the night. Because of my height, I guess I’m about 6’1” now, most managers and patrons thought me much older than 17.

I draw my jacket around me and look up at the lightly falling snow. Against the backdrop of the darkened sky and the massive trees of the park it’s quite beautiful. A flashlight in my face disturbs my commune with nature.

“We’ve been through this before, boy,” the officer sighs, “You can’t sleep here. Go to the shelter I told you about.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble, allowing him to chase me from my peaceful, if chilly, refuge. I shuffle off toward the now empty streets of downtown Domino, lugging my nearly empty shoulder bag.

I’d been to the suggested shelter once. A large boy tried to take my most recent picture of Mokuba and I snapped. While I held a few bruises, he required several stitches and a cast. They kicked me out of there, calling me a psycho under their breaths. The other shelters I visited after that incident all housed older men, many of whom nearly lost a hand when they groped me.

I’m not allowed in any of the shelters in Domino anymore. The park is the only place I usually sleep comfortably, but since I’ve been chased out, I’ll have to stay awake all night again. Not that it’s a big deal if I don’t sleep. I’ve gone days without sleep before. The first time it was out of grief and rage. After that, it was out of necessity.

I look up from watching my feet and nearly fall over once I realize where my aimless wandering has taken me, the game shop.

Or what’s left of it.

Despite how long ago it happened, my eyes narrow in rage. If only I’d been here and not off ‘enjoying myself for once’ as Mr. Mouto had suggested. I look up to the charred remains of the third floor and frown to myself. Last Christmas, some punks wanted to ‘teach him a lesson’ because Mr. Mouto caught them stealing and kicked them out of the shop. I’d only known him a little while, but Mr. Mouto was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real father.

He never even woke up.

The fire destroyed the game shop and again I lost someone important to me.

My room was mostly untouched by the fire, as was much of the residence above the store. However, the smoke from the burning plastic of toys and electronics permeated everything, proving fatal to Mr. Motou and his older lungs and heart.

I’d only been gone for a few hours. I didn’t even want to go out that night, but he’d insisted.

“Seto, the girl doesn’t want to keep coming back here. Take her out for a meal at least once,” he’d pushed. I didn’t even like Akiko like that. She was just some girl I’d met when I bought some flash drives and CD’s for backing up computer files. We were just friends.

Or we were until I didn’t have any place to stay. Then I became a pariah, a ‘street person’, unworthy of her time.

I snuck into the church for Mr. Mouto’s funeral. A short guy with spiked black hair, sat beside the casket, a look of absolute horror on his face. I assumed he was the grandson, which I later found out to be true. Beside him stood a slim brunette and a voluptuous blonde, both in tears. People kept walking up saying how sorry they were, offering support. I stayed in my seat near the back. Judging by the turn out of several hundred, Mr. Mouto had been well loved.

A taller man with a dangling earring went to console the grandson and the women beside him after a while and the blonde collapsed onto him. After they carried her to the back the service went on until the grandson finally broke.

“Jii-chan! Jii-chan! Jii-chan!” he screamed over and over, knocking over the picture of remembrance and clawing at the casket.

No one could calm him.

I turn away from the shop and the unpleasant memories and wander toward the corporate center of the city. There were usually some warm grates there to sit on. I just hope they’re not all full.

To my dismay other bodies just as eager to stay warm cover every square inch of the grates. Grumbling about having to take another long walk in the cold, I make my way toward the hotel district. I’ve had a fair amount of luck finding places to hole up for the night just outside the Domino Marriott or the Wyndam. By the time I get there, the snow has picked up quite a bit and is mixed with sleet. Scouting the area, I see a spot against the far wall of the Wyndam under an overhang. I pick up my pace to make it there before someone else takes it.

A moment later I’m sprawled on the sidewalk. I guess someone was in a bigger hurry than me. Sitting up, I look over and see someone settling into my spot.

“Shit,” I curse under my breath. I jump in surprise when a gloved hand is thrust into my face. I look up to a person covered in a heavy coat, a big, furry hat and a scarf so thick, I can barely see their eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the muffled male voice apologizes. “I’m late for work and didn’t look where I was going. Are you all right?”

Silently I take his hand and allow him to help me up, not sure how to respond. No one’s ever even acknowledged knocking me down, let alone apologized or helped me up.

“I’m fine,” I mumble, shivering involuntarily. I’d landed partially in a puddle and now my entire right side is drenched.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Y-yes,” I stutter, teeth chattering.

The man pauses.

“I can’t just leave you out here all wet when it’s my fault. Let me at least give you a place to stay for the night.”

I narrow my eyes at him. Now I know why he’s being so nice. I want to refuse, but I’m soaking wet and very, very cold.

And it’s not like I haven’t done it before…

Last winter, my first on the street, I didn’t know how to stay warm on my own. So I allowed others to ‘help’ me. Women mostly, but every now and then, I’d get ‘help’ from a man. I usually got a meal, a bath and a warm bed out of the deal, so it seemed a fair exchange; my body for their assistance.

Another involuntary shiver reminds me of my frigid surroundings. If not for my height, a nasty girl and a malicious rumor about my age and criminal history, I’d still be safe and warm at the orphanage and wouldn’t need this man’s ‘help.’

“O-okay,” I mutter, clutching myself for warmth. I follow him to the back of the Wyndam ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice if he tries to force payment from me before I’ve gotten my bath, meal and warm bed.

A few degenerate men have tried to force payment. The last one received my knife in his leg instead. Unfortunately, because I left my knife in his leg when I ran, I couldn’t fight off that guy who stole my coat a few weeks ago.

It was a really warm coat, too.

