The Home For Lost Youth was a simple place, but that’s what I thrived on. Simplicity. It ran on a strict schedule with robotic mistresses to keep things under control. Every morning, we woke up with the sun and recited our Systematic Vows to a virtual flag on the netscreen in the cafeteria. Then, we went to class, learning about the System and our potential role in it. To me, all I had known was the System. To me, they were my saviors. But through the children who came to the home later in life than me, I heard that the System was merely the guard dog of the government. Of course, all these rumors were quickly shut down by Animated mistresses. After class, we were mostly left to run wild.
The home itself was one giant stone building resting on the edge of a small cliff that fell into a river. It stood formidable, like the boot of a giant, disappearing into the clouds. Occasionally, we would be forced to jog up and down all thirteen flights of stairs. The first two floors were the cafeteria and gymnasium, the next level for staff, and four more for living quarters. The rest of the floors were abandoned. My friend Ivan once dared me to climb out onto the roof through a bathroom window, and we discovered a secret hideaway for stashing stolen cigarettes and sharp rocks.
There was a tall wall that ran around the property and was put up by the cliff after a few too many kids had thrown themselves over, whether for a dare or death. The land was secure and no one was around for miles. We were completely isolated from society.
So imagine throwing a bunch of kids in a field, all of them different ages, cultures, genders. Things get kind of wild. Especially if you're a scrawny, smart-ass kid like me. I may have been the equivalent of a bean to a skyscraper with boys my age, but I knew how to throw a punch. And apparently I knew how to take one.
"Argh." I groaned as Mistress Irene applied ointment to my bruised knuckles.
"You can take me stitching your face back together, but not a little ointment?" It asked, wrapping gauze tightly around my hand.
You ever hear the term never bring a knife to a gunfight? Well, never go into a knife fight barehanded. Trust me.
It's not that I didn't suspect Harry would sneak in that neat shiv he'd been putting on display all day. My pride just told me I could take him with or without a weapon. That's what it's like when you're an eleven-year-old. The whole world seems to be in your hands. Only with time do you realize it's more like sand slipping gradually through your fingers, and then all at once, gone.
The fight was over nothing, really. Harry liked Jo. Jo liked me. I couldn't give a shit. I'd been in a bad mood all day, anyway, so I thought I might as well blow some steam off, get in some punches, take a few myself, trade insults and part ways.
I should've expected Harry would bring that goddamn shiv.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" I shouted as Irene dragged a cloth across my face, jumping enough to hit the bunk above me. We didn't have a nurse's station at the home. The mistresses just took us to our beds and pretended to know what they were doing.
It clicked its fabricated tongue as it checked over its stitching and bandaged my cheek. "Ya'll all reach that age, s'pose. Fighting over girls. Fighting over rep. Hell, fighting over nothing."
I resisted sighing. "Maybe I have a reasonable... reason for fighting."
"Oh, hush, now." It muttered, packing its things. "Nothing is reasonable in a teenage boy's head."
"Maybe I just like to fight." I continued like it hadn't said anything, because when I'm angry I don't shut up.
"Oh, you all do, honey." It laughed and went to pat me on my bandaged cheek, but stopped itself. I believe most of the Animated knew I didn’t like them. Something about them was just off. Like I was staring at a sky without a sun.
It still had that air of condescension around it, so I kept talking. "Maybe I like to hurt people." I gave it my crazy eyes, trying to instill fear into its puny mainframe, but it just rolled its own.
"Clean these daily or the only person you'll be hurting is yourself." It said before throwing its bag over its shoulder and walking away.
Bitch. I thought, just as Erik entered the room and Mistress Irene left out of the staff door. Technically, he wasn't allowed in here. There were three male units, categorized by the troublemakers, the crazy, and the kiss-asses. I was the former. Erik was surprisingly the latter.
I was about to comment on the odd timing of his arrival (maybe he had been waiting for Mistress Irene to leave) when he started talking.
"What the hell happened to you?" Erik questioned nonchalantly, as if he didn't see the wounds or the piles of bloody cloths beside me. Actually, maybe he didn't, considering his eyes were glued to the floor. Weird, since he always enjoyed intimidating eye contact.
