Something Good

12

Never has Eve been one to shy away from wisdom, the pursuit thereof or knowledge bequeathed. She is however just as quick to forget it. A lesson learned is never a lesson enough for Eve, until she's face to face with the consequences of her ignorance.

Eve takes trembling fingers to the rail of The Link's shutters, her weight shifts to the balls of her feet, several inches taller so she can pull it down with ease. As she battles the rain's cold cloaks and the dead of what suddenly feels like the night at its darkest, she's more than regretful she hadn't taken Morgan's advice and gone home hours ago. Despite the comforts drawn from her borderline twelve hour shift—the back to back inductions and her Everest of admin work—she finds herself counting down the seconds until she's warmly swaddled in her own bed.

The overpass that roofs The Link rattles under the weight of each passing vehicle, still she's thankful for the little shelter it offers from the weather. The steel ledge of the shutters are like ice beneath her fingers, nearing painful to the touch. She bolts it locked, and then ambles the six feet from the building's entrance to her car with her head just about buried in her bag, ruffling through heaps of odds and ends till she finally comes to grips her keys.

"Excuse me, miss."

She double-takes over her shoulder at this, because in all her cautious glances up and down the street, she could've sworn she'd found herself perfectly alone. The thudding of her heart in each of her ears is quick to settle, as does the sharpened edges to her breaths. If not for the obvious youth of the boy who now hovers an impersonal distance from her, she would've thought to be sorely mindful of his approach, of the startle he rocks to her very core. How silly of her not to.

His coat's a size too big and his trousers sit several heights too low. His shoes are scuffed, his gloves are missing several fingertips and Eve can't tell whether it's food creviced at the corner of his mouth or a bruise. Between the strokes of filth on his cheeks, like he'd mistaken a pile of dirt for a pillow, and the pale waft of urine that mists about him, her shift into work mode is faultlessly automatic.

"You okay, hon?"

"You got a lighter?"

Her heart heavys itself, as she stirs in all that's wrong about a kid looking for a lighter at this time of night, in the rain. "No, I'm sorry. Wher—"

"You didn't even check," the boy interrupts her, with a menacing scowl. It's only then that she takes note of his antsy swaying, the nervous clench and un-clench of his fists, then the quick once-over he gives their surroundings. Eve gets a bad feeling yet, in contempt of the thunderous warning that circles her conscience, she just can't bring herself to take heed of it and turn her back on this kid.

"I don't smoke," she says. "It's so cold, you must be freezing. Come inside, let me make—"

"Check again."

And for some reason, her gaze drifts towards her bag, brimming with loose papers and emptied wrappers and some cheapskate cosmetics at best, but nothing in even the littlest resemblance to a lighter. Apparently, that look is all the opportunity a man needs because within the blink of an eye, that same bag is snatched from her grasps by gloved fingers, nimble fingers. The boy uses enough force to make the both of them stumble, and then he's off.

Eve can only watch on, dropped jaw and all, breathlessly tackled by her disbelief, as the boy melds into the night's silhouette with his each departing step, so strikingly fast he may as well have been a figment of her imagination. Within seconds, he's one with the darkness and perfectly lost to view, leaving a chastened woman and a bruised ego in his wake, bagless and—for a passing moment—a little less hopeful in mankind.

She silently climbs into her own car, awed and mostly embarrassed at her naivety. She probably should've stuck to her first mind and left the boy to his own devices.

How silly of her not to.

Apologies for the shortness, I couldn't remember whether the word count was meant to be 1k-1.5k or 700-750 and for some reason didn't think to check before I started writing. I was wondering why I am I cramming so much, lol.

This is somewhat the start of the plot, hopefully. This book is still unplanned, I just have a vague idea of what needs to happen.

I think I would cry for a month if someone stole my bag? Idk, I feel like stealing a girl's bag is so dark because really, you know it's just lipgloss, body spray and a hairbrush. Cards get frozen instantly.

Let me know what you think! (Even though it's short asf, soz)