The Memory Jar [Zayn Malik]

Chapter 6: Thinking

Hello all! I want you all to note that I am updating exactly a week from the last one, as promised!  As always, I really appreciate the votes, comments, etc. from you guys, it means a lot. :3

Like I think I noted in my update status yesterday, I'm having a little trouble with the outline of this story, mostly the end. BUT, I won't let it stop me! It'll work itself out eventually, I'm sure. :)

So... I guess that's it then. Chapter six of The Memory Jar! Read on! :)

Dana

            The sky is grey and clouded with a thin fog creeping through the air, reflecting in the man’s green eyes in swirling patterns. A few drops of rain begin to fall, splattering against the pavement one after another.

            The man is leaning up against a large cement wall under a bridge, just out of range of the sky’s increasing drizzle. Next to him a boy, who can’t be more than thirteen, shakily reaches into a faded blue duffle bag and pulls out a small container of Chef Boyardee ravioli and three plastic forks.

            Gingerly, the boy pries open the container and passes the man and I a fork. “Dig in.” Is all he says.              

            The smell hits my own nostrils and causes me to inhale deeply. It feels as if I haven’t eaten in the longest time, and anything is pleasing to my growling stomach at this point. 

            When the container is passed to me, I eagerly stab a piece and eat it, closing my eyes and savoring the taste. I want to eat more, the whole thing in fact, but something tells me there is never a time to be greedy in this type of life.

            “I wonder how long it’ll rain.” I wonder aloud, glancing out at the sky to see that the rain has grown much heavier, already beginning to create little pools on ground.

            “Who knows,” is the mans response. His voice is unexpectedly deep and rough, like he’s swallowed gravel his whole life.

            The boy remains quiet as he stares out at the city, lost in thought. The silence is so stony and harsh. Something tells me it’s not meant to be directed at only me, but I feel that it has something to do with me, with us all.

            “Why us?” He finally asks, choking down his last piece of ravioli and standing.

            I look up at him with the man. I feel more confused, uncertain to why he’s so upset all of a sudden, but the man seems to be hurt almost. I can see the muscles in his face twitching, like he’s trying to keep a calm exposure but is struggling with all the emotion inside. 

            “Bad things happen to good people,” he answers gruffly after a moment, avoiding eye contact with both the boy and I. 

            “Bad things happen to bad people too,” the boy counters angrily. “Bad things happen to everyone, but why us? Maybe we’re just bad people.” 

            “Don’t say that,” I find myself protesting. I rise to stand in front of the boy, only just noticing the shimmer of his eyes, the tears he’s holding back. “Please, we’re not bad people. We’ll get through this.” Though I’m still not sure of who these people are I stretch my arms out to the boy and he runs into them, enveloping me in a hug with sobs that wrack his entire body.