From Skid Row to Rich Row

Meanwhile, Up in Rich Row

Animals, dressed in drabby shawls and ratty clothes, scavenge the trash cans for any valuables. I toss a coin and watch as they all fight over it, stomping on each other's feet. As amusing as it is though, I have places to be. Places far from this filth.

I'm on my way home and decided, on a whim, to take a shortcut, through this dump. I avoid the inferior, Mother always told me to steer clear of Skid Row. She says, "Skid Row is for the unfortunate, for the substandard."

And I agree.

Back after the war, the soldiers were treated as kings, rightfully so, for fighting and winning the war. Those who didn't join in the fight were banished to the outskirts of the city, and most of the makeshift cities began to thrive.

All but Skid Row.

Skid Row was cursed with thinkers, wanna-be heroes trying to save everyone from evil, supposedly people like me. They cause riots, start fires, and one time, they set a blazing fire through a patch of ground where houses as big as museums were to be built. They peace-keepers sectioned off Skid Row, building a wall between them and all other harboring cities. The only way in or out were those walls until all the peace-keepers manning the guard stations would mysteriously die.

Mother also says I have to find a suitable match, or at least start looking for one. Father says he wants me to stop growing up. But neither of those are under my control. They hardly agree, Mother says, 'Eat your veggies', and Father counters with, 'Eat your meat'. So I eat all of it or none of it.

My parents considered an arranged marriage, but I put an end to the ordeal by throwing a fit. Not my brightest moment, but, the point is: my life is not tractable, I am the creator of my own destiny.

That's why I like to write stories, stories of adventures and mysteries, of secrets,  love, and secret love. Basically, whatever I feel like writing because I have the control over what happens, I say what goes.

I began to write an ending when I hear screams from the other room. Running, I rush into the hallway. The screams seem farther away from here. I run towards the stairs, glancing in the rooms as I pass by.

Mother is hiding behind the kitchen counter, right away I know something's wrong:

Mother doesn't cook.

I look at her and she points her long, bony finger at a man. She practically touches him, he's so close. A gun in hand, he wears a serious, yet expressionless, face. I panic, racking my brain for a crime I might have committed. Finally, he says, "I'm here for your father."

My Father is a well-known scholar, what could that man possibly need him for?

"I said, I'm lo-"

"I heard you the first time." I spit.

"Watch yourself", he tells me, "Or you'll end up like your father did."

I cast an uneasy glance to my mother, she avoids my gaze.

"Well, what the hell did he even do? That way, I'll be able to not end up like him."

"I can't tell you that, it's classified information."

"Well, why are you still here? My father isn't here, so you may leave."

"Watch yourself, you're coming awful close to-"

"Close? I'm at least a few feet away.", I hiss at him.

"One more and I'll have to-

"You'll have to what?" I'm actually enjoying myself, I haven't done anything this interesting since I chipped a tooth in 6th grade.

"No!", Mother whispers to me. "You don't want to do this, please don't do this!"

The guard casts an uneasy glance at me.

"Mother, I'm sorry", I whisper to her, then to the guard I shout, "What do you want, he's not here!"

"I have to bring him in, today, no delays."

My shoulders slump. "Have you checked the bar?" I muttered, giving up. If he isn't already mad I should quit before I end up in jail covered in filth.

"Yes, and I have soldiers watching for him, though he most likely slipped town."

After glancing at my distraught mother, I ask,"Do you have to take him, or can you bring someone-"

"NO! No, no!", my mother cries, bawling, tears dripping down her face.

"Someone else?" he finishes for me.

I nod, looking at my mother who is slumped on the floor, bleary-eyed, sobbing.

"Take me", I say.

"I don't know if I ca-

"Take me." I say again. "please."

"I guess it'll be okay if we use you, I mean, you are his son."

"No, don't take my baby boy, not my baby!" mom cries after the officer and me.

I'm not cuffed, nor did I do anything wrong, yet when the neighbors gather in front of their lawns I can't help but feel as though they're judging me. They whisper and it takes everything I have to not yell at them. Though I can't help but laugh, after all, I stopped angering him to not end up in jail, but jail would be better than the rumors that are bound to come.

If Father ever comes back, he'll need to find a new family, because I sure as hell am no longer a part of his.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Finally, we arrive, and although it's grand, it's smaller than my house and not a pleasant color.