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Scuffed black shoes shuffled across the uneven pavements, covered in a thick layer of dust; sharp jeers echoed through the air, relentlessly chasing you down deserted streets. One honest mistake, one spilled pot of dirty water and you'd painted a target on your own back.
"Big mistake."
The school bell rang to signify the end of the day, a joyful chorus for many; but for you, it marked the beginning of an arduous journey home. Cicadas chirpped in the long grass, students laughed and gossipped as they left the school grounds. You lingered.
Minutes turned into what felt like hours; the summer sun still sat high in the sky. A bead of sweat rolled down your collared neck. From the shade of the school building, you saw no other figures, heard no chatting or laboured breath, felt nothing but the stifling humidity.
Tentatively, you stepped into the light of the playground, took small, careful steps around the perimeter towards the school gate.
Nobody.
Still, you took nothing for granted, muscles tense in preparation to flee. With bated breath, you stuck to the shadows where possible, hiding behind bushes and cars in an attempt to get home undiscovered.
"Hey!"
It came from your left, much closer than you’d like. Your eyes flickered over to the noise.
There she was: emerald eyes, sharp nails and even sharper tongue. Your momentary hesitation told her everything she needed to know: you’d heard her loud and clear. Her white blouse now resembled a watercolour painting; the irony of meeting the lesson brief on your classmate's uniform was not lost to you. It was an accident. You hadn’t seen the stray pencil on the floor.
She stalked towards you, low heels clicking on the empty pavement. Her devout followers watched her every move, copying the sway of her step.
You looked around in a desperate attempt for a way out, ran down street after empty street, before hiding in a filthy back alley. Your chest heaved with exertion, breath burning in your lungs. Your feet ached. Desperate to stop but unable to do so for long: if there was any chance of escaping, you needed to work out where you were and how to get back. Home was the goal, a feeling in your gut told you that it was close. Quickly, you flung your backpack to the ground, shuffling through various notebooks and gel pens to find your keys - anything to improve your chances.
As you rushed out of the dingy backstreet, you tripped over something hard in your haste and went skidding, the skin on your palms torn in an attempt to stop sprawling into the road. Keys flew somewhere out of reach. You looked back, seeing the gaggle of girls in and around the gaping maw of the alleyway. Her eyes gleamed sadistically in the dying light, as she longed to administer what she deemed to be righteous justice.
Blood rushed to your head, making your ears ring in a deliriously high pitch, drowning out all but the distinct click of heeled shoes growing louder and louder with each step. Desperation brought you scrambling to your hands and feet, only to feel a swift kick to your back forcing you down onto the burning pavement.
Distorted voices screamed above you in a dreadful cacophony, no one word distinguishable from any other. Then silence. They were waiting.
“I’m sorry.”
Your watery voice elicited no sympathy as their response to your plea was a swift kick to your ribs that forced the hot breath from your lungs. The gasp that escaped your mouth was unrecognisable; a subhuman cry of a caged animal.
You tried to think back to a better place, a kinder time; longing for a distraction, an imperceivable defence against the barrage of degradation you were powerless to stop. Outnumbered, you curled up into a ball and could think of nothing but the intense pain that blossomed in your limbs, in your extremities as your fingers were stomped on by the thick soles of the soulless.
Silent tears streamed down the apples of your cheeks, while the shadowy figures above continued to howl in both delight at their success and disappointment at your self-preserving passivity - it was much more fun when they fought back. Time and again, they would bend down to scream venomously that you should do everyone a favour and just. drop. dead. That they could help make that happen. You shut your eyes, tried to be still, signed up to a free trial of death.
The time between their kicks and fits of aggression began to grow. With an incoherent threat and final globule of spit that landed in your hair, the posse of prima donnas sauntered away from your tortured figure, playing catch with your keys along the way.
Underneath you, the ground was hard and heated, exacerbating the pain you felt in your back. You remained still, trance-like, while your mind tried to comprehend the horror that had just transpired. Your temples ached, hands bloody, uniform dusted with filth and spit.
