Months passed, and I still didn’t go back. I lived on the streets, grabbing what scraps I could find. Theft was an option I often resorted to, and quickly grew adept at. I wasn’t proud of it then, but it kept me alive… barely. My eyes grew dull, my limbs thinned, and my strength started to leave me. No child should have to live like that.
There were others who were homeless too. Beggars, urchins, thieves, all lived in the same alleys. In there, it was survive at all costs, even beating up little kids for their food. Kicks, punches, wood and stones: I could dodge them all well to start. As time went on and I got weaker and weaker, that changed. I started failing dodges and blows started landing, which only made my situation worse. The elements and hunger were taking their toll. At this point, my will to live began to dull as well. Many times I considered throwing myself into the lake, never to be seen again. I don’t know what stopped me, but I never followed through.
I was on my last legs when it happened. A vile old beggar came after me for the heel of a loaf of fresh bread that I had managed to pinch from a bakery. Rum was on his breath, and a knife was in his hands. I tried running, but he caught up quickly. He took my bread and gave me a beating, but as I was about to pass out, he dropped his knife. It was dull, but the point was still sharp enough to pierce flesh. I carried my knife openly after that, and my problems with beatings ceased. No street urchin is dull-witted enough to go toe-to-toe with someone with a weapon.
