Starless Boys ☆ Yuri On Ice

Life

St Petersburg winters are beautiful sights; there's a certain magic and serenity about the endless white, the silently falling snow. It's so relaxing to sit by a window with a hot chocolate and a good book, watching as layers of white fluff build up on roads and roofs. 

It's not so beautiful when you have to watch from beneath a bridge. The fantasy image is soiled by the senses; the bitter cold and exhaustion make the snow look like an enemy. A threat no one person can overcome. Certanly not me.

Cars pass overhead as I finally work up the strength to stop shivering and stand up. It's a disjointed action, standing brings sickness and disorientation to my body. 

I left with one, large back pack. The contents of it reducing with each passing day yet it only gets harder to carry as days pass. All my food is gone, soon all my money will be too.  At this point it's a counting game, counting until starvation finally makes me drop dead in the snow. I'd like to die in snow, it could burry me, leave me lost.

Is something really lost if nobody is looking for it?

Nobody would come if I had a real funeral. Being swallowed by the snow isn't something saddening to me, only the inevitable.

Sighing, I hitch the backpack on my shoulders and start to walk, out of the bridges shade and into the snow. It crunches beneath my shoes and freezes my toes even further.

Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it, running away. Would I go back to the yelling, the bruises, the broken glass,  the tears and sobs, the scars and blood just to have food, a roof over me, a change of clothes, warm water.

I find that if I had stayed I would have the knives, the blades, the needles and scissors. I wouldn't still be alive if I had stayed.

Sometimes I wonder if that's really a bad thing.

I walk the road by the frosty beach, it's wide, with Christmas lights on lamp posts and in shops. Few people walk the streets but the ones that pass me keep their distance. I don't blame them; if I were to see a man stumbling down a road with long dirty hair, a wild beard, filthy clothes and weeks worth of grime on him I wouldn't be keen to stay close. 

When I reach the corner of the road there's a diner there. It's noting fancy, very simple, well lit, but the smell of coffee that hits me when a man leaves is magical. The scent alone brings some life back into my tired body.

I wonder if it's worth the last of my coins.

What does it mater? It's not as if I'll survive much longer.

With that thought I throw all caution to the wind and push the glass door open. I don't regret it. The smell of coffee lacing with aromas of bacon and cheese and potato make my stomach weep in desperation. If I could afford it I'd buy the entire menu.

And the warmth. It's so warm. I almost melt to the ground right where I stand, stay here and sleep until I can't wake up.

However I'd like not to get kicked out, so many places have turned me away based on my apperance alone, or due to customer complaint.  I tread on eggshells every time I set foot in a building.

As I walk passed the counter the man behind it watches me, not with disgust necessarily, but with confusion. He's foreign, his skin a caramel shade no russian could ever attain. He's dressed all in black, with a name tag I don't bother to read. He looks so young. I looked that young once. I am that young. The only word I'd use to describe myself now is haggard.

I sit in the very corner of the diner, at a small square table right up against the wall to wall window, furthest away from any of the few customers. Out of sight out of mind, it decreases my chances of being kicked out.