I’m sifting through the freshly washed garments to sort by type and wearability. The ragged things, worn out or with holes on them, go on one pile. The rest of the clothes gets distributed by sex and size.

Sex is a little difficult though. I mean, I’m aware clothes are made with a gender in mind, but from where I’m standing, some of these low-cut blouses would do better on a guy than a girl.

I’m not getting paid to be thinking about these things, or at all really. So I just sort things.

It’s what I did last Saturday too, and the one before that.  

Four weeks have passed since my birthday. Four weeks since I last saw Abby, or spoke to her. And I’ve never felt the urge to talk to her more than I did the past couple of weeks.

The squat haunts my dreams. Last night I had a nightmare about it, it happens a lot lately. In this dream, Milan was lying on the floor in a pool of blood, eyes lifelessly staring up at me, while Joshua was viciously laughing at me, for it was all my fault. Saying that I killed them all. And when I looked at him, he too was dead. All of them were dead, but they were shouting at me all the same, closing in on me whilst the rotting flesh dripped off their bones, until I woke up screaming.

And the worst part of it? The instant relief that fills me when I open my eyes to realise it’s all a dream is immediately replaced by the dread that I don’t know. I have no idea what happened to them. I know the squad is empty, but I haven’t seen any of them around. I tried to call Anna, but she didn’t pick up.

I worry about where they are now, if they’re okay. If the police actually helped them. I’m hoping, really hoping that they got the help they needed. Real homes, with adults that care for them, and psychological help too.

They should, right? We’re in the Netherlands, not some third-world country. They can’t just leave kids fending for themselves on the streets. They’d have helped them, right?

They wouldn’t have helped Joshua nor Ivanka. I know that. But I’m least worried about them. If the rest of them are safe, they’ll be fine too. They’re adults. They can get a job. And they’ll find a new place soon. Alex and Bharin will help them. It’s better like that. With Ogon off the streets and Fuzz saved.

Fuck I hope he’s safe…

I think about him more than I’ve ever thought of anyone. I even dug up old photo albums, from the time my mother still took the time to print those. Milan used to be just a kid on the street, so he’s not in a lot of pictures. But I do find one from Halloween in which we’re all dressed up and haunting for candy.

Jamie is a vampire: he’s got a cape with his collar standing up and a menacing look on his face, red paint all over his chin, but his pointy teeth have already been lost by the time the picture was taken. I’m standing right next to him wearing a hand-me-down orange pumpkin suit my mother made for Jamie years earlier. My mouth is rimmed with chocolate, and I look intensely happy about it. I clearly had no idea how pudgy I would get. In the background are some of the neighbourhood kids. Milan is in the back. His hair is so light blonde it’s almost white, and his big ice-blue eyes are sparkling. Fitting, since he’s wearing a silver tiara and an Elsa-dress. He must have been only four years old at the time.

Knowing what I know now, all his words and expressions still so burned in my mind, it hurts to see him like that. Innocent, smiling happily, not aware of any of the horror his future would hold.

It tears me up inside, but the emotions have nowhere to go.

So I just pray that he’s alright now. I don’t believe in any god: not the Christian one that my grandmother puts so much faith in, nor the Muslim one that my mother abandoned. But I pray to them all the same. I even looked up online how to.

It’s nonsense. If they did exist, and they didn’t care about Milan in the past ten years, why would they suddenly start caring now? Because I asked them to? They wouldn’t.

But maybe I’m that narcissistic, because I try anyway. For I don’t know what else to do. I know Abby would’ve found a way to reassure me, but she won’t. Not anymore.

She isn’t going to cheer me up with her funny stories, or draw me a sweet cartoon to make my day. We aren’t going to be talking about what adventures we’ll encounter in the future, or just in our fantasies. We’ll never write a comic together. We’ll never make it big and sell plushies of our favourite characters to a wanting audience.

My mom keeps calling it a break-up, and to be fair, it does feel like one. I guess. But what do I know about romantic love? Apparently nothing.

Why the hell did I have to be gay? It’s not fair. If I only could’ve loved Abby like that, life would be so easy…  

And now, it’s not. Now I’m sitting here in this pile-up of used goods smelling of cheap detergent, hanging worn-out clothes on a hanger on my free Saturday, wondering if she’s doing the same all the way over in Vlissingen. But I won’t know, because she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.

