Aisha saintil Dupont
The young woman was still there. She always was. Wearing a filthy, torn and stained faded blue jeans, donned with black combat boots that nearly rose to her knees, the laces wrapped around the calf at least four to five times. An old faded grey Sex Pistols t-shirt underneath a black unzipped sweatshirt, completed with an obviously older leather jacket. The hood of her sweatshirt was pulled over her head and one could only see the fiery red, black and white strands of hair that fell over her face. As usual she was crouched next to one of the large dumpsters at the entry of the alley of one of the worst part of town.
Hours, days, weeks, none could tell how long she had been crouching there, nor could she as a matter of fact. Sometimes she would leave for hours on end simply to come back and sit her back against the dumpster and her head lowered. Other homeless men and women had tried approaching but none had ever gotten a look or a word from the woman. Those used to walking the streets would simply refer to her as Glove, for she permanently wore black leather gloves going up to her elbow, no matter how hot it could get outside.
Sam, the owner of the dinner across the street would often go to the young woman, dropping a sandwich, or a drink or a warm soup on a cold day. He had been watching her for quite some time and always wondered why unlike most young adults cruising the streets, she did not search for a small gang or at least an overnight stay at the refuge not too far. She would never speak, ever, nor would she raise her head, always keeping those long straight locks before her face when he would bring her something. At first, she wouldn’t even touch the food, but after awhile, she would acknowledge him with a nod, though he had no clue how she knew it was him considering she always kept her head down.
Today was no different Sam thought as he glanced out the window from the dinner. Her head was covered and down as always, the red, black and white strand the only sign of color on her small figure. Night had fallen quickly and the dinner wasn’t too busy. Glancing around at his staff, he went to the kitchen and began preparing Glove a sandwich. “ Still feeding that child Samuel? “ asked Jeanette, an elderly woman who seemed to believe she was still in her prime, always wearing bright red lipstick, her orange hair piled on her head in an intricate do. Smiling patiently at Jeanette, Sam gave a light shrug as he prepared this time a warm smoked-meat sandwich. “Why not Jeanette? She needs to eat something doesn’t she? “Sliding his burly form between the eccentric woman and the kitchen doorframe, the now old and retired college football player made his way to the front door, the bell making a soft tinkling sound as he crossed the street, a limp in his walk from an old football injury.
A honking sound startled him and whirled around looking to his left, a big dumpster truck making its way down the street at full speed. Sam braced himself knowing that with his injured leg, he would never make it out of the street in time. When it’s your time, it’s your time thought Sam as the headlights were mere meters from him.
Then, everything went black.
Glove was sitting against her dumpster, yes her dumpster for she had claimed it her spot some three months ago, and was as always leaning her forehead against her joined knees. She had started calling herself Glove when she heard the people passing by the street calling her that way, as well as Sam the owner of the dinner across the street, a kind man, who would always bring her something to eat at least once a day. He would even lean on the wall next to her sometimes and simply talk about his day, himself, and she would listen. It felt good to have someone talk to her though she never responded. Why didn’t she? She simply had nothing to say for she had no past. As far as she was concerned, Glove was her name, for she had no memory of her own. The first thing she remembered was waking up on the train, wearing what she was wearing, not knowing where she came from or where she was going. She had gotten off at a random stop and made her way around till it began raining and she found shelter by the dumpster. Since then, she hadn’t moved.
She would never raise her head for she had caught her reflection in the glass of the train that day, seeing mercury silver coloured eyes looking back at her, a thin red ring surrounded them. She had enough lucidity to know people would probably try to stuff her in some science lab making her a victim of needles and various medical examinations. She figured that was probably why she had been on that train, running from something or someone. The red, black and white strands of hair, she could get away with since most people simply believed it to be a dye job, the fact that it could be natural never crossing their minds.
Hearing the soft tingling of the dinner’s bell, she didn’t need to look up to know it was Sam. Somehow she always knew who approached her, who was simply checking on her and who wanted her harm. She couldn’t explain it other then the fact it came with a particular scent. A light smile curved her lips as she though of Sam who always smelled of liquorice for some reason. Waiting for him to step to her, she looked up as she heard the honk of a car , her eyes opening wide as she saw the dumpster truck making its way at incredible speed towards Sam. She saw the old man’s eyes widen as he seemed to accept his impending doom. Before she knew what she was doing, she was suddenly up then over the man as the truck sped through, honking as it continued its path. ‘’Jackass…’’ she muttered under her breath as she looked down and blinked seeing she was on the sidewalk, Sam tackled underneath her groaning as he reached for his head, slightly wincing in pain. Scrambling to her feet as she saw a small very rounded woman, wearing a long red skirt, glitter making it shine in the light as she rushed out of the dinner, a black lace top, with a thick gold chain, probably fake she quietly observed before she raised her gaze to the woman’s ruby red lips and orange hair. “What did you do to him! “ The woman yelled at her accusingly as she shoved her out of the way and kneeled next to Sam. ‘’Samuel, talk to me, are you ok…what did that street rat do to you? Told you she was no good, little freaks.’’ The woman went on and on as Glove simply backed away slowly. Looking down in shame, her hair fell back before her face before she turned around and ran for it. She vaguely heard Sam yelling at her to stop, but she kept running. Where to? No idea, but it seems she had done her time in the area.
Todos los derechos pertenecen a su autor. Ha sido publicado en e-Stories.org a solicitud de Aisha saintil Dupont.
Publicado en e-Stories.org el 30.05.2011.