Shadowed

I. A Hidden Voice

It's best to stay in the shadows. Unseen, unknown. If no one knows who I am, at least I'll be safe.

It gets lonely sometimes, sure. But every time I crave a human touch, a relationship, a look of kindness rather than pity or disgust, a word aimed at me other than the venomous shouts of "Urchin!" "Druggie!" "Street trash!", I remember why I have to do this. Why I have to hide, and push everyone away.

I've been in this city a little over a year now. Long enough to know the best places to find food, places you can sleep where the cops don't come around, and the other street kids. Some of them are addicts, kicked out by parents who don't know what to do with them. Some are just in a tough situation or don't have anywhere else to go. There are a few evil ones, but mostly we help each other out. I don't know why people think the homeless are bad people. We're not. Most of us are just trying our hardest to make our way through life. Just like everyone else.

I'm not really friends with any of them, but Maya's a pretty goddamn good companion. She's only seventeen, but she's been on the streets longer than just about anyone else here, except for me, of course. 

But she doesn't know that. No one does. So when I first came here, she showed me around. Showed me how to get food. How to find a little bit of cash, for emergencies. How to steal, if I ever needed to.

I already knew all of those things. But I let her think I was a newbie, that I'd been kicked out of my parents' house for whatever reason. I told her a fake name. I haven't used my real name in years.

Sometimes, when the truth is so crazy and complicated, it's easier to lie.

-

I've never set foot in a shelter and I don't want to either. If you do that, they need to know all sorts of things about you, like your date of birth and shit. I'm better off if I never think about that.

Besides, I learned early not to tell anyone anything that they can use against you. So I sleep on park benches, usually. The ground, if I have to, but I try to avoid it.

Most restaurants don't throw out their breakfast food until around noon, so I have to wait to eat. My stomach growls and twinges, but I can't do anything about it.

Maya can pretty much charm the skin off a snake, and she's been here long enough to have some connections. Every now and then, she gets us into this gym to shower, but it doesn't happen everyday. The owner, a middle-aged bodybuilder named Tyson, grumbles about all us street rats tracking dirt into his gym, but he lets us anyway. I think I know what Maya does to convince him to let us in, and it makes me want to vomit. She does it for us, though. She doesn't complain, and so neither do I.

Today, when I get to the gym, though, Maya's not there. Nor is anyone else. I consider, for a moment, where they might be, but it makes no difference to me. I've gone without showers before. I decide to wait, though, to see if anyone comes. I drift off towards the alley behind the building, strewn with broken glass, trash, and graffiti.

I lean back against a crumbling brick wall, and see a cat peeking out from behind a building. Its fur is matted and dirty and part of its ear's been torn off. I meet its eyes. They're green, like mine, and wide with terror. I'm sure they look like mine once did. That was before I learned to bury my emotions. Now, no matter how I'm feeling inside, my face remains completely blank.

The cat scampers away. I don't miss it. There was a time when I would have wished for it to come back, just so I didn't have to be alone. But alone doesn't scare me anymore.

"Hey, you!" says a voice from around the front of the building. I look up. It's a girl of about fourteen or fifteen, with long, tangled blond hair. I've seen her before. I know most of the street kids around here now. Her name's Abby. I remember meeting her before, with Maya.

"You're one of Maya's?" she asks uncertainly. I offer a nod.

"Do you know where she is?" I shake my head.

She waits a moment, I guess to see if I'll say anything. I don't. I've never been a very talkative person. It helps, when trying to maintain the whole I'm-not-here facade, if you don't talk a lot.

"I think I'll wait here with you, if you don't mind," says Abby, and I nod again.

We sit, leaned against the side of the building, and I try to remember what I've heard about Abby. I think she doesn't have parents, or at least parents who care enough to take care of their kid. It's sad, sure. But she seems to be doing okay.

The silence grows with every minute, until Abby breaks it. "What's your name?"

"Shane," I tell her. It's the name I told Maya when I first came here. It kind of makes me feel good, that she bothered to ask. Most people don't.

"Well, Shane," she says, "I think Maya's not coming."

"Weird," I say, and it is. Maya found an abandoned watch a couple of months back, and since then she's normally very punctual.

"Should we go look for her?" Abby asks me hesitantly. I don't know why she keeps asking me questions. We look nearly the same age. It's not like I have any sort of authority.

I nod, and push off the ground to stand up. I'm wearing gloves, but still feel the sharp sting as I accidentally put my hand down on a shard of glass. Probably a beer bottle. All the unwanted, forgotten things, like garbage and street kids, end up in alleys like this.

We start down the sidewalk towards one of Maya's usual haunts. It's still early, so there's not many people out. The fewer the better, though. I hate passing other people in the sidewalk. It only takes them a few seconds to realize you're homeless, and then they avert their eyes quickly. Abby and I definitely look the part, too—two slouched-over teens, with overlong hair, worn out clothes, and hooded, wary eyes.

We pass some dingy-looking bars, a sketchy laundromat, several shabby apartment buildings, and a small bookstore. Most nights, Maya crashes on a patio behind a long-closed Italian restaurant, because there's some nice, plush chairs left over. As we round the corner down another street, we pass a young woman, smartly dressed. She looks like she's on her way to work. She crinkles her nose as she continues past us, makes a scowling grimace, and then walks faster in the other direction.

"What a bitch," Abby mutters. Silently, I agree. The sidewalks are starting to become more crowded, and, I notice, most people cross to the other side of the street. People really will do anything to avoid people like us.

We're getting close to Maya's place, and just as I start to make out the faded marquee about a block ahead of us, I hear a sharp, gritty voice behind me.

"Rowan Shapiro."

I jump, startled, and look around wildly, but I can't see anyone in the direction the voice came from.

I must look really frightened, because Abby turns and asks, "Shane? What's wrong?"

"That voice- did you hear where it came from?" I gasp, reeling in shock.

This is more words than I've spoken all day, and Abby's stunned at all the emotion I'm emitting. "Where it came from?" she repeats. "Shane, what are you talking about? It was probably just some creep."

I don't answer, still completely shaken by the name that I haven't heard in thirty-two years.