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Their home was a prison, but none of the other children felt it the way he did. There was something about the rural-ness and isolation of it that made the air unbearable to breathe. The earth turned soft under his feet, as if trying to pull him six feet under. He felt the trees around him press closer and closer to him to build a jail cell of branches. From the start, he’d never trusted Mother Nature— metal molded with his own hands was more familiar to him than flesh and blood.
Metal got the job done when he brawled with the older teenagers who liked to pick fights with the youngest kid on their street. He was only seven and sorely outnumbered, but screws between the knuckles dealt some serious damage.
And as he laid there, feeling sorry for himself; wondering where he’d sleep tonight now that his makeshift hut in the alley had been kicked into unsalvageable pieces, a mane of blonde hair stood over him and asked the dumbest question he’d ever heard in his life.
“Can you still get up?”
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They melded together easily. They were an alloy, gold and silver, and they didn’t care for purity or worth. (When surrounded by junkies snorting shit off of trash can lids and alcoholics black-out drunk by 8 PM, “purity,” ethicality and sobriety weren’t important.) Killer still wouldn’t let Kid touch a blunt.
He leaned further back into the couch that they had DIY’ed together and tried to hide his laugh from Kid’s reddening face. “You’re eleven. Don’t be like everyone else on this island— Go to school or something, become an engineer and make buttloads of money.” He dodged a fist to the stomach.
But, school didn’t exist for Kid, and Killer knew it. School was reserved for those with two-story houses; who didn’t stink of sweat and dirt, with full stomachs and chubby cheeks that was befitting of a healthy child their age— But who wanted school, anyways? Little boys Kid’s age were content to beat each other with sticks, pretending to be tough mafia gangsters; staying out on the streets until the sky bruised purple and the sounds of their parents fighting finally quieted down, and (if they had one) they’d drag their mud-stained knees back home to dream about leaving; leaving the house with bags of money in hand to live uptown, leaving to make the trek across the island where they’d never have to face the people they know ever again; leaving on a boat into that tantalizing blue that dangled itself in front of their eyes.
They both knew being an engineer wouldn’t satisfy either of them, that nothing great enough awaited them here. (Fuck you, Kid hissed and ripped out strands of Killer’s hair, like a girl in a cat fight.) And so they looked to the sea.
The sea disgusted most kids his age. Kid was no exception. Beaches were always littered with slimy garbage that would slice their feet open if they weren’t careful with their steps. The smell of rotting fish never seemed to leave. And the weather was never tropical; cold wind whipped the childrens’ skin thinning with hunger until it turned a rosy pink and touching the dirty water was a sure way to get a nasty rash. It was nothing like the paradises that merchants described whenever Kid wandered the docks.
He saw the potential in the sea. He didn’t see the wonder and allure of the water itself, he saw the cities and countries that lay beyond it; he dreamt of seeing it all and becoming a someone, someone who was known from every inch of the world. He didn’t want to survive until his hair turned gray and forgettable, he wanted to live a real life that was rich with memories. He’d spend hours and days and years in scrap yards and he’d eat a strange fruit with spikes that made his gums bleed and would withstand any beatings if it meant being able to sail out without a single glance back.
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Killer could say all he wanted about Kid becoming a respectable engineer and he could talk about becoming a chef and maybe both of them could live a peaceful life, but they both knew. “You’d die of boredom, though,” Killer conceded, after years of trying to talk Kid into choosing a reasonable career. He was always the reasonable one.
“You might go crazy and kill everyone, ‘cuz you’re so sensitive,” Wire laughed meanly. “Our captain is your knight in shining armor, Killer! He’s always the first to beat up anyone that looks at you weird.”
Kid snatched what was left of the blunt from Wire’s hands. “Shut the fuck up. Fuck.” Cough. “You. Fuck. You.” He fished the ashes out of his mouth with his finger, face scrunched from the bitter taste flooding his senses. That earned an even more obnoxious cackle from Wire, Quincy, and Hop alike.
Killer looked a little flushed. “Lay off, Wire.”
They basked in the buzz together; Killer leaning on Kid’s leg from his spot on the ground, pretending to read the newspaper but (probably) too faded to really pay attention to the words on the paper.
“I’d kill for any of my friends,” he said, seriously; partially to himself and partially for anyone close enough to hear him. It wasn’t like Kid wanted to be a pirate for tear jerkingly beautiful, selfless reasons; he’d crush as many people as he needed to. He and Killer had spent enough time being humiliated; walked on; treated like a toy for thugs to stomp on to pass the time.
Heat looked touched. (“Master Kid…!”) Wire looked embarrassed. Quincy and Hop were too high to listen to whatever their captain mumbled; laughing obliviously at each other. Killer’s dirty blonde hair drooped too far low over his face to see his expression, but he let his head rest on Kid’s knee.
In that cramped room that stank of weed, a place where losers should go to rot and die, there was a dream.
Dreamers never lose that strange look in their eyes.