Blood Brothers
Intro, Part 1
The darkness rested silently, as still and unmoving as the world it cloaked. I was walking along the side of the city street, disturbing the sleeping darkness but nothing else. I hopelessly brushed some hair out of my face, only to have it fall exactly back into its place, hiding one eye and adding a tone of mystery to my appearance. My footfalls made no sound upon the cobblestone streets. Actually, there was truly no audible noise at this tranquil hour. As I continued walking, enjoying the cool night air, I heard the sounds of conversation and laughter begin to fill the air. I rolled my eyes. Surely I should have known that no silence that complete could last forever. Nothing lasts forever.
I saw someone up ahead, a darker mass among the night’s muted colors. I knew at once that it was a person, and from the slow, deliberate pace, I could tell who it was. The same woman who always walked these streets at this hour, much like me. We always passed each other in the same place, steps becoming even as we traveled past that same bar full of happy drunks who would likely be feeling the sharp effects of their alcohol the next day, but for the moment were in another world entirely, one without pain.
I knew she was not one without pain and lived in no such world. Once in a while I would walk past her at some nondescript point before reaching the bar, and it was on those days that I could tell something terrible had happened, for she was walking slower than normal. She was poor; that much I could gather from the same worn dress always clothing her frail body and the sunken, dark eyes in the middle of her face. I rarely spoke a word to her, only nodding once in greeting and receiving a response much the same. She always seemed hopeless to me; even as young as I was, I could recognize that life had not been kind to her. She looked worn out, much older than her years.
It was one cold, gray day in November that I saw her seated on the ground next to a set of concrete stairs leading up into someone’s house, hugging her knees and crying much like a small child. I wasn’t sure how much I could do to help her - I was still in college at the time, and low enough on money as it were - but I felt like I couldn’t just leave her there. So I stopped and offered a hand to help her stand up. At first she refused, but once she realized I was not trying to shove money in her face so she would hopefully disappear and become someone else’s problem, she looked up at me with a tear-filled face and stood, brushing some dirt off of her dress. I flashed her a small smile and asked if we might get coffee somewhere. Her face fell slightly, but she quietly accepted.
The nearest coffee shop was a good two city blocks away, but neither of us was in a hurry to be anywhere. It was the middle of the day, when most of the world was on their lunch break, myself included. My next class started a mere half hour from then, but I wasn’t even sure I planned on attending that day. I had plenty of time to spare for someone who needed help.
Upon first walking into the coffee shop, she became hesitant and suddenly fearful. I noted this, and made sure we took our seats in a far corner of the small café. This seemed to calm her nerves. She rarely made eye contact with anyone, constantly dropping her gaze to the ground or an invisible object on the wall whenever someone glanced her way. As I stood in the short line of customers, debating whether or not I should get her a sandwich or something, I caught her hiding her face with one hand as a well-meaning young woman passed too close and attempted to hand her a wad folded bills.
I waited off to the side for a minute or so, stealing glances at her every once in a while to make sure she was alright. Soon enough I found myself carrying two cups of coffee back to the small table and set one in font of her. She wrapped her hands around it thankfully and inhaled the moist steam curling up from it, but hesitated to drink any of it. I wanted to talk to her, but it seemed like my voice had deserted me. I decided to start with something simple.
“Bob,” I said tentatively. She looked up at me as if I had spoken in another language entirely.
“What?” she asked in a hoarse, strained voice, so soft I might have missed it had I been looking another way.
“My name…it’s Bob.” I felt myself growing uncomfortable under her accusing stare and hastily took another sip of my coffee.
“…Ms. Way,” she whispered after several seconds. She finally took a slow sip of the coffee, and recoiled slightly from its bitter taste, but I knew she was thankful for its warmth.
“So…tell me about yourself,” I tried to say, reaching for anything that could start a meaningful conversation.
“Why?”
Her question was so abrupt and curt that I wondered if I had insulted her. Her voice seemed renewed, stronger, but all the more hurt. Shocked, I failed to respond. Coherently, at least.
“I…uh…I see you…all the time…and-”
“And you felt sorry for me,” she finished flatly. “Is that it?” I wanted to shake my head in a negative response, but the truth was that I did feel sorry for her. She seemed so desolate and full of despair that I felt a person would have to be blind not to see it and inhumane not to want to help her.
“It’s alright. I understand,” she said in a much warmer tone than before. “Most people just wish I’d go away, or at least take a different route to my job.” She looked up at me again, this time with a sharp twinkle of mocking laughter in her eyes. “But driving’s a bit difficult when you don’t have a car, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…I guess it would be.” I took another sip of coffee, finding it closer to empty. I realized I had been quite mistaken in thinking she was helpless. She could obviously defend herself. I suddenly felt foolish for offering her help she clearly didn’t want.
