RED PARALLEL

Chapter 39: A Real Street Battle

The rain had stopped several hours ago but the dark streets were wet as hell, puddles in every corner. It was shattering cold but Traviz's body was burning. With a sack full of bread and a bottle of c-soda in his arms, he bolted away from the two cops, and oh, how he hated those puddles. He slipped and fell twice, the bread getting wet, but fuck it, he had to run away like a hybrid gazelle gorilla, for good, springing from stairs and tight pitch dark corners, throwing back any random piece of shit in the way. The muscles screamed from hunger but Traviz didn't hear the protest, or the two cops yelling, or the dog barking. It was only a bread - okay, a dozen - why the need to be arrested? Those people were crazy.

He reached for a corner, those cinematographic corners, with stinking garbage balls over a big trunk, a cat jumping away, and piss. Traviz took the ridiculous opportunity and attempted the cinematographic jump - okay, not that movie-style since it was the most improvised nonaesthetic jump in history -, did a quick random nonreligious pray and jumped straight at the wall, did a mortal, and grabbed himself at the pillar. A bread fell and he groaned. Traviz climbed the nearest wall and disappeared from view. Panting in the dark spot, Traviz heard the cops getting back, both cursing the lost burglar.

Hoping he would not throw up as he had done all the months before, he dug the eleven bread in his mouth and saved the disgusting c-soda for later. B-sodas were 'sold out' from the bakery. He had finished them himself, of course. As he got inside the abandoned building, phantasmagorical but fairly empty and somehow safe - if it was far from people, it was safe -, he kicked the previous cans, and arched his body, tired as fuck. Glad the bread didn't free from his belly, Traviz took his coat off. It was stinking so much, why did he put it... Ah, yes, because of the sac, of course.

To prevent the cold that had nearly killed him at the first week in the streets, Traviz lighted his improvised fireplace - thank God he knew how to light a fire without burning down the whole building; well, at least not that one, because the first one was a tragedy - and began his 'I'm not going cold again, motherfucka' exercise.

He had tried to grab some clothes but hadn't had the lucky chance, yet. So he would spend the whole night jumping ropes - that 'rope' was the fifth one; the other he had ripped it from sudden anger -, refusing to sit down and die. Then he would faint and sleep the whole day through, then wake up from a nightmare, starving as hell, and go for another pick up food. When the restaurant or bakery was about to close, Traviz would sneak in and snatch up what he could. When he didn't manage to enter discreetly - which was most of the time - he would improvise any threatening weapon near him. The last weapon had been a chair. Whatever. No one could catch him.

He was afraid of the gun, though. So whenever he saw someone reaching for their pockets, he'd kick himself out of there. He was good. He had never felt so aware of the surroundings before. He could see any threat from meters away. Shadows, suspicious faces, lights, window shop's whole interesting items, tight possible corners, instant 'I think this will work' objects, etc. He would hear any fucking voice or sound, even under New Year's Eve fireworks, like any sort of metal, human and nonhuman steps, cars - cars, truck, vans, bikes, and even cabs had distinctive noises - animals, leaves moving, radios, people's conversations - he had once discovered there would be a beneficial barbecue a few blocks from there - and the smell. He would smell the food even under the pouring rain, and damn, it had rained so much that week. But it was good. Easier to escape.

Cops. Whether he could see them or smell them, Traviz didn't know exactly. All he knew was that they chatted and laughed, eating fatty sugary food, their cars parked in number, with annoying radios on. If they had no cars and were striding peacefully, it was easy to tell because people would greet them, respectfully, waving and nodding and stuff. Especially men and elders. Women would pace up, kind of scared. Children would gape with a stupid face as if the cops had just got out of comics.

Thank you, stupid people. You guys help me like, I can't even...

On the bread night, though, he had no option but to take the risk. The cops were inside the bakery and Traviz was about to die from hunger. The food from the previous night was undoubtedly poisoned. Aware that it could be his last day alive, he broke into the bakery. It worked.

Cool. I'm never getting caught. Ain't getting busted.

The image of Owen smirking invaded his mind and he ripped the last rope.

Ah, great.

Yeah, I'm great. I'm good. Don't need papa, bro nor momma.

Kill them.

Since ripping the rope was not enough, Traviz grabbed the already broken pieces of wood and broke them again, tearing them with his hands, tossing them against the wall. He would punch them until his bones were about to crash or his skin about to rip and bleed. There was an old bench lying down, he tossed it. There was an old wardrobe, he dashed it and tossed it. For the hundredth time. Half the mess in that place was not from the previous destruction but his. The more he broke the things, the more he felt that everything was under control.

Ridiculous. He, broke and stinking and drinking c-soda, while his dad rested on his millionaire leather couch, blood full of alcohol and coffin full of money. Maybe it was time to visit him and rob the bank.

Gimme a break. I rob bread, not money. But 'bread's money, right?

Giving up on the plan he didn't even plan, Traviz kicked the floor.