Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-33904527-20190511230855

“Down on your luck, pal?”

The boy jolted upright, taking a sharp breath inward. He couldn’t have been any older than 18. A wide-shouldered man with a piercing stare was crouched down a few feet away, his coat hood pulled over the back of his head.

“Who are you?” He mumbled, half-asleep and numb with cold. Rain lashed violently against the pavement, soaking the alley walls.

“Who, me?” The man responded with a chuckle. “Shelter’s the name. Armond Shelter.”

Rubbing his eyes, the boy stared at Shelter apprehensively. His smile was like the Cheshire cat’s, stretching to each end of his face and back again without showing a hint of anything but tooth. The cold cut through the boy’s body like a knife, and he eyed the man’s snug storm trousers and tough boots with jealousy. All he’d had to live through the cold with was unwashed denim.

“Bloody freezing out here, huh? Want a smoke?”

Suddenly brandishing a cigarette in his hand, Shelter outstretched a lanky arm towards the teen.

“Wha…what? What do you want?”

“Ha-ha! Just kidding. Too wet out here for a smoke, of course. I’m just enjoying the fresh air.”

It was cold enough that Shelter’s breath escaped from his mouth in puffs of mist whenever he spoke. His tone was so casual, it was as if he was regarding an old friend, in such an easy-going fashion that it made the boy question whether they had met before. But no, this was an unfamiliar character. He was sure he’d be able to recognise that razor-sharp jawline and those bright, unyielding eyes.

“Tell you what, you look a little pale. I can tell you’ve been out here a while. I’ve got a hostel right around the corner, just on the edge of Brookfield Lane. It’s a couple of minutes’ walk away and-”

The boy’s ears pricked up.

“Wait, h-hostel? Did you say hostel?” He interrupted.

“Yep. Not too fancy, mind you. But miles better then roughing it out here, I can tell you that. It’s part of the Youth Project we’re doing in this area. We’re fully booked for today, but you could swing by in the morning if you want.”

“Oh…” The light faded from his eyes, and he clutched his arms together again, laying back down on the damp concrete. “S’pose I’ll come tomorrow, then.”

“Good to hear! Make sure you get there bright and early; we might only have a few spaces left.”

Pushing himself upwards, Shelter got into a standing position, stopping himself before he could take a step.

“Hey, tell you what! I’d hate to leave you out here on your own all night. The wind’ll pick up soon and that’s no good when you’re sleeping rough. You can come to mine. There’s a comfy sofa with your name on it, mate, I promise. I might even have some soup left. And I’ll make sure you get a place at the hostel. I guarantee.”

“You’re serious? No, you’re kidding, right?”

“Deadly serious,” Another flash of those pearly white teeth, curved into a smile. “C’mon let’s get going now, before the rats come out. Vicious little buggers, they are. Proper vermin.”

It was a relief to breath in without catching that familiar stench of piss, the boy thought as they walked the city streets. Shelter took large strides, the rain barely touching him as the boy trotted vacantly at his heels, lost in his own mind. Was this the step up he had been waiting for? Could he finally begin his upwards ascent back into society?

Within minutes, he found himself standing in the hallway of the first actual house he’d been inside in months, being handed a fresh pair of clothes.

“You can throw away those tatty things,” Shelter gestured towards the worn jacket and pants, practically dripping with filth. “Try these on. They’re old, so you can keep them.”

Soon enough, the boy was freshly outfitted in a light grey hoodie and shorts, both still rich with that freshly washed scent he had missed for so long. A little tabby cat rounded the doorframe, rubbing up against his legs and purring gently. He smiled with affection; the cats he usually saw were hideously feral.

“That’s Fred-O. You can pet him all you want, he’s the sweetest thing in the world.” Shelter mentioned.

Fred-O’s fur was soft and clean against the boy’s hand, like a bathrobe. The second Shelter came near, the cute thing dashed away into the next room.

“Aha… he gets nervous around new people,” Shelter explained hastily. “You can take a seat on the couch, I’ll put on some soup.”

The couch cushions sunk down comfortably against Rob’s skinny frame. He leaned back, taking a moment to reflect on what had happened. In the space of 15 minutes, he had gone from freezing half to death in a rotting alley to newly clothed and eating his first warm meal in weeks. He felt like a new man.

A pair of hands gripped the back of Rob’s head firmly, interrupting his train of thought. He flinched, only able to open his mouth before the hands spun his neck around and upwards. With a loud crunch, Rob’s body fell limp off the sofa, his eyes still wide open, staring down the floorboards.

The boy’s body thumped against the basement floor as it landed there, his arm rested on the corpse of the one that came before.

Armond sighed. What was that now, the thirty-first or the thirty-second? This one had been easier than the others, he was getting better and better. He was even getting used to his new name. Shelter: it was what all that scum were looking for. Shelter from their worries, from the stormy nights and depressing sunrises. Surely, if they only found shelter, everything would be fine.

Any regular person would be horrified at these acts, Armond had come to realise. But was it really so bad? It was practically mercy killing. No more cold or hunger. No more worrying about the rain, or the rats, or the warm meals. If they ever found out, the police or any of the public, they’d call it murder. But it isn’t murder, not in the way they mean it to be, Armond mused to himself. Killing for your country on the battlefields isn’t murder. Hell, if you do it well enough, they call you a hero and give you medals. So, if he disposed of a few drugged up, scruffy tramps weighing the nation down like an anvil, how was he a murderer? No, he was the opposite. A soldier out of uniform, killing for his country. And he was going to make a difference.

The vermin may never go away, but there’s always a difference to be made. 