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Sometimes, in moments of silence and calm, Dallas Winston thinks back to the times he spent on the cold streets of New York. When his dad was rip-roaring drunk, making weird comments to anyone daring to go near him, he’d go on a walk. Sometimes the whole night if it was pretty bad, when it was the worst of winter, he could remember those nights the most.
Everything was lit up and people were almost everywhere, and yet, it still felt empty; Any dark that blanketed the town was gone from streetlights and any stores that were still open. Shuffling past people in the piling slush, as the cold bit him through his thin jacket and clothes, most of his body felt numb. He even had to stop a couple of times, trying to warm up his ears and nose with his hands. He’d focus either on the ground, or the buildings around him, trying to ignore the chill that filled his entire body.
Sometimes he’d be smart enough to grab a buck or even just some change from the jackets near the entrance of their apartment. When he did, he would head over to this old place a couple of blocks away, cheap food, open almost 24/7 and the people there already knew him as well. They’d give him a wave, and sometimes he’d chit-chat with this one lady there, she was always real nice to him, even helped out by giving him a free hot chocolate a few times. Sure, it might’ve been because she felt bad, there were a lot of kids like him, but with frozen hands, there was no way he could refuse a hot drink. He remembered her well, somehow she managed to do more for him than his mama ever had, he sort of clang to her. That place was probably closed now though, they weren’t really doing too well when he used to go anyways.
Leaving New York was probably the best choice he’d made, he was practically all alone in a place that was so big and loud, and it only helped him feel more insignificant, like an ant almost. He thought that when he would die, no one would remember, that he was another hoodlum, a juvenile delinquent to add to the statistics, so he felt like his story never quite mattered, that he never mattered at the end of everything to anybody, except maybe the lady at that shop.
He really would’ve left New York sooner if it wasn’t for that lady though, the day he went off, he left her a letter and a couple of his old drawings when he used to well, draw. But now things were different, sometimes in silent times, when he was alone with his thoughts, he thinks about it, and has this weird nostalgia for a place that was never really his home.