Bearer of the Signs

V: EPSILON

SOMEWHERE ELSE IN THE STREETS OF LONDON...

He was running as fast as he could, the heavy stomps of his bare feet echoed against the quiet slums of London. He heard a rumble, thinking it was from the thundering clouds above him, but it came from below his head. He clutched his belly as he swiftly ran through the streets, trying to find his way back. The young boy craned his neck, taking a glimpse to see if his pursuers were still after him.

No one was there.

Damon sighed and slowed a pace down; he was always told that he was stronger and swifter than the rest; that he would be an amazing person who would achieve great things. He frowned... great things... what was great about him now. Damon started to run slower until he was just walking. He passed by the park and saw a middle-aged woman playing with her three sons; the same age as Damon, the boy halted and watched them from the rusted iron gates. They all look so happy, Damon thought; he watched as the woman played with her boys, the three boys were dressed neatly along with their mother. Damon looked down on himself; he just wore discarded rags that he had sewn together as a make-shift shirt, Damon looked at the small family once more with a longing stare. The woman must've felt the weight of his heavy gaze, so she turned and looked at Damon. Damon sucked in a breath, she looks like Mama... but then the woman suddenly scowled and dragged her boys away to somewhere the poor little boy could not stare at them menacingly. The poor little boy then shook his head, reminding himself that Mama was no longer here.

Damon continued to walk home.

It wasn't the first time Damon was looked at with suspicious glares and fiery scowls, he recalled as he spent his first five month at Masculin e Crinière, an orphanage. He remembered the Headmaster, Madam Bourbondoir, a woman in her late forties with silver hair always in a bun. A scary woman she was, Damon thought, and a bloody unfair one at that. At the age of nine Damon was the freak, the cast-away, the worthless one in the French orphanage. He was always looked down upon on by Madam, whilst she loved and fed the other orphans; Damon swept the floor and cleaned the loo. By the third month, Damon became the laughing stock of the orphanage, the boy in the loo, the sweeper keeper, the gopher, the slave, and the lowest of low, those were just some of the things he was called during his stay at the Masculin. Damon thought he reached the lowest point of his life that he cried every night in the very stall in the loo he cleansed. But there was something that kept him okay, something that kept him from taking his own life because of humiliation and depression, someone that he could lean on.

And he was further burdened by it, as he would be in the future.

Damon named him after his favourite animal, and he was surprised to know that it was actually his real name. They met long ago, during the time Damon's mother was there. He was like the father Damon never had, he guided him, taught him all the righteous things in the world... and yet...

Damon looked down on his hand, within his filthy mitts was a gold bracelet taken away from its original owner; a greedy old lady who disowned her own son for helping a beggar; Damon knew this because he was that beggar. He meant no harm in stealing Lady Millicent's bracelet; it was only a mere coincidence. Damon was just out to do his daily routine in order to survive the world on his own. After spending four months in the godforsaken orphanage, Damon ran away with nothing but the clothes on his back and very few pride left to him. He highly doubted it anyone missed him at all. Now there Damon was a year later, running away from people, snatching jewelleries, purses, money, satchels, anything he could get his hands on to trade for food at the grocery at the edge of the city, a few blocks from his new home.

But those are not the only things Damon snatches.

Every so often, Damon would see some boys or girls his age, throwing away books, whatever books they may be; educational, fiction, romance, tragedy, poetry, any kind of book, Damon picks it up with a smile. Unfortunately today, he hasn't been able to pick up any book. Damon is a very kind and intelligent boy, deprived of a childhood and a life he deserves. Though despite his struggles, he still finds goodness and virtue whenever it is needed. That is what Mama told me... to be always good... while He told me to be strong... Damon recalled as he neared his destination. Damon loved to read, to study, to learn, he claimed there was so much left in the world that was undiscovered, and he couldn't wait to unravel its secrets. But there was a constant problem in his yearning to learn. Hunger. With nothing in his pockets, Damon had come to his last resort to survive—despite it being against his will—stealing never appealed to him, and it never would but one must do what he must in order to survive the wild. On the deserted street, a small shadow, cast by the setting rays of the sun, could be seen walking with his shoulders hunched as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders... little did he know that it was to be like that soon.

Finally, the little boy reached his home; an abandoned factory in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thick, dead fog. It now looked haunted and frightening in the dark of the night. Through a small hole in the fence Damon made, he slid through with ease and walked barefoot on the cold, hard cement. He jumped over a sign that was rusted and discarded, he didn't know what the symbol on the sign meant but he no longer cared; he has already lived there for a year now. Damon surpassed more signs with the same symbols, until he slowly reached the big, broken doors of the factory; he slid through one of the rusted holes, careful not to get cut by the broken sides. He walked through the dark and silent halls of the factory, in the dark a click resounded, and slowly a gas lamp lit a dark corner of the three-floored structure. One by one, Damon lit all the lamps and torches as a make-shift lamp until the first landing was dimly lit.

He safely tucked the bracelet away among the other jewels he had stolen and planned to sell. He sighed and decided to go to sleep. He went to the centre of the room, where there was small bundles of rags put together as a bed, the small space lit by a candle. He snuggled within them and shivered as a cool breeze flew past him, and blew out the candle. Another breeze blew and it snuffed out the flames within the glass of the lamps, the lights from the torches flickered and died.

"Sweet dreams, little Damon," said a voice as a gust of wind flew by him.

"Good night, Leo."

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Ladies and gentlemen... Leo has entered the story!! Yay! Which one of you guys are Leo? Born from July 23 to August 22, I would love to know who my peeps are. Yes, I am also a Leo. My Birthday was at July 24, a close call. Sorry is the update is late but I have to balance a lot of things and I am not good at balancing... or juggling at that fact.

Anyways, one fast fact: Damon's story is based on a true story.

Somewhere in Zimbabwe, two years ago, there was a little boy, his mother died due to AIDS; his father was a criminal that had enough decency to live him at an orphanage when he was a babe. The orphanage's name was The Lion's Mane it was originally a boot camp, but due to loans it was converted into an orphanage. The boy's father was a white man, American; he inherited his father's fair skin tone. But their headmaster was a racist, she discriminated the little boy and bullied him, the other kids followed suite. To cope, the boy whispered his wishes to the wind, but he eventually ran away from the orphanage at the age of nine, he was found at a factory (I'm not gonna tell what kind of factory cuz itll ruin my next chapter) by a Red Cross Volunteer, namely my great uncle. The boy was very ill, he was rushed to the hospital, doctors said he caught some sort of virus from the factory and was about to die on the 22nd of next month. My Uncle would visit him everyday with a mask on his face and ask him how he was doing and the boy would tell uncle how his whole life went... and say he was okay. He would finally be okay... with his mother.

On July 22, 2013 the boy died of Ebola.

His name was Artichey (Archie) McArthur.

His father was Charles McArthur, who killed himself at his birthday, April 18 2011.

Many people don't know what they have until they lose it, please consider yourself very lucky that you're being able to hold and expensive gadget and read an EBook, whilst other people scavenge for paper-backs. I know that I am thankful that I am able to write my fictions on an expensive laptop. Please comment, not for me, but for Artichey, please share, not for the sake of my story, but to let people know about this. I already have six more stories out there, I don't need more popularity for this one, so just share for Artichey.

ENOUGH SERIOUS SHIT!! MY BIRTHDAY WAS ON JULY 24, GREET ME HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! I AM FINALLY FOURTEEN!!! HOO-HAA!!!!!!!