The man enters a door marked ‘Employee Entrance’, motioning for me to follow. Many strange looks are afforded me as I follow him into the employee locker room where he gathers what I assume is his uniform from a tall, grey locker. We then travel through an employee lounge area and more odd looks to a service elevator. If the looks bother him, he shows no sign. In the elevator, I stand as far away from him as possible. It’s been more than a week since I’ve bathed and I don’t want him to change his mind about helping me.

“Because I live so far away, I keep a suite here for when I have to work back to back shifts,” he explains as we enter the opulently furnished room.

A gasp of surprise and awe escapes me as I gaze around the spacious suite. Stepping slowly into the expansive living room, I note the large kitchen to my right and a nice sized balcony through the thin curtains of the French doors in front of me.

A rustle of clothes behind me draws my attention and I turn to see the man taking off his gloves, heavy coat, jacket beneath the coat and the big furry hat and scarf, allowing them to fall haphazardly to the floor by the door. He turns to me with a smile and my eyes and mouth widen in shock at the blonde, red, purple and black spiked hair and the bright crimson eyes.

He laughs.

“I haven’t had anyone look at me like that in a long time,” he snickers. After checking his watch, his smile morphs into a deep frown.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. Please make yourself comfortable,” he calls, grabbing the uniform before closing the door behind him.

Taking my time, I explore the suite thoroughly. There are two bedrooms, the larger of which has a master bath and a few clothes in the dresser drawers and hanging in the closet. Holding up a pair of jeans and then a t-shirt, I realize that the man is several inches shorter than me. I guess I couldn’t tell with all of the winter clothes he had on. Well, so much for ‘borrowing’ something to wear once I get out of these wet clothes.

In the second bedroom I find a temporary solution to my dilemma, a large, fluffy bathrobe.

Shucking my clothes on the floor of the bathroom, I start filling the large tub and then head into the master bath for a quick shower. I can’t soak until I get some of this filth off of me.

As I slide into the bath with my now clean body and hair, I try to figure out how I can get the man to buy me a change of clothes. The ones I took off are pretty much in tatters. So much so that I may have to steal some clothes if he won’t buy me any. I shouldn’t worry. I know I can get him to buy me something. I’ll just have to make it worth his while.

The very hot water warms me to the core and reminds me how tired I am. After catching myself sliding under the water asleep for a third time, I decide to get out, towel drying my body and hair and then wrapping myself in the warm, fluffy robe. I should probably get some real sleep. I don’t know when the man will be back and I should be rested enough to pay him. Crawling under the covers of the king-sized bed in the master suite, I feel my consciousness draining away almost before my head hits the pillow.

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I awake to the sound of the suite’s door being closed.

Sitting up, I rub the sleep from my eyes and smooth my hair out a litle. Remembering the robe at the last moment, I slide it from my shoulders and watch the man enter the room with a yawn, arms stretched above his head. It’s obvious he didn’t expect to see me by the startled expression on his face and the way he jumps in surprise.

“You scared me!” He laughs. “By the way, this is my room. You can use the second room in this suite.”

“Then how will I pay you,” I ask, frowning.

For a moment, he looks puzzled, then his face lights with understanding, and then anger and I’m confused.

“I don’t do that sort of thing,” he glares. “If that’s all you followed me here for, you can go, because I won’t be paying you.”

Paying me? Why would he….? Oh….

He thinks I do this for a living.

I look away, feeling more like a piece of meat than I have since I escaped my stepfather. Pulling the robe back around me, I clutch it tightly as I slide from his bed, keeping my eyes on the floor.

“Can I at least stay the night,” I beg shamelessly. Just one night in a warm bed will sustain me for a few more weeks on the street.

“That’s the only reason I brought you here,” he replies evenly.

“Thank you,” I mumble hurrying to the other room.

Finding hangers in the closet, I hang my damp clothes in the adjoining bathroom, hoping they’ll be dry in the morning. Suddenly, I remember that my shoulder bag also got wet when I fell. In a panic, I rip it open, rummaging around and tossing out useless bits of newspaper classifieds, a well-worn and now slightly damp copy of a book about pharaohs from the Ishtars, a travel toothbrush and toothpaste, and a damp chess magazine I stole yesterday afternoon. Beneath it all, I finally find Mokuba’s letters.

“Shit!” I exclaim as I discover that four of the five are washed out in various places, precious words lost forever. At least the pictures are basically okay, just a little washed out on the edges. I pull out the latest one and stare at it as I sit in the middle of the queen-sized bed.

He’s grown a little more. I can see how much he looks like mom. Thankfully, there seems to be none of Gozoboro in his fine features. The black hair and round, grey eyes are both from my mom, as is the small nose and the dimple on his left cheek.

I really miss him.

I haven’t told him I’m homeless. I don’t want him to worry about me. After the fire, I used some of the money that I’d had stashed in my room to pay for a post office box and filled out a forwarding request. Both of them run out at the end of next month, so I’ll need to figure out something before then.

For now, I’ll get a bit more sleep. Morning will be here soon enough.

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I walk briskly through the streets in my freshly laundered clothes, more confused than before.

Not only had the man let me stay the night, but I awoke to clean clothes and a breakfast tray in my room. Even cold, the scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and orange juice were the best meal I’d had in a long time. After eating, I dressed quickly in my clean, warm clothes that had even been sewn up where torn and tattered. Using a piece of hotel stationary I found, I placed a note of thanks on his dresser and left. I didn’t know where the man had gone, but I thought it best not to be around when he returned.

I don’t want to be anyone’s burden or charity case.

Maybe with my clean clothes and a recent shower, I can find a job.