The Little Winston

Chapter 1- I Get Evicted From A Place I Don't Even Call Home

Quietly sulking through the streets of New York, I was bitten by the fierce New York wind on my way "home". Home was what I was supposed to call it, as it was where I lived, but I preferred to think of it as a tomb for forgotten memories, a place of melancholy nostalgia. When the towering apartment building crept into view, my stomach twisted into knots as it had many times before. It had been a week since I had been back. I would have gone longer if I hadn't needed more clothes than what was in my backpack. I would need to remember that next time.

A few of the neighbors said their corgile hellos to me as I dragged myself up the stairs. I had seen these people every day of my 16 years of life, and not once had I ever had a longer conversation than a simple "Hey." That seemed to sum up my life pretty well.

I stood outside the red painted door to the apartment, and as I twisted the knob as quietly as possible, I mentally prepared myself for what was to come next. I stood in place as I closed the door behind me, keeping my head turned towards the door and my hand on the knob. The sound of clinking glass bottles and an overwhelming stench of alcohol told me all I needed to know.

Raspy and uneven breaths echoed throughout the room. I held my breath to keep my nose from burning. A hulking figure stood behind me, but I still didn't move. "Where the hell were you, kid?"

"Out, sir." I struggled to get the "sir" out of my mouth without a change in tone, but somehow managed. It would be better if I used submissive language. I felt him step closer, and my hand started to turn as quick as I could react, but a firm grip on my wrist kept me locked in place.

"Out? You think you're so funny, don't you Nicole?" I struggled to keep turned away as his grip tightened around me, twisting my arm back so hard I thought he might dislocate it if I moved even an inch. I stopped fighting and my whole body snapped around, my eyes finding his in an instant. I looked into the deep brown pits in front of me, filled with fire and rage. Not the way a father should look at his daughter. He had looked at my mother and brother the same way, with a deep hatred. I was the only one left, and how lonely that could be sometimes. "Do you see me laughing?"

"No."

He landed a cold slap on my cheek, and I fought back tears as it stung with a force. It hadn't been the first time I had been hit by my father. He smiled when he saw this, and spit right onto the handprint on my cheek with perfect accuracy. I attempted to wipe off my face with my arm, but he attempted to grab my other hand.

Fight or Flight. I had never quite attempted to fight back, always just ran or let it happen. But for some reason, as the spit trickled down my cheek, that had changed. I pulled my fist back and landed with a rage right on his nose. His grip released automatically as the blood started pouring, a string of cuss words leaving his already dirty mouth.

"You little bitch!" He screamed, lunging for my arm again. This time I jumped back, scrambling towards the door while he ran to the kitchen, his intentions perfectly clear. Tears streamed down my face as I struggled to open the door, my hands shaking too much to get a good grip. When I got the door open, I slammed it behind me and ran as if the devil himself was chasing me, hearing the hard pound of a knife hitting the door and sticking, happy that it was in the wood and not my spinal cord.

As my feet pounded hard on the cement and tears flew off my face behind me, the reality of my situation began to set in. I had one small backpack on me with enough clothes for about a week and a few personal items, 10 dollars, and a granola bar. I had nowhere to go, no one who could possibly be willing to help me.

I found an old bench and sat down, my thoughts racing as I tried to gather myself and find a sensible solution. I took off my backpack and looked through it, searching for my wallet, hoping to have enough money for some food. As I scraped the bottom and rooted through my clothes, a picture that I didn't recognize caught my eye.

It was a worn out postcard of a fountain, with the words "Howdy from Tulsa, Oklahoma" scrawled across the top in messy lettering. I thought about it for a minute, before the memory connected in my head.

I had never had a coloring book as a kid, as my mother had always tried to convince my dad and failed each time. When I had gotten old enough to realize I didn't have as much as everyone else, my older brother had wanted to make me feel better and stole 2 postcards a week, along with a box of crayons for me to color on. It had been a routine at the time, and so long ago it had slipped my mind. When it arrived in the mail for me about 3 years ago, I had thought nothing of it and shoved it in my backpack. But sitting on the bench, I realized it was his way of telling me he was okay, that he had made it to his dream. He had gotten out.

I debated the next set of racing ideas in my head, the location of the train station returning to my brain every few seconds. I could make it in a few days, and it would be better than sleeping on a park bench. But if he had wanted me with him, wouldn't he have said something? Who said he was still there?

I tried to reason with myself, but before I knew it, I was standing at the train stop, ticket in hand, watching the 10:00am train pull in and it's doors open, a feeling of bittersweet freedom in the air. I had no one to say goodbye to, no places around town to miss. There was nothing I really enjoyed in New York, except maybe the familiarity of it all. I had lived here my whole life. I knew every side street, the location of every hotdog vendor, where each bench lied. I would miss that feeling of security.

I pulled myself up the stairs and into the back of the car, managing to snag a bag of peanuts from a crew member, along with a small bottle of water. Pickpocketing was a skill I shared with my brother, among many others that had proved quite useful after he had left.

Me and my brother shared quite a few things actually. I looked just like him, with high cheekbones and a dangerous smile, our eyes each sparkled with trouble each time we got an idea. The only thing that seemed to really differentiate us were our eyes. He had my mom's eyes, a vibrant dark brown that held sadness and the best joy in life at the same time. She had a story in her eyes, and Dallas had the same.

I had been given the burden of my fathers eyes, a palish blue that was lit with a fire when I was mad, dark and stormy when I got angry. They reminded me of heavy storm clouds on a dreary day. I hated them so much, and for years I had lusted for the eyes of my brother and mom. But, as it goes, I learned there was not much that could be done about it, and accepted my fate.

The train whistle screeched and we shuffled to an achingly slow speed. I rested my head on the window beside me and dozed off, pictures of what I hoped my new life would be dancing in my head as I drifted off to sleep.