(it's edited)
Victor wakes up from the sunlight that filters through the thin layers of his green curtains, worn out but still does the job. He got up groggily, dusty old bed squeaking from his weight and he wonders what he wants for breakfast; he opts to have a can of beans, if he still has leftovers from last night.
He looked at his cooler in dissapointment. He was hoping for it to last longer, but from the atrocious smell; it seems as his little vermin friends wants it more than he does.
So he changed to his work clothes, breakfast long forgotten. He looked into himself on the mirror, broken but he still sees himself clutching his empty stomach. In the reflection, he sees nothing but dark bags under his eyes, ashy blonde hair askew and his breathe must've smelled bad too, when has he last brushed his teeth? It doesn't matter, he likes yellow anyway. He already took a bath last night, so he smells good, he thinks.
He's going to work, and he's a good minute late, the man running the factory isn't too forgiving, he would have his punishment later and Victor is dreading. The obvious pit in his stomach burrowing deeper in anxiety. What sort of excuse will he have this time?
Victor hates the look on the man, his boss, a man so big his whole frame wouldn't fit through the doorway, and it amazes him everytime he exceeds his expectations. Now Victor already smells like chimney ashes but this man, obese as he is, smells like combined whiskey, sweat and cigarettes. He doesn't want to be anywhere near a foot with this man.
He recoils, feeling his big oily hand give him a pat on the back, with breath smelling like death himself, "Now why are you late again, my boy?" he emphasises.
Victor maintains a calm persona under his scrutinising glare, tries to shrug off the heavy hand as he answers with a solemn face, "I got an order to put away today's newspapers for my neighbour, sir," he adds, which wasn't technically a lie but Victor didn't really do anything this morning to keep him late, he just overslept.
Sometimes his neighbour, a balding homeless man would sometimes forget about his stacking newspapers by his entryway(where they come from is none of Victor's business) and they would scatter with storm. It gets windy at night, cold and unforgiving. He wishes he has a blanket to keep warm.
"Well, that shouldn't have gone for long, has it?" the man in front of him wipes a sweat off his eyebrow, the neckline of his shirt soaked and gross, he clicked the roof of his tongue. "Get in now, you still have work to do, lots of them,"
Surprised his punishment didn't come, he gingerly picked up his trusty scraper, dust pan and scurried away before the man could remember to penalise him.
Victor was only eight year old when he started working for the Fat Man. Scrubbing the chimneys at such young age that his posture almost deformed from being scooted up, his palms dense and calloused before his work was reduced to cleaning the kitchens and fireplaces too.
Victor's lack of parentage, his naivety and ignorance outside his makeshift home and 'work' is what he fears for. The only familiarity he will get is his boss, his absent neighbor, and perhaps that tabby stray he feeds sometimes. However, he hasn't seen the cat in ages, perhaps it has abandoned him too.
The boisterous clutters of pans on the floor cut off his reverie, the yell and shout that came in second made him flinch, "How old are you boy!?"
Victor straightened in an instant, almost fixing his bent back, "I-I'm thirteen, sir!" he stutters.
"You're that old and you can't have basic common sense, scram away from my kitchen or I will gut you like a fish," and so he does, in fear for his life Victor ran for the second time before the cook could pick up his knife and chase him with it.
With bating breathes, Victor found himself facing the sky. The familiar smell of creosote and soot he took in when he was younger, he still does, it's faint but it brings back some unpleasant memories. Luckily he doesn't fit in those cramped funnels anymore, but the damage has already been done. He still remembers the grime stuck in his nails and the whole afternoon scouring the blackened cement, and that one horrible moment he almost got stuck to his impending death. At age twelve his lungs has probably deteriorated already.
Victor looks and ponders over his contemporary life. Bitterly wishing upon possibilities, hoping and just hoping. What if he had someone for him, his mother, his father? Would he have lived in a better place, a house to come home with? Warm meals awaiting his fixed table. He would have to sacrifice every limb in his body just to taste something other than the usual canned beans. Some unfortunate days he gets nothing on his plate.
He's always jealous of other kids his age. Doting parents who spends meticulous time with them. They could go to school in their lovely uniforms, Victor is stuck in his work jumper, worned and patched up. Those spoiled kids jumping round and about with friends hand in hand, Victor has seen kids like him, but most he didn't see anymore. Victor wishes to learn how to read and write. If he did, he would write something; his sob story, or anything really.
Victor yearns for his situation to get better but the reality of his life sinks in deeper, just like his empty stomach, the last remaining sanity barely hanging on to him as he looked over the edge of the rooftop. His eyes sting wet like a river, and hiccups ran through his clogged up throat. He hears his name being called again.
