Amel

I roamed the streets of an unfamiliar locality, aimless, nowhere to go, not a single soul who took notice of me. Every person at sight too caught up in their own mess.

Around two weeks had flown since I bid my father, my home, my old life farewell. The food my father had sorrowfully prepared and sent me off with had gone stale, yet I savored it till the last bite, for I’d never get another chance to taste my father’s handmade dishes ever again. After that, food was hard to come by. I scoured through trash cans and bags.

As I wandered about, drifting without purpose, I saw other kids my age, kids older and younger than me walking hand in hand with their parents, their gait haughty, as if it was an orchestrated attempt at deriding me, taunting me, reminding me of what I’d lost and what I’d never find again.

The kids took notice of my barefaced fixation on their complete, unbroken families and alerted their parents. I was looked at with derision, their visages were hissing at me. I could feel chills sent down my spine to my legs, turning them numb. I left them alone and proceeded anywhere the streets took me.

Night was dawning and I still had nowhere to go, to sleep, to eat. Sleep became scarce as hunger would serve as an impetus to stress, and worry would rob me of precious ephemeral death, a pleasure which I could no longer indulge in; the hunger itself kept the short-lived hours of bliss at bay.

Two hours of sleep. That was all I got before a porcelain shopkeeper found me out cold in the backalley of his shop, snuggled between two trash bags which were the most comfortable pillows I’d rested my head on since the day I ran away that it’d be downplaying their service to call them ‘trash’ bags.

“Hey you! Wake up, little kid,” shrieked the grumpy, shrivel faced shopkeeper, “Buznezz startz zoon and I can’t have a malnourished kid like yer out here. I’ll give yer ten menetz. No more, no lezz.”

He went into his shop. I craved some more seconds of paradise and shut my eyes. Just one more minute…

“I zaid ten more menetz,” the shopkeeper roared, “If yer can’t understand zhat, zhen I’ll have to make yer!”

He’d raised his hand. I cowered with my left hand held high to fend off the incoming onslaught.

“Please, please,” I uttered with the few strength I had left, my voice was fading. I knelt down in front of him, clutched his knees, looked up at him and pleaded without shame, “Please, I have nowhere to go, please, I’m starving and alone. Please don’t leave me off to die.” I began to sob. With a coarse, lumpy voice, I went on, “I’ll do anything for you – washing dishes, doing laundry, helping out in the shop, cleaning your house. Anything. Please don’t leave me off to die. I promise I’ll do anything.”

The shopkeeper laid his ginormous eyes on me. I don’t know if he was pitying me or disgusted at me. He held me by the scruff of my ragged shirt and began to drag me to the shop.

“Anything,  yerf given me yer word,” he grumbled, “Break it and yer good az dead. Got zat?”

“Yes sir, yes sir,” I affirmed, my voice quivering.

“Firzt, we gotta clean yer up, zhen plump up zhat body of yerz a little bit.”

We entered the shop, crammed and rank. He called someone by the name of Uzelezz, which I was sure wasn’t her actual name but he called her so. He demanded Uzelezz to clean me up and fatten me up, like an animal to be slaughtered at a farm. “Feed zhe little zwine,” he ordered.

Uzelezz took me upstairs. It stank even worse than the first floor. The whole room was in clutters; cobwebs entangled the brick walls, the wooden floor, broken porcelains. Light shone through tiny gaps on the battered rooftop.

We sidestepped through the shambles and made our way to a corner of the room that furnished a tattered bathroom – rags hung on a long bar supported unevenly by two rusting poles. Beside one pole was a chipped bucket filled with the most repulsive water I’d ever seen – brown and murky.

Uzelezz offered to help clean me up but I turned it down. The frigid water stung my body but I braved through the pain. I changed into a set of clothes Uzelezz brought while I bathed. On our way downstairs, I asked her if I could call her by another name of her choice as I found ‘Uzelezz’ disparaging.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” she replied in a monotone manner, almost mechanical.

My first day working for Mr. Prozpero (he’d ordered me to address him by that name) went by without me screwing up. I was relieved I’d be allowed to labor another day.

Mr. Prozpero took me to his house that day. He lived in a two-storied building. The house was dingy and reeked of booze. It had five rooms at total – three at ground floor and two at second.

I sat on the kitchen floor while he cooked. The meal was atrociously repulsive, but I wolfed it down. I’d developed an appetite for anything by then. Tears slid down my cheeks as I ate.

Days after my employment, I was being sent for delivering porcelain, collecting money, taking out the trash, luring customers, advertising the shop. Months passed and the fruits of my labor began to ripen. Locals had started taking notice of Mr. Prozpero’s shop. Customer turnout increased manifold as the months sailed.

All was going well for a year until I was falsely accused of purloining money by a customer. I was kicked out of the shop, not even given a chance to redeem myself

The following years, I jumped from work to work. Milk delivery boy for two years. Then the company went bankrupt and I lost my job. Following that, I didn’t have a stable means of income for a year and I juggled between a plethora of undertakings. When I was twelve and some months old, I joined a travelling circus and entertained as an acrobat.

Then, Life showered upon me the blessings it had kept sealed all those years.

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