broken; t.reznor

|I| ✄ Vagabond.

Song: Black-- Pearl Jam

April 11, 1993

Trent

The gold light that lingered from the street lamp illuminated the girl's face more beautifully than anything Trent had ever seen. Her pale features were remarkable, her dark eyes like two glimmering emeralds in her skull. The curve of her face was as delicate and smooth as fine china. She wouldn't look at him. Trent was invisible.

No matter how long he stared in her direction, she never seemed to question his attention. Her hands remained clutched around a brown, burlap backpack that sat on her lap. Shoulders limp, back slouched, eyes distant from the world. There was so much Trent wanted to say, but the spot where his brain and mouth connected couldn't form words.

They weren't the only ones awaiting the arrival of the next bus. There was an old woman who smelled of cat piss seated on the same bench as Trent. A hooker in thick makeup, with her hair thrown up in a black bun on top of her head and a scruffy fur coat, leaned against a stop sign nearby, smoking a cigarette whilst looking like the loneliest person alive. Trent frowned. How upsetting, being a whore to earn money, or maybe not even being awarded for her duties. Unfair.

He tore his gaze from the prostitute, his eyes falling back on the mysterious girl with the backpack. Her trench coat looked too big for her frail frame. Her long chestnut brown hair was wavy and looked as though it hadn't been washed for weeks. Maybe she was homeless; maybe she did have a home, but no running water.

The rest of her looked quite clean, though. Whatever the case, she still looked beautiful. A gorgeous mystery. Trent didn't want to look away. He wanted to soak up her beauty like a sponge in water. Trent was intrigued.

The girl turned her head to face the hooker, causing Trent to flinch. She kept her eyes fixated on the woman for what seemed like a lifetime. He swallowed the lump in his throat. The man tried to find something else to focus on. He noticed that the old lady next to him had pulled a gardening magazine from her Mary Poppins-esque bag. No matter how hard Trent tried, his mind couldn't leave that girl.

Dropping his head, his hair veiled his face like a velvet curtain. A steady breeze blew his hair to the side. He checked his watch. 11:26 PM.

"A pity, isn't it?" A soft voice asked. Trent shot his head up. The girl continued to stare at the prostitute, her expression stern. The whore tossed her cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it out with one of her stilettos.

"A girl is put out on the street by some sick fuck to flaunt herself for what some creeps call a 'practice', but what does she get? Venereal disease and a bad reputation. It's disgusting." The girl hissed.

Trent was astonished. She had made a very good point. It got quiet for a little while, so he decided to share his thoughts. "We're all treated like hookers in a sense. We're misused by others, and we lose ourselves. People just walk all over us. They fuck us over." Trent said blankly. He could feel his ears burning.

The girl let out a humorless laugh but smiled to her fullest potential. "That has to be the most truthful statement I've ever heard."

*****

They sat together when the bus picked them up. Trent let her have the window seat while he sat by the aisle. They rambled on about anything that came mind: movies to books, politics to religion, nothing too personal except for Trent's bipolar disorder which she was very non-judgmental about. much to Trent's relief.

Her name was Juno McCallister, and she had recently reached the legal drinking age. She was a drifter, a wanderer. There was no destination in particular that she was traveling to— she simply wanted to see the world. All Juno wanted was to live freely, and not have to spend eternity the way someone else would want her to.

She had been carrying that bag around with her since she first started her journey. She wasn't a bum, and she wasn't necessarily homeless. She had money to spend, she kept herself clean. What would you consider a hygienic person who chose to live a natural, on-the-road lifestyle?

Trent smirked at her. "You mean a vagabond?"

Juno

"That's the word!" Juno exclaimed. "A vagabond-- a free spirit. I'm full of wanderlust. I have no destination, but I'm happy with wherever my adventure takes me. No regrets."



The boy smiled at her honesty. He went by the name Trent, and he was ugly. A long pale face; a large yet skinny nose; a set of unearthly greenish-gray eyes that matched his shoulder-length jet black hair. He was like a character straight out of an Anne Rice novel. Brooding, dark, perplexing. He looked quite homely compared to her-- the homeless girl.

He had on a ratty jean jacket and a matching pair of jeans with holes in the knees. The slickest part of his attire was the shiny, black leather boots he wore on his feet. He had a set of gold hoop earrings in both his ears. Among all the flaws and imperfections, there was something odd and uncanny about him that caught her eye. She couldn't pinpoint it.

"Juno the Vagabond," Trent snickered. "I like it. It sounds like a cartoon character."

Juno playfully rolled her eyes. She liked this new friend of hers. Even if he was ugly.