A Dangerous Game

Chapter 1

I pull myself up from the hard sidewalk, swinging my arms to ease the stiffness of my limbs after another cold night. I glance around, taking in my surroundings. London is always busy, yet right now there's no one walking the streets. Dawn just broke, casting the city is a dull orange light. Shadows still dance in the alleyways, but I'm not worried about possible thieves. First thing you learn on the streets: don't go into the dark corners. If you stay clear of trouble, trouble usually stays clear of you.

I always make sure to sleep near enough to a college campus so that if you don't look hard enough, I can blend right in with the teenagers and young adults hurrying around. Even if you take the time to study me, I could easily pass for a disorganized and possibly hung over student who's late to class. But no one ever bothers me, too busy with their own lives to worry about some disgruntled looking boy walking the streets all day.

I roll up my sleeping bag and stuff it in my backpack. The only other contents of the bag are a comb, my old Swiss Army knife, a toothbrush, and a small wad of cash. The rest of my belongings are the clothes on my back and the worn photograph in my pocket. I finger it now before setting off.

My breath fogs the early morning air and I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, hiding my face from others and the cold. I've had the thing for about a month now, and it's done surprisingly well considering my living conditions. Or really, lack thereof. I've been homeless for about a year now. My mom raised me until I was eight before she died in a house fire. I still get nightmares from that day almost every time I close my eyes, even though it's been ten years. Smoke clouds my eyes and spills into my lungs so I can't breath. It's so hot that my eyebrows singe and my skin turns bright red. My mom is screaming as flames lick her arms and turn her flowered cotton dress to ash. I try to run to her but a beam crashes to the ground, blocking her from view. That's when I always wake up, my arms reaching out as sweat coats my body and my lungs constrict. The police told me I passed out from smoke inhalation and that I was lucky to still be alive and relatively unharmed. I'll never understand how they were able to say that to my face when my mom didn't make it.

For a while I bounced between foster homes, but I caused enough trouble to get every willing couple to kick me out. Finally they just gave up, and I've been on my own ever since. Well, almost.

I touch the old photo again, feeling the frayed edges of the polaroid. I've memorized their faces: my mom smiling over a huge pink stuffed bear, waving one of it's fluffy arms at the camera as my dad laughs with his arm around her petite shoulders. I have his brown curly hair and height, but that's about where the similarities end. His shoulders are proud and his muscles are tight and well defined beneath his shirt. His eyes are dark brown and he has a well groomed beard. Or, at least, he did when this photo was taken. My mom and I look a lot more similar, despite her long blonde hair. We have the same eyes that crinkle when we smile and matching dimples. She used to poke them to make me laugh. She loved music and belted out her favorite songs around the house, taught me how to play guitar, and even introduced me to my favorite artists.

A familiar ache fills my chest, tight and painful as I relive my memories of her. It was just the two of us; my dad left one day on a business trip and never came back. My mom told me she still loved him and that he'd be back soon, but I never saw him again. Ever since she died I've been looking for him, but he might as well be a ghost. Internet searches in the library bring no results, he has no friends in London to ask about, and my mother was the only one he had ever called.

I'm old enough to get a job now, but I can't bring myself to do it. Besides, I haven't gone to school since my last foster family, which was almost two years ago. Since I don't want to end up working at a random McDonald's, I've held back. My real dream would be to pursue a career in music, but that's all it is, a dream. Being homeless gives me enough worries, like when I'll be able to have my next meal and if I'll be able to find a decent place to sleep. There's always enough going on to avoid thinking about what I'm even doing. Do I really think my dad is just suddenly going to appear and take me into his world? I haven't seen him since I was four. It's not like he'd be able to recognize me, and living on the streets, he could easily never find me. If he was even looking.