Shrieks of joy and rage alike filled the space, harmonizing with the music in various tones of emotion. Some sang, hanging onto the words like a lifeline. Others cried, pouring their hearts and souls into grieving and rage-filled screams. Patrick and Josie, the others on staff with me today, took turns trying to calm the wains down and standing in the corner farthest from the speakers uncomfortably. They took turns whispering to themselves, glancing at me in increasing concern as everyone at the shelter got lost further in the lyrics of Green Day, Nirvana, and Linkin Park.

“A bad idea,” they were probably confirming with each other. “A bad influence,” I imagined they were saying whenever they glanced my way. The idea had been mine after all.

They couldn’t see it. They couldn’t see how much the teenagers who practically lived here most days needed this. They fretted over stupid things like the loudness of the music as someone or another turned the volume higher. Tried more than once to make them quieter, to sing or be silent. That only goaded them to be louder, more expressive, more alive in their grief. That and my nods. Every time they grew nervous, grew afraid to join in, I joined the song. That would help them be bold again.

At lights out, after clean up, Josie got this nasty look about her. I could tell she meant to pull me aside. Probably wanted to nag me, tell me how “inappropriate” the party had been. She never got the chance though. The moment she made to close in on me, one of the wains threw her arms around me.

She sniffled into my neck. Wiped her tears on my shoulder. Her whispered “Thank you” warmed my heart.

Others came after her. I hugged and soothed those that asked for it. Listened as one or two shared stories with me they had kept buried deep. A few of them kept a distance, peeking at Patrick and Josie anxiously, but nevertheless expressing gratitude with a gesture. My brother’s picture sat heavy in my pocket as one wain thanked me for playing his sibling’s favorites. I pulled it from my wallet, smoothing my thumb over the weathered edges once I broke away from the group inside.

The drive was… quiet. For a few hours, the air had been charged, emotions building and building, reaching a crescendo of heart wrenching relief as they let themselves drop the masks of being fine. They could see each other. And, despite my efforts to hide it, I think a few of the older ones saw me too.

Happy birthday, brother mine.

I parked the car. Held his picture in my hands again.

Did you see them, my brother? So young… Were we young like that once?

…

Sigh

A hot soak did my aching body some good. I assumed my day was over. Kissed my brother’s framed picture and said my goodnight. All that needed doing was taking the trash out back.

The streetlight at the end of the alley flickered on for just a moment when I opened the back door. The light spilling from the kitchen only gave me a short range of visibility in the pitch black. I trudged forward a few steps, pausing to rub my twitching hip. That’s when the streetlight flickered back on revealing a person propped against the dumpster.

“You alright, lad?” I asked.

When I got no response, I made my way closer.

“Do you need help? Should I call someone?”

He frantically looked around after my bag was tossed in, it clanging against the bottom of the empty dumpster. The streetlight chose that moment to shut off, plunging the two of us into darkness. I had to take out my keychain flashlight to get a better look at him when he groaned.

“Is alright lad,” I tried to soothe. “Not gonna hurt you.”

The streetlight suddenly flashed on again. As I angled the flashlight over his body its dim rays caught the edge of a knife in his hand that hadn’t been there a few moments before. His breaths came fast and ragged. A feral sorta look shone in his wide eyes as he struggled to get himself up with one arm tucked against his stomach. That one was bleeding. The sleeve was ripped. He looked to be debating swinging at me. Or making a run for it.

“Easy there lad! I’m not gonna hurt you, but someone else did it looks like. Would you like some help?” I asked, clicking off the flashlight so I could raise both hands placatingly.

The dumpster banged as he tripped backward into it. His ragged breaths filled the space of the alley as the streetlight shut off. My ears caught a couple steps being taken before there was a scraping sound and then a thud followed by a hiss of pain.

Heavy seconds ticked by before I clicked my flashlight back on. The lad looked up at me miserably from his half-curled position against the concrete. His darting eyes led my sight to his knife just out of reach.

“Is alright lad,” I repeated.

Slowly I walked closer. Tried to get a better look at the arm he kept tucked close. His labored breaths grew faster when I knelt beside him. I tucked my flashlight away so it wouldn’t blind him when the streetlight came back on. He barely struggled as I tugged his, presumedly, uninjured arm up over my shoulders. We both grunted with the effort it took to get him up to his feet.

I cast a glance toward his knife. Decided I would get it later for him. No way to bend down and get it now.

“I’m just gonna take you inside alright? Get whatever wounds you have looked over and get a meal in you.”

He didn’t answer, but that was probably because of the pain stealing his breath. 

It was quite the effort to get him across the few feet of alley and into the kitchen door. He was much heavier than expected. His feet seemed to drag, barely lifting to take any steps with me. 

The struggle to get him inside was damned frustrating.

When I tried to ease him onto the couch he collapsed. I tried to rouse him. Tried to again after I’d gone out, collected his knife, stowed it in the kitchen, and grabbed the first aid kit. The lad was too exhausted to be woken though. I decided if he couldn’t be woken, it was worth the extra effort to pry away the layers of cotton and Kevlar clothing myself rather than potentially deal with a fight.

He must’ve been bleeding something awful. Look at this mess of a sleeve. That’s likely why the poor lad collapsed. I hope he doesn’t have anything worse like a gut wound under this strappy black jacket.

I can’t seem to…

How many layers are there to this?

This isn’t… like any military jacket I’m familiar with. Too many straps. Like something from a mental ward on TV almost. I think? It’s such a constricting design. They’re so hard to unbuckle. Would of have to have been sewn into it rather than put it on with how confusing this thing is.

…I just unbuckled straps that do nothing to open this jacket.

“Damn these straps. