Skippin' The Hard Part | Skipp x Reader

Prologue

Y/n's POV

You stared out the window. As a mere five year old, you had to stand on your tiptoes in order to see. Your sleeves itched and the air conditioner wasn't working, so your hair stuck to the back of your neck. It was hot. And you were bored.

Outside, you see a man walking and eating a sandwich. Another man, ragged and threadbare, was sitting on the ground looking at the sky. His bones were protruding out his skin due to how skinny he was. His clothes were tattered, and it looked like he hasn't eaten in weeks. Meanwhile, the man holding the sandwich, he wore a classy suit with a professional top hat and a monocle. The difference between the two men was like the contrast between black and white. It looked as if they'd stepped out of opposite dimensions.

The man on the ground didn't spare a glance at the rich man. All he did was stare at the clouds, probably making shapes out of the gray cotton balls that clung in the troposphere. The sky was painted an unpleasant shade of yellow, and specks of air pollution were visible along the horizon. This was normal weather for the city of Ramshackle.

As the rich man passed by, he made a scornful expression and kicked the scrap in the knee. He was shouting some words while beating up the poor stranger. You watched him throw his sandwich and spat, humiliating the scrap. He walked away with a preposterous attitude wiping his monocle with his sleeve. The man on the ground sat there, taking a deep breath, then picking up the half-eaten sandwich. Your nose crinkled as he took a bite and chewed slowly.

That man. He was eating the sandwich right after getting beaten like nothing happened. You could see how dirty the sandwich was from the window. Disgusting! You would never even touch any food that has hit the floor for more than a second. Nonetheless eat it. No wonder your mother hates scraps.

Despite your distaste for scraps, you still felt a tad bit of pity for the man. There's a reason he's eating that filthy sandwich. All scraps are hungry and poor. They're 'scraps' of society, unwanted leftovers that are a product of inflation & capitalism. A small part of your heart wanted to help that man, feed him actual savory food that isn't rotten or garbage, make him feel like he belongs for once. But your mother would smack your head off if you even stepped one foot towards a scrap's presence.

Speaking of which, you heard your mom's footsteps ring through the room. You whipped your head around and stared at her monotone face, her nefarious eyes peering into your soul. Her nose was pointed high, like she was born to snuff people's darkest secrets and look down on the most revolting of scraps.

"Y/n, darling, you're supposed to be studying your mathematics. Not viewing the appalling outdoors," she said as her feet swept across the floor. You turned your head down, ashamed to have been caught slacking off your studies.

She put her hands on your shoulders and turned you back towards the window. Now both of you were staring, watching the ragged man eat his pathetic sandwich. Your mother huffed and sneered.

"Scraps," she scoffed. "Good for nothing hobos who have no right to be roaming these streets. Too poor to even afford a pack of gum. What are they doing here in front of our home anyway?"

You saw blood staining the man's clothes. Remembering how the other guy had kicked him, you pointed it out and said, "He just got beaten up."

Your mother narrowed her eyes. Her manner of suspicion was one you knew way too well. "Are you showing sympathy for the scrap?" Startled by her sudden change in tone, you straightened up. "No..."

She closed her eyes and turned you around to face her. She had a cruel look in her eyes, and you could've sworn her teeth weren't that sharp before. You gulped, your instincts telling you to run.

"Listen, dear. Scraps are horrible, dangerous people. They litter everywhere and steal from the wealthy. They are straight filth, who rummage through trash cans for food and are always picking fights. You never want to indulge in the activities of a scrap."

She was gazing at you intently, like making an attempt at speaking directly to your heart. Reluctantly, you nodded, feeling uncomfortable in the perturbed tension your mom has created. You didn't want to admit it, but she sometimes resembled a monster lurking through the shadows, watching you closely with her pitch black pupils. Always watching your every move.

"Promise me you'll never show hospitality to a scrap. Promise me you'll always look down on them like the worthless scum they are. Remember we are rich folk, and we don't interact with scraps."

"...Yes, mother. I promise."

Little did she know, your fingers were crossed behind your back.