Agonisingly slowly, you sat up, tried to brush some of the grime from your clothing and hair before realising that you were embedding your uniform with specks of blood and grime. Rising to unsteady feet, you began to look around vacantly, at a loss of what to do.
“Are you okay?”
Despite the quietness of the voice that sounded somewhere behind you, you instinctively flinched with fear, throwing your bloody hands up to protect your already aching face. You were trapped inside a labyrinth, coming face to face with the morbid monstrous yet again.
The mysterious figure coughed awkwardly before slowly stepping out from a darkening alley. It was the same one the girls had appeared from. For each step he took towards you, you took one backwards, looking desperately for help that refused to arrive. With his hands raised placatingly, he gave you a pitying look, one you’d give to an injured animal with no choice but to put down. Your back hit brick. You were trapped, a dead end.
Fear began to bubble up in your chest, clouding your thoughts. Mustering up the remnants of your fractured sense of self, you ordered him to stop, hoped dearly in your trampled heart that he would.
Your hands shook violently as you tried to keep calm. You looked around for the closest thing you could use as a weapon for when he refused to give you space, ignorant of the seconds passing by in relative quietude.
He coughed again, a short succession of barks that shifted your focus back to the figure metres in front of you, who hadn’t moved an inch.
For the first time, you really looked at him.
He looked tired: heavy bags sat under his eyes, the left honey coloured, the right covered with a tatty black eyepatch. What had happened? With a nest of matted blond hair on his head, he stood there awkwardly, dirty clothes hanging off his slight frame. He acted like he was around your age, adolescent awkwardness oozing from his being, but he looked much older, more angular. He tried to smile, revealing teeth that were sharp, pointed like a piranhas. You suppressed a shudder, rolled your shoulders back and down and feigned control.
“What do you want?”
His eye went wide as he looked at you, then swiftly looked away, a faint blush dusting his hollow cheeks.
“I saw what happened-”
“-And?”
“They took your keys. You need ‘em… Right?”
You’d completely forgotten about that, thinking despite your better judgement, that they couldn’t have gone far. Again, you looked around empty, narrow streets around you.
Nothing, but the malnourished boy in front of you.
You nodded.
“Five eyes are better than two, right?”
That was one way of putting it.
“I guess. Wait, five?”
“Pochi!” he called behind himself before turning back to you, “C’mon, they went this way.”
His footsteps faltered as his mind began to reel with unhelpful speculation: maybe he was being too bold ordering her around. You didn’t know him, certainly couldn’t trust him, but from the quick glance over his shoulder, you seemed to be following his lead. Is this what having a girlfriend felt like? You were the damsel in distress, while he was the charming knight ready to save the day. The thought made him walk a little taller. Everyone knows how the story goes: girl is in danger, boy saves girl, girl kisses boy, they live happily ever after. Though he technically didn’t save you, Denji was making up for it now. Being around one girl was pressure enough.
Don’t mess this up.
Even covered in blood with your bruised cheek already starting to swell, you were the loveliest living thing he’d ever seen. He would have said the loveliest thing ever, if it hadn’t been for the half-eaten takoyaki he’d found in the dumpster a few months ago. They were still soft.
While Denji imagined numerous scenarios of varying probabilities, you followed a distance behind, avoiding puddles and trash piles, trying to figure out just what that little creature was. It stopped to sniff at every doorway and trash can. He’d called it ‘Pochi’, but you’d noticed the small chainsaw protruding from its round orange body, the tail that looked like a chainsaw cord. It must have been a devil, but it plodded along beside the boy like an excitable puppy.
It yapped loudly, bringing both you and Denji to a halt. It had found something.
Denji bent down to pick something up and to give Pochita a playful pat. In his dirty hands was a square of green paper that he brought close to his face to squint at. He then held it up at arm’s length in the fading light and stared at it again from this new distance, before groaning and shrugging his shoulders.
“S’no use.”
He was about to screw the paper up and toss it into a pre-existing heap of trash, before you called out for him to stop - you could have sworn that there was writing on it.
