The Darkest Hour

Cold December Night

Zeb felt like crap every time he thought about the girl and her huge brown eyes, filled with hurt after he'd snapped at her. He knew she'd done what she had because she was simply a good person- completely innocent about the kind of danger she could put herself in just because she was nice. He shouldn't have been so harsh.

An icy gust of wind stabbed at his face, shaking him from his reverie. You're so stupid, Zeb.

Moping around about the hurt feelings of some rich girl wouldn't fill his stomach. He peeled himself off the freezing bench, willing his tired legs to keep moving, but even as he walked, she still occupied his thoughts.

Ruby the Rich Girl. He'd known she was rich, even in the horrible McDonald's uniform he'd been able to see it. Zeb had always had an eye for that kind of thing. It made him curious, the more he considered it- there was no need for her to be working there, he was sure, but yet, there she was. It was strange, and it bothered him that he couldn't put the pieces together. Zeb always liked to be the one with the whole puzzle figured out. Surprises were never welcome.

Zeb felt someone jostle him, became aware of being closed in. Without really realising, he'd joined the human river of people flowing down one of the busiest streets in London. If he hadn't been trying to spot a good place to set up, Zeb might have paused to enjoy how the Christmas lights twinkled prettily above the mass of humanity gleefully clutching shopping bags.

Eventually, he shouldered past a couple of people and all but collapsed into a deep doorway. Catching his breath, he dug in his bag, searching for his sign, the familiar nausea twisting his stomach. He'd been doing this for over a year now, but the shame still burned every time. He knew what the people were thinking, as their eyes fell on him and their lips curled with disgust. He was a human parasite, trying to scrounge off others because he didn't want to work. He couldn't blame the people who would pretend not to notice him. Everyone knew that beggars just wanted money for drugs, alcohol, or cigarettes, and would climb into fancy cars at the end of the day, after making a killing off decent, hardworking folk.

Except he wasn't, and didn't. Zeb was certainly no angel, but by some mercy and a lot of prayer from his grandmother, he wasn't slave to any of those vices, and his sign that proclaimed him 'Homeless and Hungry' was true.

He also knew his appearance often made people suspicious. As a young, able bodied guy, he should be more than able to work for a living. Little did they know how badly he wanted a job, how many times he'd walked for hours to attend an interview, being rejected time after time. Even when he made an effort to clean himself up, there was no hiding his status as a homeless waster. And then there was his record. Zeb could have been wearing a suit from Saville Row, and they still would have turned him down. Who in their right mind would employ an 18 year old who'd already managed to get arrested several times, spend time inside, and who had left school without a single qualification to his name?

It had taken the death of his Gran, the only person he'd really cared about, to make him realise what a screw up he'd made of his life. Some days it really felt pointless, and Zeb wondered if it was worth all the effort. Picturing himself still on the streets in 30 years made him want to throw up. Yet he pushed on. He knew she wouldn't have wanted him to throw in the towel, but it was hard to think of any way out of the hole he was in.

So he sat, another freezing evening cross legged on a soggy square of cardboard, his head bowed to avoid any potential eye contact. After a while, his heart stopped pounding and he let his mind drift. Most of the passersby didn't even see him. The temperature was dropping and he pulled his hat down and his hoodie up to try and shield his face from the bitter air.

Over the music drifting from the nearby shop, a child shrieked excitedly about all the presents she wanted, and Zeb sighed as she passed, the unfairness of life once again thrown into sharp relief. If he had been born into a family like hers, would it have been the same? Gran always told him he had to take responsibility for his choices, but still, he wondered. He shook his plastic cup, the couple of coppers he'd amassed rattling forlornly in the bottom. No Christmas spirit for him, so far.

Zeb had hoped he wouldn't be forced to take something, but another day had passed without food, and he was starting to get desperate. He knew the risk he would be taking, and maybe he could wait until tomorrow. The Salvation Army had a soup kitchen every Wednesday in the community centre. His stomach growled in protest, constricting with hunger, and a thought suddenly occurred to him. If only he hadn't been so rude to Rich Ruby, he could have befriended her. She was so pathetically trusting, all heartstrings tugged at the plight of the poor guy her manager had been going to throw into the cruel night. Zeb growled under his breath, furious with himself. What an idiot he'd been. He'd wasted the opportunity fortune had handed to him on a plate. How long could he have played it out? He bet a good sob story and some sad, tear filled eyes would have milked her for ages.

The first person to actually treat him with a bit of human decency in months, and he'd messed it up, like he always did.

He stood, gathering his meagre belongings. The decision was made. The pain in his stomach was too torturous to ignore. Zeb again slipped into the crowd, refusing to listen to the voice that screamed at him that this was a huge mistake.