Ruin Maketh Me

60 - The angel of my demon

There's a boy and a narrow alley. He lies still, face down against the dirty pavement overflowing with black water and garbage washed there in the flood. The boy is wearing an oversized shirt, colour unrecognisable under the many layers of crisscrossing dirt, and a torn pair of pants whose colour too, has been forgotten; he has no shoes. No one would've mistaken him for something remotely alive if not for the occasional twitch and jerk of his mud streaked ears and tail.
The frightful rain increases in its relentless torrent, and he stirs somewhat, thin, pale limbs rasping across the broken pavement, something akin to a moan draining quietly and unheard from his mouth. His tiny, bare feet kick in futile strength at the path beneath him. Only the collecting water sloshes, he himself does not have the momentum to move forwards. The boy tries again. He latches his broken nails into the crack of stone beneath him and pushes against it. He slides strenuously forwards an inch or so and stops, face still dragging along the stained path trodden many times by the dirty and diseased feet of this city.
Now, there's no other feet but his torn soles, no longer so bloody from the insistent pounding of rain.
The boy becomes absolutely still again, even his long tail - lifeless and dull against the dark stone. Perhaps the throes of death are finally upon him after an entire night of lying in this ditch. He has lived long enough to feel, for he cannot see with his eyes screwed shut in the mud, the pale rising of the next sun. A new day is upon him.
A small gasp disturbs the silent airs of death. The boy is not yet dead, he will not die without a fight. He swings his stick thin arms forward. It's a long, wretched journey, but his arms make it before him, outstretched. He lies still again, but it's not longer before he latches his broken nails back into another crack. Push. He inches forwards, arms stretching out before him like a goal detached from his body. There's nothing before him but the exit to this particular alley, but even that is a few hundred metres ahead of him. The boy has no strength to lift his head and see. He continues to try anyhow.
When he's moved a metre or so, he stops again. His legs spasm, the nails on his delicate feet have all but chipped away into bloody stubs. There's no strength in his lower body, he can go no further. He can sense it too himself, for this time, the boy does not stay as still as the corpse he's soon to be. His arms twist and rake forwards at the brightening of light ahead of him. What is it that he can sense, blind to the world as he is? The exit is too far for him to reach even with his last struggles against the imminent hold of death. And even if he could've reached the end, there would've been nothing there. No feet hurry here, not even dirty and diseased feet, not in this flood.
Clearly it's of no consequence to him, the boy gropes forward as if there's something within his reach other than tainted stone and water.
Black heeled boots enter the alley. This pair of feet has arrived here, to this particular soiled corner of this ravaged city. The boy it seems, is not destined to die. The woman is small in stature and delicately made. She wears a long black dress underneath her trench coat, and even though she is all but exposed, no water mars the doll-like features of her face. Her black hair, as equally dark as the rest of her is neatly plaited and wrapped into a loose bun at the base of her neck. She has no ears nor tail of animal description; she is a foreigner to this country.
The boy does not sense her presence, he continues to fling his bruised fingers forward, to that light that is now blocked by the woman. The woman, however, has her dark eyes wide open. She sees clearly enough to distinguish the broken boy on the floor. Her feet do not move from their stubborn resting place, she makes no move to help the boy fighting against his death. She merely studies him, eyes travelling across the boy's platinum hair, blinding still even in the grasps of dirt. No particular expression is shown on her dainty face, no shock, no fear, no cruelty, not even apathy, and yet she's capable of standing there, watching the boy struggle. There's something she's seeking within this body before her, some beauty, some strength, some magnetic will to live, perhaps.
The desperately outstretched hand falls to the ground, and it too, like the legs, the tail, the head stays down lifeless and unpolished. The black heeled boots turn to leave. The woman it seems, did not find what she was looking for within the boy.
A hoarse cry rings through the miserable place.
Stopping in her tracks, the woman turns back. She hurries towards the prone figure, shoes splashing through the stinking waters. A tremble runs violently through the boy's fingers, he hears her, he's now aware of her presence! His cries grow louder, more insistent, melancholy and joyous and desperately begging, not even the continuous drone of rain can hide his need.
The woman stoops down and clasps the boy's hand within hers, not minding the rising stench from the body. The cries quieten but do not stop, if anything, they grow stronger in foundation.
"Oh pitiful boy." She cries herself, pain and regret now masking the previous coldness of observation, "How cold you must be!"
The boy whimpers, and the woman takes the entirety of his weightless body within her arms.
"Don't cry," She shushes, arms tightening around her newly-gained baggage, "I'll take care of you, you'll be just fine."
Now released from the confines of his dark prison, the boy cracks open his eyes to his saviour. Irises the colour of molten gold assault the woman's vision, and a smile the boy cannot quite clearly see stretches her full lips. It's a smile of satisfaction, it seems the woman is quite pleased with her choice, she's found what she was looking for.
      "What's your name darling?" She runs a finger smoothly down the boy's dirty cheek.
     "Sol." A sore croak courses from the boy's chapped lips, "Sol."