Hope For The Best
Never Going Back
Things rarely work out the way they're supposed to, do they?
Especially if you are a certain boy of the name Boyd Gael Urner.
Let's go back to, what, seven years. When I was nine. Life used to be so simple and care-free. Never did any of the world's worry enter my mind. I believed myself to be safe. How wrong I was. How wrong I was, to think that I would go through this world unharmed and in the arms of a loving family. How wrong was I, to think that everything went smoothly and happily, like they show you in fairy tales and movies.
Ignorance is bliss.
Only if it were so simple. Life is violent. Life is hard, but above all, it is cruel. There's no way you can deny it. You may live in perfect harmony with your family and neighbors, but all are not so lucky. When you're inside your warm and comfortable home, others are freezing outside, searching for food, grabbing everything they can to keep themselves warm. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to make anyone feel bad. But do keep it in mind, you can help people. Just by giving them a dollar, to the homeless ones you see on the street, instead of turning your back on them. A dollar could actually save a person's life. For a day, at least, if they've still got a shred of common sense left. Well, if they won't waste it on alcohol any other addiction.
Back to the story.
Aged only eleven, I was thrown out on the slippery ice of life with no one to catch me if I fall.
My parents... My father, he disappeared when he was driving back home from work, a week before my birthday. Few weeks later, the police paid us a visit, informing us that they had found a body that seemed to be of my father. Apparently he had been driving back home from work, and stopped at at 24/7 store. A gang of thugs attacked him and according to the autopsy, he had tried to defend himself, but was rewarded with a bullet to his head. It broke my mother's heart. But we moved on. Few years later, or two, my mother had gone to the bank with my baby sister. I waited the whole day, but they never came back. My heavy eyelids began to close and I fell asleep, only to be awaken the next day from a loud knock on the door. I slid out from my bed and ran downstairs, aware that my mother still hadn't returned. In the doorway stood Mrs. Jimmison, our neighbor next door, all teary-eyed and she told me that there had been a armed robbery at the bank, and my mother had been killed, along with my little baby sister, Adelaide. I don't remember much from that particular day. Except that the Jimmison took me in, for a few months. But I guess they couldn't handle a depressed teenager, so they called social services who took me to another family, the Moirs.
Ha, send me to a foster family like some godforsaken orphan? Fat chance. Okay, maybe I was an orphan, but I wasn't going to let anyone alter my life any further by putting my through the system of foster families. Rather that I'd go out on the street. Which I eventually did.
That was my way of thinking. I had lost both my parents, and I wasn't going to let anyone replace them.
So I ran off. Simple as that. Might've not been the smartest moves I've ever made, but I was young, alone, hurt, and confused.
So, out I went.
The first few months were the hardest, I was alone. Not a person in the world would ever care about what would happen to me. Neither did I, to be perfectly honest. After experiencing my first whole week ever without any food, I stopped caring myself.
Then I met Brink and his gang. They helped me and taught me how to survive out on the street. If it hadn't been for them, I would've died in the first storm. But our first encounter wasn't the ideal one. Let me explain:
It was the typical weather for me (wind, rain, night, cold) and I wandered the cold streets of Belleville, NJ. I was sick, hungry and tired, and looking for a place to eat and rest. Everywhere I went, people shot me evil glares, turning their nose up as I walked by, probably disgusted by the way I looked. Dirty face, ripped clothes, greasy hair, my broken glasses resting loosely on the tip of my nose, obviously a disgusting homeless piece of shit. Not worthy of anything. I know, I know, heard it all before.
Spotting a bag of what seemed to be of food or any nourishment of some sort, I was instantly drawn towards it, sneaking to make a grab for it. I was too hungry to think of the consequences if I were ever to be caught stealing a bag of food. I didn't care. Too hungry. It was in a deep alleyway, hidden from the streets, but I had avoided the streets so I wouldn't bump into any one ill-being against homeless people (during these two months I had been out, I had learned that not many people felt sorry for the homeless nor did they want to help those in need).
So, homeless, hungry, sick and tired I staggered deep in the dark alleyway, spotting the white bag against a dirty wall. The bag was dirty as well, but I could catch a glimpse of fruits and bags of snacks, and I walked as quickly as I could towards it, not bothering to take a look around, watch out for the owner. My hands began to search the bag, pulling out apples and a pack of Doritos, my stomach growled, demanding to be soothe with anything edible. For this reason, my mind and sense were to oblivious at the two arms, grabbing me from both sides and pulling me away. I felt my body being pushed up against the hard wall, my growling stomach soon connected with a fist. In pain and shock, I let out a yelp. I received another blow, this time to the side of my head and for a moment my vision was blurred, possibly the results of my glasses falling off my face, and felt another kick to my stomach. I regained my vision again, looking up at my attackers. Both quite dirty and messed-up teenagers, tall, quite muscular, but muscular in a way like someone who's been out on the street for way too long and had to rely on strenght to save him, not like someone who has been working out in a gymnasium. They both had quite a tough exterior, sending shiver down my spines as one raised his fist again, ready to hit me in the face.
"What's going on?" a voice echoed around me, and as I hung my head down, staring into the mud beneath my feet, I heard footsteps surround me.
-------------------------------
A/N ;; I'm sorry if there are any spelling mistakes or incorrect words... I currently don't have WORD (which I usually rely on when writing stories), but I'm trying my best to correct every mistake I make in my writing. But, if I've missed out on any, feel free to point them out, no matter how small they are (this goes to all my future chapters/stories I may later post up). I hate nothing more than making the smallest of spelling mistakes. I'm quite... eccentric on that part.