He handed it over. Pochita stood alert at his feet.
One side of the paper was tacky - a sticky note then - while the other read ‘Good Luck, Buttercup’ in cursive handwriting. You looked up at Denji, who was staring at you, pink still colouring his cheeks, and sighed. Judging on the paper’s position beside a large dumpster, you’d guessed that your keys were somewhere inside.
“You’re right. It’s no use. I think they’re in there, but we can’t…”
“I’ll do it.”
Dumbfounded, it was your turn to stare at him, while he stood proudly with his hands on his hips, accentuating his thin arms and waist.
“I do it all the time!”
Not sure what to make of his assertion, your mouth hung slightly open, words caught in your throat, as he opened the dumpster and clambered in. Fortunately, he went feet first, though you wouldn’t have been too surprised if he’d have dived straight into the container. The smell that emanated from the dumpster was enough to make your stomach churn: sour milk and sulphur scorched by the heat. You covered your nose and mouth with the sleeve of your school uniform, though it did not eliminate the smell.
“Are you okay?”
His hand flew up above the lip of the dumpster to reveal a confident thumbs up, while his head stayed down and focused on the task at hand. Having him rummage through rubbish to find your keys felt very wrong, despite his nonchalance about it. Your limbs felt heavy with a mixture of guilt and exhaustion: you’d been physically and emotionally beaten and his kindness added to your turmoil. Did you even deserve his help? If he couldn’t find the keys, he’d still gone out of his way to try.
While you were ruminating, Denji rose from the dumpster triumphantly, grin on his face painfully wide, and called for Pochita. You watched on in abject horror as the boy shared half a sandwich crust and a banana peel with his pet devil. The joy on his face was distressing. After the first couple of bites, he noticed your gaze and held out the remaining mouthfuls to you. Politely, you declined and reassured him you'd eaten earlier, though you'd been too anxious to buy and eat your school lunch. You looked away, trying hard to swallow the lump in your throat.
Today was just a bad day; it was not a bad life. Not really.
After his short snack break - that still made you nauseous - Denji went back to sifting through plastic packaging and dumpster sludge, digging deeper into the heap to find the illusive bunch of keys.
At a loss, you decided to try and befriend the devil dog. Squatting down, you called the little creature over, watched as it scrutinised you through squinted eyes and approached slowly, often pausing to listen to the crunching and squelching in the dumpster. You whispered sweet assurances, that you were a friend and not a foe, moving your hand forward to allow it to make the first move.
After a few tentative sniffs, it rested its face on your hand and moved no further. Gently, you began to move your fingers, scratching where it’s chin should be. It was not fur that covered its body but something more like a thin layer of felt fabric: soft to touch. You felt its body rumble with what you hoped was contentment.
A prolonged sound of victory startled you. Both you and Pochita sharply turned your heads to see Denji stood, right hand in the air shaking the keys you recognised as your own. Something limp and green clung to his hair.
“Is this your card?”
His question made very little sense but you were too overwhelmed with relief to care. You rushed over to him and he dropped the keys into your waiting hands before hopping out of the dumpster. They were greasy and slippery in your grip; you refused to bring them closer to your face to assess any damage. There was no way you could put them in your bag or your pocket.
Hands already dirty, you reached out and plucked the rotten vegetable from Denji's hair, ignored the sliminess of it, and flung it back into the trash.
"Do you live near here? We should wash our… hands after that."
As soon as you'd asked, you feared that it was an insensitive question, after all you weren’t entirely sure that he had a home to go to.
He pouted and looked at the ground, thinking.
"My place is too far, but I think there's a park nearby. One with a fountain."
Perfect.
"Lead the way."
You followed Denji through numerous quieter streets, and began to recognise, with growing confidence, where you were: about twenty minutes from your house. There was a convenience store nearby.
Politely, you asked if Denji could wait five minutes while you ran in to get a few things. He looked a little put out at first but nodded. You had money, an education, and a proper home by the sounds of it. He had the Old Man, a damp shed, and most importantly Pochita. He was grateful for what he had but couldn't help but feel like life was just unfair.