To be fair, my community service punishment isn’t so bad. It’s not hard or dirty work, and I was even welcomed by the owner with so much warmth, it was slightly unnerving.

“No one is going to know why you’re here.” She had said, her eyes soft and caring. Like I deserved that. She knew I was a thief, only here for the mandatory four afternoons that were my sentence.

The store sells second-hand products that have been donated, for prices that are below what you’d pay anywhere else. It’s a charity, basically. The people working here are volunteers. Mostly ladies that have been housewives for so long, they’re out of the job market, but now out of needy children as well. Or that is what I’m expecting considering their age. There is a 74-year-old woman working here as well, she’s probably a bored pensioner.

“Ravi, we need you in the store for a minute.” Ayla, the boss lady, comes to get me. I follow, and note elaborate lines for the cashier. Kim and Francine are clearly not cutting it.

“Fran, you can go.” Ayla tells the elderly woman, who sprint’s away like a woman her age could only do if their bladder was about to burst. The owner directs me over to Francine’s cash register, and takes the third herself.

I don’t stop to think about this, as there’s a line of impatient poor people carrying assorted muck waiting. I noticed the hand-written receipts before, so I’m not expecting anything even remotely modern to work with. I write down the items, prices, count up the total and relay the right amount to the customers with a polite smile.

Some of them even smile back as they hand over the money and receive their receipt and their change in return. It’s a good feeling. After the third customer smiles back at me, I even wish them a pleasant day, and it doesn’t come out forced.

I can hear Kim pound her calculator as she’s immensely slow at this. I’m a faster writer, and I don’t need the calculator either. People start to take notice and change lines, since mine’s going faster.

I know I’m not supposed to, but I’m actually taking pride in this. Who would’ve thought I’d excel in customer service?

Then Francine comes back from her bathroom break and all hell breaks loose.

“You let that THIEF behind my register?!” She yells, clutching her fists in a rage that’s made her whole neck burst into red blots.

She runs up to me and swats at my hands. I’m still taken aback and fail to register the blow coming. The pad and pen fly out of my grip and skid over the floor. Our customers are in uproar. Kim drops everything altogether and starts yelling as well.

“You let a thief work here?!”

“Stop this!” Ayla intervenes. “Ravi’s just a student helping out, don’t you dare insult him like that!”

“A student voluntarily helping out on his free Saturday? Yeah right! Do you honestly expect me to believe that? I put up with all the whole lot of them when they’re working in the back, but to put one of those criminals behind my register?! MY register?! I will not stand for this!”

She turns to me and shoves me. It doesn’t do much, because she’s a 74-year-old woman, but I move nonetheless. “You…” She points at me, her finger so close to my face that it elicits a slight urge to bite it. “You don’t belong here, boy.”

“Ravi is doing a wonderful job. You should be grateful for his help, instead of treating him like this. Do you hear yourself? Calling your coworkers criminals, just because you can’t fathom that a young person would have the heart to help us out? Shame on you, Francine! And for the record: that is NOT your register. It’s mine. And I am in charge of who I put there. Go hang some clothes.” Ayla scolds the woman.

“Tsk. Well check your change people!” She shouts at the line before briskly walking away on her lacquered old-woman loafers.

“Sorry for that.” Ayla says, turning to me. “Now, go on. There’s a line.”

I hurriedly go back to work, but my hands are shaking. The customers are nervously eying the change I give them, lingering to re-count in their heads. Behind me, I notice Kim working even slower, the tap of her huge fake nails on the calculator in an erratic rhythm. She’s watching me.

Everyone’s watching me. Everyone but Ayla. She apparently trusts me. Defends me even, to her own volunteers. But Francine is right. I am a thief. I don’t belong here, especially not behind the register. Why the fuck is Ayla even leaving me alone with the cash?

I feel like crying, but I bite back my tears and keep on working.

When the workday finally ends, Ayla puts me in charge of counting the tills.

I really don’t know why. I wouldn’t trust me one bit, especially not with a system like this. I could easily take some cash and cover it up with missing receipts. It would hands-down be the easiest money I’d have ever made.

But even if I could, I’d absolutely never steal anything from Ayla.

But how could she know that?

She doesn’t. But maybe that’s the point. I want this to end. I never want to be in this situation again. I never want to feel like this again. And I don’t think I’ll ever steal anything again.

Huh, what do you know?