Thank you. :]
Especially if you are a certain boy of the name Boyd Gael Urner.
Let's go back to, what, seven years. When I was nine. Life used to be so simple and care-free. Never did any of the world's worry enter my mind. I believed myself to be safe. How wrong I was. How wrong I was, to think that I would go through this world unharmed and in the arms of a loving family. How wrong was I, to think that everything went smoothly and happily, like they show you in fairy tales and movies.
Ignorance is bliss.
Only if it were so simple. Life is violent. Life is hard, but above all, it is cruel. There's no way you can deny it. You may live in perfect harmony with your family and neighbors, but all are not so lucky. When you're inside your warm and comfortable home, others are freezing outside, searching for food, grabbing everything they can to keep themselves warm. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to make anyone feel bad. But do keep it in mind, you can help people. Just by giving them a dollar, to the homeless ones you see on the street, instead of turning your back on them. A dollar could actually save a person's life. For a day, at least, if they've still got a shred of common sense left. Well, if they won't waste it on alcohol any other addiction.
Back to the story.
Aged only eleven, I was thrown out on the slippery ice of life with no one to catch me if I fall.
My parents... My father, he disappeared when he was driving back home from work, a week before my birthday. Few weeks later, the police paid us a visit, informing us that they had found a body that seemed to be of my father. Apparently he had been driving back home from work, and stopped at at 24/7 store. A gang of thugs attacked him and according to the autopsy, he had tried to defend himself, but was rewarded with a bullet to his head. It broke my mother's heart. But we moved on. Few years later, or two, my mother had gone to the bank with my baby sister. I waited the whole day, but they never came back. My heavy eyelids began to close and I fell asleep, only to be awaken the next day from a loud knock on the door. I slid out from my bed and ran downstairs, aware that my mother still hadn't returned. In the doorway stood Mrs. Jimmison, our neighbor next door, all teary-eyed and she told me that there had been a armed robbery at the bank, and my mother had been killed, along with my little baby sister, Adelaide. I don't remember much from that particular day. Except that the Jimmison took me in, for a few months. But I guess they couldn't handle a depressed teenager, so they called social services who took me to another family, the Moirs.
Ha, send me to a foster family like some godforsaken orphan? Fat chance. Okay, maybe I was an orphan, but I wasn't going to let anyone alter my life any further by putting my through the system of foster families. Rather that I'd go out on the street. Which I eventually did.
That was my way of thinking. I had lost both my parents, and I wasn't going to let anyone replace them.
So I ran off. Simple as that. Might've not been the smartest moves I've ever made, but I was young, alone, hurt, and confused.
So, out I went.
The first few months were the hardest, I was alone. Not a person in the world would ever care about what would happen to me. Neither did I, to be perfectly honest. After experiencing my first whole week ever without any food, I stopped caring myself.
Then I met Brink and his gang. They helped me and taught me how to survive out on the street. If it hadn't been for them, I would've died in the first storm. But our first encounter wasn't the ideal one. Let me explain:
It was the typical weather for me (wind, rain, night, cold) and I wandered the cold streets of Belleville, NJ. I was sick, hungry and tired, and looking for a place to eat and rest. Everywhere I went, people shot me evil glares, turning their nose up as I walked by, probably disgusted by the way I looked. Dirty face, ripped clothes, greasy hair, my broken glasses resting loosely on the tip of my nose, obviously a disgusting homeless piece of shit. Not worthy of anything. I know, I know, heard it all before.
Spotting a bag of what seemed to be of food or any nourishment of some sort, I was instantly drawn towards it, sneaking to make a grab for it. I was too hungry to think of the consequences if I were ever to be caught stealing a bag of food. I didn't care. Too hungry. It was in a deep alleyway, hidden from the streets, but I had avoided the streets so I wouldn't bump into any one ill-being against homeless people (during these two months I had been out, I had learned that not many people felt sorry for the homeless nor did they want to help those in need).
So, homeless, hungry, sick and tired I staggered deep in the dark alleyway, spotting the white bag against a dirty wall. The bag was dirty as well, but I could catch a glimpse of fruits and bags of snacks, and I walked as quickly as I could towards it, not bothering to take a look around, watch out for the owner. My hands began to search the bag, pulling out apples and a pack of Doritos, my stomach growled, demanding to be soothe with anything edible. For this reason, my mind and sense were to oblivious at the two arms, grabbing me from both sides and pulling me away. I felt my body being pushed up against the hard wall, my growling stomach soon connected with a fist. In pain and shock, I let out a yelp. I received another blow, this time to the side of my head and for a moment my vision was blurred, possibly the results of my glasses falling off my face, and felt another kick to my stomach. I regained my vision again, looking up at my attackers. Both quite dirty and messed-up teenagers, tall, quite muscular, but muscular in a way like someone who's been out on the street for way too long and had to rely on strenght to save him, not like someone who has been working out in a gymnasium. They both had quite a tough exterior, sending shiver down my spines as one raised his fist again, ready to hit me in the face.
"What's going on?" a voice echoed around me, and as I hung my head down, staring into the mud beneath my feet, I heard footsteps surround me.
-------------------------------
A/N ;; I'm sorry if there are any spelling mistakes or incorrect words... I currently don't have WORD (which I usually rely on when writing stories), but I'm trying my best to correct every mistake I make in my writing. But, if I've missed out on any, feel free to point them out, no matter how small they are (this goes to all my future chapters/stories I may later post up). I hate nothing more than making the smallest of spelling mistakes. I'm quite... eccentric on that part.
Thank you. :]