It was around ten minutes later that you came back from the store, hands and keys clean, carrying a couple plastic bags. Working out how much you could buy with your limited lunch money took longer than you expected. Fortunately, he was still there, chatting to Pochita and kicking grit when you returned.
The walk to the park was pleasant, the heat beginning to calm as day turned to evening. Pochita climbed into one of the bags, seemingly too tired to walk. There were a few families and teenagers that paused their play to give you disapproving looks. You continued walking.
The delicate sound of flowing water filled your ears with bliss as you approached the ornate fountain. Sitting on the side, you put the bags down at your feet and gestured Denji over. Your smile faltered when you smelled the decay that clung to his clothes.
"Thank you so much for helping me…"
You left the utterance unfinished, hoping he'd fill in the gap with his name, but he didn't.
Sighing, you had to be more direct; after formally introducing yourself, he regained his composure and did the same. Grumbling inside the plastic bag, Denji also reintroduced Pochita, adding that he was the chainsaw devil, but not to tell anyone.
Ignoring scepticism, you declared the secret as safe, and gave Pochita a little scratch behind his ears, or was it his handle? You weren't sure what to call it, but Pochi liked the attention. Moving him slightly in the bag, you rooted around and pulled out the bar of soap you'd bought in the store and handed it to Denji.
"Just to say thanks again, for helping me get my keys back."
He stared at the soap for what felt like minutes before carefully unwrapping it and dipping it into the fountain. Slowly, he rubbed the soap between his hands, put the soap on the side and vigorously rubbed his hands together. Not optimal, but better than nothing.
You decided to intervene.
Picking up the soap, you dipped it again, and rubbed it between your hands until a thick lather formed. Reaching over, you took Denji's callused hands into your own and helped him wash away the grime and grease that coated his pale skin. You repeated the process until his hands finally felt clean.
Looking up at him, you noticed that he was much closer than you remembered, that his blush glowed across his dirty cheeks and even coloured the tops of his ears. Smiling timidly, you wrapped up the soap and shuffled backwards a little to create some space between you. His presence radiated safety but was somewhat suffocating on account of the stench...
You rummaged through the other plastic bag and retrieved what you'd been looking for, the convenience store classic: the egg sando.
Holding it out towards him, Denji looked from you to the sandwich and back again. He knew what he wanted to do but you'd bought this. Surely you remembered that he'd already eaten.
"It's for you."
Oh.
"And Pochi, of course. Sorry, I couldn't afford two."
He took it gratefully, holding back to eat in a more civilised manner than his hunger permitted. Again, he offered you some but you refused - you could always eat at home. Back and forth, he and Pochi shared the fresh sandwich, occasionally pausing to comment how good it was, mouth full or not.
Denji was certainly not what you were expecting: seeing him in that alley made your heart freeze with fear, but you came to realise he was just another lost soul like yourself, trying to figure everything out.
You weren't sure how you'd explain the bruises when you got home, or at school for that matter. You weren't sure how well you'd sleep with the pain in your back and ribs. You were sure, however, that Denji was one of the few good people in the world and the thought made you feel a little less lonely.
Once he'd finished, you handed over the plastic bags.
"The soap's in there, and so's a toothbrush. And there's some bread and jam in the other one. It's not much but it's something."
It wasn't much but it was everything to Denji. He was unsure of how he could repay you until he caught sight of your keys, peeking out from your pocket.
He wanted to thank you, blushed deeply and bowed low. You stood up surprised and returned the gesture. If it wasn't for the smell, you would have hugged him - he looked like he needed one. Instead you awkwardly held your hand out, and felt his larger hand hold onto yours tightly.
“I should get going now. Thanks again, so much. I’ll see you around”, you gestured to your uniform, “Come find me after school.”
You smiled wide, a genuine expression that felt alien on your face, and began the walk home.
As he watched you leave, he took in every detail: the colour of uniform, the style of your blouse and the length of your hair. He didn't recognise what school you went to, but with focus and determination, he was sure he could find out.