"Four stitches on my right cheek," I reported like I was reading off a list. "A few on my right bicep, and innumerable amounts on my stomach." I looked up at Erik's scowl and added, "Apparently, Harry's a lefty."
"I mean what the hell happened in that fight?" He snapped, still not looking up at me, but at my bloody shirt lain across my mattress.
I stood up from my bed, wincing at how fast I did it, and frowned at his tone. "You were watching?" Erik usually kept out of crowds, sticking to corners to brood and look mysterious and unapproachable.
He huffed and rolled his eyes like I'd said something stupid. "Put a fucking shirt on." He said suddenly, turning away. "Let's go."
As we walked out into the courtyard, one of Harry's friends shouted, "Hey, Doe, someone put you through a shredder?"
I laughed. "Fuck you, too, Brian." He called me Doe, but more than half of us were Does, including him. I only remembered my first name when I was found at the train station, so they just gave me the same generic last name as every other abandoned kid.
Erik walked ahead of me, sliding through the crowd like water. He didn't take into account that I had legitimately almost had my guts splattered across this exact pavement not even an hour ago. I was walking like Mistress Henrietta when its joints were acting up.
"Hey!" I huffed as I caught up to him, already at the edge of where the courtyard met a field that led into the forest. "We going to the creek?"
"Yeah." He answered curtly, racing ahead of me. That's how we continued for a full fifteen minutes. I made my way painstakingly through the woods while Erik hopped over branches like a majestic unicorn or some shit.
"You mad at me or something?" I called out to him, but he didn't answer. Erik was always a passive-aggressive angry. It was strange seeing him visibly agitated.
When we finally reached the creek, I was gasping for air and Erik was brooding with his arms crossed. We sat for a few moments, breathing in nature and listening to the creek flow across its stones.
"You good now?" He asked after some time passed.
I huffed in shock. "Am I good?" What's his problem?
"What's your problem!?" He snapped back, coincidentally. "Why would you fight Harry, of all people?"
I, shook by his reaction, took a step back and raised my hands defensively. "I was just working off some steam, man."
Erik rolled his eyes. "Now Harry's whole gang is gonna come after you, y'know?" He seemed to calm down a bit.
"Let 'em come." I said boldly. "I can handle it."
He raised an eyebrow. "In that condition?"
I frowned. "You worried you're gonna have to back me up or something?" Erik wasn't a fighter, but there had been times in the past where he would have to step in and help me when I pissed off the wrong people. It made me feel incompetent as all hell.
"I'm worried you're gonna get yourself killed." He responded.
That's the point. "I like to fight. And I'm good at it, too. I'm not going to get myself killed." I said, turning away to head back, ignoring the kicked-puppy expression on his face.
Halfway back, I tripped on a branch, but an arm was there to catch me.
"Why?" Erik asked.
"Why what?"
"Why do you like to fight?"
"Cuz." I said, and kept walking.
Erik sighed. "You're such a baby, Con." He walked beside me, and I pretended I didn't notice him moving rocks and branches that I could trip on.
"Why?" I asked abruptly.
"Because you're always stomping o--"
"No, I mean, why do you care?" I'd finally asked the question that had been bugging me since I was eight. Why did he call to me that day? Why did he show me the creek, the one place he had to himself? Why did he stick with me, even though I barely had any other friends and fought anything that gave me a dirty look? Why?
Yet I wasn't sure I wanted an answer.
He responded with, "Why do you care?"
Flustered, I looked away from him and mumbled, "I don't."
"Really?" He said, and I felt the amusement rolling off him.
"Yeah, absolutely." I lied. "Walk away now, what the fuck do I care?"
"Okay." He drawled, doing a complete 180°. "See ya."
"Wait." I panicked, then cringed.
He turned back with a grin, and I completely forgot why I would ever be angry if I saw that every day.
"That's why." He answered.
That doesn't make any sense. I thought.
But that night, lying in my bunk listening to the breathing of twenty other kids, I thought about how fleeting friendships were in a place like this. Yet Erik and I had known each other for four years, spent most of that time together. Sure, we've had petty arguments, but we'd always come back to that creek together.
I reached under my bed and rummaged through my chest until I found that skipping stone from a few months ago. I took a deep breath and sighed. Around me, the room gave a collective sigh in their sleep with me, and I felt a wave of calmness come from each of them.
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