Intro to Story
Handbag over one shoulder, wringing my hands red, I walked down the hallway alone. The air was chilly, yet crisp-a set of doors far ahead of me that would lead me out into the streets, out into the pot-holed streets with fresh mounds of snow piled on the side, looking like slightly melted lumps of vanilla ice-cream. I was having trouble breathing. The soles of my shoes slapped loudly against the tiled floor, and if I tried hard enough I could block out the distant sounds of whimpers and sniffles. But, occasionally, a salty tear would run down onto my trembling lip, and I would be reminded; the data found no match. My mother isn’t in the records. Bursting through the doors, I’m once again on the streets. Wiping tears from my eyes, I keep on walking to who knows where, trying to run from my own overwhelming emotions. I came all the way here for nothing.
“Mama!” I look up. A blonde woman jokingly wrestles with a young boy, fair of face and with a head full of dirty blonde locks.
“Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.” She gets hold of the boy and plants three sloppy kisses on his left cheek, the boy turning away in disgust. They exchange a few words, the boy whining and the mom laughing. They don’t notice me staring.
“Let’s go get some Starbucks, shall we?” The Mom grabs the boy’s hand, and I lower my head as they near me. They’re walking fast now, most likely excited to get their hot chocolates-coffee for the mom, that is- or whatever warm pastry they fancy, and a slight breeze blows through my hair as the pair whip by me on the sidewalk. I turn around, casting them a quick glance, lucky that neither of them can feel my gaze on their backs. They move forward with a bounce in their steps. It’s selfish of me to feel jealous-this, I know-but my heart aches anyway. My thoughts wander to my predicament again, the awful one I have stuck myself in. I have 500$ in my purse, no means of transportation, and no place to run back to. This must make me sound so mysterious. Dangerous, even. Sadly, I’m neither dangerous nor mysterious. The universe didn’t set me up to be that way. I was born in London, and I probably had an accent (as most born there do)-although I don’t remember having one, and I surely don’t have one now. See, the thing is, I never got to stay in London. More specifically, I never had parents. For as long as I can remember, I have been bouncing around from home to home, never quite finding a place that stuck. Trying to remember the orphanage that I was first sent to would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, as the old saying goes. I don’t remember it. Either that, or I have purposely erased it from my memory-a subconscious attempt at dealing with my pain? I read something explaining this online somewhere. My most recent home, with the Salgettis, lasted me a record of…how long was it? Almost two months. Record or not, it wasn’t working out, so they loaned me five hundred bucks, and I booked it. To tell the truth, they don’t know that they loaned me five hundred bucks-I feel guilty, but they won’t notice that a few big ones have gone missing. The Salgettis were loaded. All business, I plop myself down onto the bench that has magically appeared in front of me. The street that I’m on is narrow and surrounded by buildings, except for my left side, which has a small park with a marble fountain. I don’t recognize the street, and there is no one in sight. This gives me the slightest chills, but I ignore them. I have to do something that I forgot to do earlier. Momentarily, I have a mini panic attack-I should’ve done this first, for all I know they could have a link to my phone! I shake off the jitterbugs. Too late now, better not to tear my hair out over thinking about it. I dig inside my purse, and I find my phone-my hands meeting with its’ hard, plastic, protective case. I pull it out as you would a grenade, and then I speed myself up as soon as I realize how slowly I’m going about this. Clicking on my phone, I type on the password and blink as the screen lights up in my face. I bring up messages. Click on contacts. I go back, because I almost made another stupid mistake. I type in *67, and then the number of the contact I am trying to reach. The keyboard comes up, and I type the message. A minute later, I’m done, my hands trembling. Instead of sending it, I erase it. I type it again. I’m wasting time, but I can’t seem to put what I want to say into words. The send button taunts me, entices me, until finally, I click it. The message loads, and then sends.
“I’m sorry.” It reads. I snap out of it then, and I toss my phone into the trash can near the bench.