Hearts Recycled But Never Saved

I lit a cigarette and started walk down the boulevard. It was getting late. Clouds hung over town, ready to splash some water. I could already suspect the freezing cold, soaked feeling, even if it hadn't struck me yet.
I wasn't really just a person that you don't pay attention to when passing by. A) My choice of clothing and appearance wasn't the most common style. My facade was full of studs, safety pins and ripped clothes. B) My point of view on how to act was based on impulses and were usually ruthless. C) I lived on the streets. Mostly on the boulevards. And you could tell that by only having one quick look at me.
The thin smoke from my cig slowly died in the rain that, just as predicted, started to fall. Oh well. Time to find a home again.

After all, there really wasn't any "home." Not since my mother died. I never had any father either; mom was a prostitute from that she was only 16 years old.
My dad was one of her, so called, customers. He offered her some booze. And then some more. And some more.
And when they both were really drunk, I was made. Yup, that's how she expressed it. How they "made" me. That's why I almost never label myself "human" or "just a person". I'm a thing, a product.
I am Whatsername.

I had heard that story so many times when I was a little kid, but not that mom wanted to recall it. I used to ask her to tell me again. Yes, it sounds terrible, but what seven-year-old takes life so very seriously? Of course I didn't understand that this actually had happened, of course I didn't understand that the monster she was talking about was my father.

It was a quite sad story, that I myself prefered to announce to as few people as possible, even if I actually did meet a lot of persons living the way I did. There were so many lost kids out there. I was one of them. At times when I had considered leaving town, running away again, I couldn't, because deepest within I felt a connection to all those dirty faces. I belonged to them. But even if we should have felt the same sympathy for each other, it wasn't common meeting someone I would keep hang out with. Most people showing up in my life would soon show their real personalities, as complete assholes. This had made me a quiet person, who kept my own secrets. I could scream out my political opinions, but never my emotional views.

Maybe we all, who should have felt sympathy for each other, had just stopped to care?

I settled down in the tunnel. There were already a lot of kids there. I looked for any one I recognized, but I seemed to be alone. I had no real friends, that I could arrenge a meeting with, or talk to about anything, but I would gladly talk to people about superficial things.
As time ticked by, more and more people started to drop in. I chatted to two other girls and gave them my very last cigs.
I guessed I'd have to steal some tomorrow. It really didn't make any difference, I was used to stealing. It was just like when family people say they have to go shopping. To me, that means "I have to go stealing." In my condition, money wasn't a problem, since they never had existed in my entire life. I couldn't earn money, neither could I lose it.
I just sat there in the tunnel, as one of the all lost kids. We were angels with dirty faces, and we were all doomed to something we didn't deserve. That was the only place where I could be one in the crowd.
That night I didn't fall asleep at all. I sat up all damn night long, watching the others fall asleep, one by one. The loneliness and hoplessness ripped my inside, stabbed me and teared me apart. I was in a bad phase again.

01:16am, I stated, as having a look at my watch. Every minute seemed the same length as a year. Maybe all I needed to was sleep, and then time would tick normally again?
I pushed my torn and worn out backpack up as a pillow, but I felt invalid when trying to sleep. I concentrated to blink. Come on, you need some sleep, I tried to force myself.

Suddenly, another guy dropped into the tunnel. I tried to keep my eyes off him, like I just hadn't seen him. But I was the only one around who was awake, and he wasn't blind.
His glance met mine, and I nodded with a forced, skew smile.

"Hi", he said as making a gesture to the little space beside me. "Can I sit down?"

"Sure", I replied and pushed my bag aside. He smelled pot.

Awkward silence. I had no courage to look at him, and he seemed to not dare looking at me either. He snatched up a small stone from the ground and kept dropping it to the ground, picking ut up, and dropping it again. It took me about three minutes to figure out something I would say.

"Um", I began and forced my head to face him. "What's your name, by the way?"

When he looked up from the stone that he had dropped a 34th time, I realised how beautiful eyes he had. They were dark brown, and looked so sad, like telling me a story, although he gave me a smile.

"Jimmy", he said. "And yours is?"

I bit my lip and sighed.

"I really have none. I'm not a you, or a she. I am an it", I eventually told him and stretched out my hand. "Whatsername."

He shook my hand carefully, and smiled that mysterious smile again, I just couldn't interpret it.

"Correction. My name is Jesus of Suburbia."

I was glad and surprised he wasn't one of these dickheads, who would go: "Seriously, what's your name?" This guy just got it. Neither did I question his name.
As Jimmy didn't come up with anything else to say, and I had started to feel willing to talk, I took my chance.

"Do you have a lifestory, Jimmy?" I said to the wall infront of us, since I had failed to look into his eyes.

Jimmy grinned.

"Yeah I guess I have." He scratched his forehead.

"Can I hear it?" I smiled and managed to turn to him.

"Are you really that curious?"

"I am." I started nodding fervently.

"Are you really sure you want to hear a misery like me?"

"Yes." I beamed, and he smiled back.

"Alright. Honestly, you'll get really bored, I'm like a stupid poet." He grinned again.

"Hey! I want to hear it, come on!"

"Okay, okay!"

We burst into laughter, both of us. Something turned my stomach upside down. I felt something brand new grow inside.

"Promise me to not laugh", Jimmy begged.

I shook my head and put my hand at my chest, just where the heart is. "I would never do that."

Jimmy closed his eyes and sighed.

"I'm the son of rage and love, the Jesus of Suburbia..." He took a deep breath.

"Is that all?" I asked, moving a little bit closer.

"Please, don't force me... it's simply the worst story ever."

Then, I saw those beautiful eyes glisten with tears.

"Sorry, I obviously didn't--" I tried, but he just held up his hand.

"It's okay. We better get some sleep."

I nodded and bit my lip. I still couldn't tell any forgiveness from him.

"Really, I am sorry!"

Jimmy gave me a meaning glance, and I lowered my voice.

"Okay", I whispered.

And I knew that I could trust Jimmy. I had never been so open to anyone before.
Maybe... maybe, maybe, maybe, something brand new had grown inside of him too?