“So you want to know about me, you said,” she continued, acting as if I’d never said a word. “Well, young man, you may want to make sure you have nowhere else to be for a while.” I flashed half a smirk knowingly. School could wait. I just had to talk to her now.
I saw someone up ahead, a darker mass among the night’s muted colors. I knew at once that it was a person, and from the slow, deliberate pace, I could tell who it was. The same woman who always walked these streets at this hour, much like me. We always passed each other in the same place, steps becoming even as we traveled past that same bar full of happy drunks who would likely be feeling the sharp effects of their alcohol the next day, but for the moment were in another world entirely, one without pain.
I knew she was not one without pain and lived in no such world. Once in a while I would walk past her at some nondescript point before reaching the bar, and it was on those days that I could tell something terrible had happened, for she was walking slower than normal. She was poor; that much I could gather from the same worn dress always clothing her frail body and the sunken, dark eyes in the middle of her face. I rarely spoke a word to her, only nodding once in greeting and receiving a response much the same. She always seemed hopeless to me; even as young as I was, I could recognize that life had not been kind to her. She looked worn out, much older than her years.
It was one cold, gray day in November that I saw her seated on the ground next to a set of concrete stairs leading up into someone’s house, hugging her knees and crying much like a small child. I wasn’t sure how much I could do to help her - I was still in college at the time, and low enough on money as it were - but I felt like I couldn’t just leave her there. So I stopped and offered a hand to help her stand up. At first she refused, but once she realized I was not trying to shove money in her face so she would hopefully disappear and become someone else’s problem, she looked up at me with a tear-filled face and stood, brushing some dirt off of her dress. I flashed her a small smile and asked if we might get coffee somewhere. Her face fell slightly, but she quietly accepted.
The nearest coffee shop was a good two city blocks away, but neither of us was in a hurry to be anywhere. It was the middle of the day, when most of the world was on their lunch break, myself included. My next class started a mere half hour from then, but I wasn’t even sure I planned on attending that day. I had plenty of time to spare for someone who needed help.
Upon first walking into the coffee shop, she became hesitant and suddenly fearful. I noted this, and made sure we took our seats in a far corner of the small café. This seemed to calm her nerves. She rarely made eye contact with anyone, constantly dropping her gaze to the ground or an invisible object on the wall whenever someone glanced her way. As I stood in the short line of customers, debating whether or not I should get her a sandwich or something, I caught her hiding her face with one hand as a well-meaning young woman passed too close and attempted to hand her a wad folded bills.
I waited off to the side for a minute or so, stealing glances at her every once in a while to make sure she was alright. Soon enough I found myself carrying two cups of coffee back to the small table and set one in font of her. She wrapped her hands around it thankfully and inhaled the moist steam curling up from it, but hesitated to drink any of it. I wanted to talk to her, but it seemed like my voice had deserted me. I decided to start with something simple.
“Bob,” I said tentatively. She looked up at me as if I had spoken in another language entirely.
“What?” she asked in a hoarse, strained voice, so soft I might have missed it had I been looking another way.
“My name…it’s Bob.” I felt myself growing uncomfortable under her accusing stare and hastily took another sip of my coffee.
“…Ms. Way,” she whispered after several seconds. She finally took a slow sip of the coffee, and recoiled slightly from its bitter taste, but I knew she was thankful for its warmth.
“So…tell me about yourself,” I tried to say, reaching for anything that could start a meaningful conversation.
“Why?”
Her question was so abrupt and curt that I wondered if I had insulted her. Her voice seemed renewed, stronger, but all the more hurt. Shocked, I failed to respond. Coherently, at least.
“I…uh…I see you…all the time…and-”
“And you felt sorry for me,” she finished flatly. “Is that it?” I wanted to shake my head in a negative response, but the truth was that I did feel sorry for her. She seemed so desolate and full of despair that I felt a person would have to be blind not to see it and inhumane not to want to help her.
“It’s alright. I understand,” she said in a much warmer tone than before. “Most people just wish I’d go away, or at least take a different route to my job.” She looked up at me again, this time with a sharp twinkle of mocking laughter in her eyes. “But driving’s a bit difficult when you don’t have a car, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…I guess it would be.” I took another sip of coffee, finding it closer to empty. I realized I had been quite mistaken in thinking she was helpless. She could obviously defend herself. I suddenly felt foolish for offering her help she clearly didn’t want.
“So you want to know about me, you said,” she continued, acting as if I’d never said a word. “Well, young man, you may want to make sure you have nowhere else to be for a while.” I flashed half a smirk knowingly. School could wait. I just had to talk to her now.