I leaned my head back as I let the cool night air caress my face. I stood like that for quite some time, letting the wind whip through my sandy blonde hair. I would gladly just stand like this all night, but the weather had been on and off lately, and freezing to death wasn't on my to do list.
I dislodged myself from the streetlight I was leaning against and started walking towards the local homeless shelter. I wasn't always a hobo. I was ten years old when I ran away from my foster family. My foster dad, Phil, was an ex-war veteran and suffered from post traumatic stress disorder. His wife, Mary, was an abusive alcoholic so we were often subject to violent outbursts, my fellow fosters and I.
The social worker that was assigned to check up on us was convinced that our injuries derived from fights at school. Mary would tell her that we were "messed up foster children" and that for this reason, school fights are inevitable. The social worker would buy it every time. "Broken glass cuts" she'd agree. One day, Mary came home on a drunken rampage. She woke us up to beat us and, when I refused to sit still and let her hit me, she took her cigarette and burned my shoulder.
That was the night I ran away. I left, but not before dumping all her liquor in the sink and setting it on fire. I was on the news day and night for about two years after that, but after a while there was only the occasional flyer with my face plastered on it.
It wasn't long before everyone forgot about me. My face stopped showing up on the news, flyers ceased to be posted. They wouldn't recognize me anyway, street-life and puberty had changed me beyond recognition. I didn't even know who I was anymore.
I was nearing the entrance to the shelter when the security guard said something to cut me short.
"Sorry Reid, were all filled up tonight."
I cursed under my breath.
"Great...", I muttered sarcastically.
"You're welcome to stay at my place for the night", he offered.
That was something I had to think about. Tony was really cool and all, but he was extremely accident prone.
Any trouble within a 5 mile radius was bound to find him. I had been to Tony's house three times before and every time I went he nearly got me killed. Last week he accidentally blew up the microwave, the week before that he pushed me in a pool unaware that I couldn't swim, yesterday he tried to teach me how to drive and accidentally hit me with the car.
"C'mon, jack in the box on me?", he proposed with grin. That guy drives a hard bargain.
"Alright", I said. "Just promise you'll keep the ambulance on speed dial."
He flashed a brief smile before disappearing to fetch his car. I pulled off my glove and began tracing the crescent moon etched into the palm of my hand.
Did I forget to mention I had tattoos? If I could even call them that.
For as long as I can remember I've had these weird markings engraved in my hands.
Growing up, I thought nothing of them, until I realized that none of the kids around me had anything similar. I was labeled a freak and the kids in my orphanage made sure I was aware of it.
Things got worse for me when another one of the orphans tried to bully me. He was new, but he looked tough so his rep shot up pretty quick. The kid ended up being my roommate and we had gotten into quite a few arguments because, in all honesty, the guy was a downright slob. He'd leave his dirty socks and underwear all over the floor and I'd gotten tired of being his maid.
I confronted him about all the mess he was making and that turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. The guy got pissed. He started to reach out out and grab me, so I raised my arms to shield myself. Brave guy, huh?
That's when it happened. Before he could even touch me, the crescent moon on my left hand began to glow a deep purple. Startled, he fell back on his rump, eyes wide with shock.
"What the hell...", were the last words he ever said to me.
I was in just as much awe as he was, because that was the first time I'd ever seen the tattoos glow. I didn't quite understand it at first but, it turns out, whenever I'm about to be in any kind of danger the crescent moon on my left hand would glow a dark purplish color.
My right hand, however, never glows at all. The tattoo's in the shape of the sun and sometimes I'd sit and trace the contours of its rays wondering what it's for. What the both of them could mean?
The feeling that I was being watched snapped me out of my reverie. I looked up only to find that no one was there, but I still couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching me.
That's when I heard something very peculiar. It was a very faint whisper, seeming to come from everywhere at once. It was a chilling voice, so cold it sent a shiver down my spine.
"It is time, young prince....it is time."
Without warning, my hand began to glow a deep purple, and I spoke the only words I could muster.
"Fuck my life."
