30 Days To Fall In Love

Day Fifteen - Emma

***Emma***

I woke up with an aching back and a headache - I was surprised I’d fallen asleep in the first place. It was the daytime, even though everything still looked dark. Faces were still difficult to make out, voices muffled.

The girl with dark hair noticed I’d woken up, “Morning, Emma.”

“Good morning,” I said brightly. I shocked myself at how cheerful I sounded, despite the fact that I had no home, no family and no money.

“Do you cook?” she asked.

“No,” I admitted.

She rolled her eyes, “Well, that’s a shame! Bradley and Izzy are the only ones who can cook here.”

She nodded towards two mixed race teenagers, both tired looking and busy lighting matches.

“This morning we’re having beans,” the girl, presumably Izzy, said.

“Great!” I enthused.

The boy who’d given me the blanket last night came over and sat next to me, leaning against the damp wall, “I’m Peter.”

“Hi, Peter,” I smiled. “I’m Emma.”

“Sorry, do you mind me asking? How did you end up homeless?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” I said. “My parents kicked me out a week or so ago. Then the boy I was staying with turned abusive so I left.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. The way he spoke made me realise he meant it.

“What about you?” I asked.

His eyes fell, “My Mum killed herself. It drove my Dad to drugs and alcohol; in the end I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

I placed a hand on his arm, “I’m sorry...”

He shrugged it off, “That was three years ago now - I’m happy here.”

“So, what do you lot do?” I asked.

The mixed race girl, Izzy, came over to me with a plastic plate half full of baked beans, “Enjoy, Emma.”

“Thank you,” I smiled gratefully.

Peter took his too with a gracious nod then returned to his conversation with me, “We eat, sleep and venture into the town centre. We all have different ‘roles’, so to speak. Some of us beg...”

His gaze drifted to a group of young children - they looked the grubbiest out of everybody. One girl looked about six; she had mousy brown hair and bright blue eyes. Her whole body was covered in bruises so that she seemed to be stained black and blue; this was not the sort of pain anybody should undergo, let alone a six year old.

“Why do the little ones do the begging?” I asked. “Surely somebody should clean them up and send them to school?”

Peter laughed, “School? People that try school get put into children’s homes. The teachers are clever; they can suss you out in the instant. If there’s a single sign that you’re not like the other kids - they’ll report you to the authorities.”

“Still, couldn’t someone try and teach them something back here?” I asked. The children were gazing around the place innocently, my heart leaped out for them. They should be at home with their parents, watching television and getting told off for staying up too late.

“It’s easier to get them to beg. People give money to the little children; it’s them that they pity the most.” Peter explained.

“What do the rest of you do, then?” I asked.