Shrouded

.I.

Rain is supposed to make things look pretty. It's supposed to soften the edges. It's supposed to reflect light, and make everything quiet, and warm, and safe.

It was more of a drizzle than a true rain that fell from the sky as I stepped out from under the bridge. It turned the sky grey and filled tiny puddles on asphalt, bringing out the soaked-in oils and sliding under them to make toxic rainbows. It didn't make things look pretty. It made the city look hazy, and blurry, and dangerous.

Which, unmistakably, is what the city was, what it is, what it always will be. 

I grew up in this city, albeit not in alleys or under bridges, not with track marks in my arms, not with my dark curls shorn to my scalp to discourage mats and lice.

I grew up like children should. With a mother that loved me and smelled like oranges and sunshine. With happiness and fun and only the fear of spiders and my closet at night. I grew up safe.

-

I looked up at the pewter sky, watched the cold raindrops as they fell. My mama always took me out in the rain, and we'd turn our faces up, and it seemed like the sky was falling. Right then, it seemed like the sky was breaking off piece by piece.

One drop hit me in my open eye, and I flinched, turning my head down, wiping at the water and my own warm tears, brought out by the sting.

I retreated back under the bridge and snatched up my backpack, slinging it onto my shoulders. My cardboard bed from the previous night was already damp, soaking up the wetness from the ground. I picked up Delly, my little teddy bear, the one thing I had left from my childhood, before a creeping tendril of moisture could reach him, and stuffed him in my backpack.

Time to move. I looked around my little space. There was nothing to feel nostalgic for, but all the same, I was sad to leave it. No one else came to this spot for the few nights that I was here. It was safe.

I had to leave, though. It's not good to stay in one place too long. I hitched my backpack high on my shoulders, and set off into the heart of the city to make my rounds.

-

I was starting to smell. The cool humidity of fall made it so much more obvious than the dry heat of the city summer. My one jacket, which used to be a pea-green, now a muddy brown from use and infrequent washing, was too short for my now. The cuffs squeezed my forearms and the hem only fell to my mid-stomach. If I weren't so malnourished, I couldn't have worn it at all.

I stopped at the first pay phone. People forget to take their change from them all the time, but I had shoved a plastic bag into the change return hole, which stopped the coins from falling back to the owner. People probably thought the phone just ate their money.

I tugged the bag out of the hole, and a good amount of quarters, dimes, and nickels fell into my hand. I shoved them into my pocket and continued to the next phone.

I had almost five dollars when I was done. Enough for a meal at a fast food joint, maybe...

That was what I always told myself. Enough for food. I was going to go get food. A burger. Some fries. But I rarely spent my money on that.

Jude sold his product for ten dollars per baggie, and I usually bought two.

-

After scrounging up my change, I headed towards the public library. The patrons and clerks didn't take kindly to people like me, so I waited until the man at the front desk was busy helping a customer before I slipped through the double doors and headed to the bathrooms.

I got myself into a stall and locked it behind me, hanging my backpack and grubby coat on the little hooks on the back of the door. I dropped my pants and relieved myself. It wasn't often I got to use a real toilet; I mostly found myself squatting in bushes. The porcelain felt smooth against my legs. A good, clean, fine feeling.

I finished up and tugged my tattered jeans back on, flushed, and opened the stall door. I took my backpack, shoved my coat back on, and went to the sinks. After washing my hands, I scrubbed my face with water, then soap, and water again. I scrubbed my stubbly hair, too, and dried up with some paper towels. I desperately needed a shower. Maybe I can stop by the shelter for tonight... I glanced at myself in the mirror, and almost didn't recognize the face looking back.

The hollows in my cheeks were dark and prominent, the skin over my cheekbones stretched tight and thin. My eyes were wide and sunken, with purple bruises underneath and blue veins standing out in the lids. My mouth was red and cracked, and my teeth were yellow. I shuddered at my own image. No wonder people didn't like the looks of me.

I used to be beautiful. I know I did. I had raven black ringlet curls, tea-brown eyes that weren't dull, and my cheeks were flushed pink and healthy. But that was before mama died, before I ran away from my foster home...

As I was lost in my dark thoughts, another woman had walked into the bathroom. She came to stand beside me to wash her hands in one of the other sinks. I watched her slip off her ring: a huge, diamond band, from her left hand before lathering up and rinsing.

I don't know what came over me. I tried not to, tried to tell myself it wasn't right, but I could feel my body starting to shake, the fever of withdrawal starting to rise, and I knew the payphone money wouldn't be enough. So when the woman turned to reach for the paper towels...

I swiped her ring from the countertop and slipped out of the bathroom, out of the library, and into the dreary afternoon.