Pink Walls

Day Three [Part I]

"You know that there are killers in here right?"

I didn't drink. Or smoke. Or do drugs.

Not because I was righteous or brought up well. I just knew that I wouldn't be able to support an addiction unless I sold my soul to the devil. And if anything would keep me in Saffron's fold longer than intended, it would be dependence not loyalty.

Sometimes I wished I could say that being homeless didn't make me a better person, but it did. My experiences calmed me and taught me priorities; taught me that most of the time rewards came with a lot of pain and sacrifice; taught me that no one could be trusted and that there weren't any free meals in life.

Before my father finally disowned me, I had lived my whole life thinking that I had problems—problems I needed a drink or ten to smooth out before I could put on am act like the golden child I was expected to be.

As the only son of two well-known socialites, I had standards to uphold and injustices I could only bear with a smile.

So I did. And the moment I couldn't take it anymore, drank to mute the lies I had to tell and listen to.

But when you didn't have a warm place to sleep or good food to eat, you tended to forget those 'problems' and focus on surviving—if you wanted to survive that is.

I didn't.

Before Frank found me, I was sure that I was going to die on the streets. I was betting on it, more angry at my father than suicidal.

If I died, I thought it would be all over the news, sully his spotless reputation and ruin his prestige.

Now I knew better—no one cared for the homeless, especially when they died—but back then it was the sweetest revenge I could think of.

Frank beat it out of me then fixed me up and dragged me to Ron like a rat snatched out of the sewers before I could fully process what had happened.

I still remembered that day like it had been yesterday.

Just after sunset it had started to rain, and I had been sitting on the sidewalk watching traffic when the brilliant idea hit me.

Dying would solve all my problems.

I hadn't even managed to take a step forward when Frank yanked me back by the collar and threw me down.

I fell to the the ground, too hungry to resist the old man and his cane, and he whacked me until I fought back—until I realized that I didn't really want to die; until I realized the truth.

I had just been hungry, and angry, and hurt.

I had just been lashing out at whatever I could reach, and the closest target had been myself.

That was when I got another epiphany, sitting on the floor of the little shack Frank had once called home while he poured liquor on my wounds. I would live and live well, without my family's connections and money. Even if I had to work till my bones ached, I would live.

That was the best revenge.

And one day I and my father would sit at a table, across from each other. He would want me back but would be too ashamed to apologize, and I would say no and walk away, better off than where I started under his roof.

That fantasy still played in my head sometimes, as childish as it was. Some days it was the reason I got up early in the morning. Other days it was the reason I pretend like I was the only person on the planet and sleep all day.

"Hey." An elbow nudged me in the side for the fourth time in ten minutes. "Who drinks coffee at a bar?"

I traced the rim of the glass cup once before finally turning to Daniel. Today he had paired a purple crop top with black skinny jeans, shamelessly flaunting the gem affixed to his navel.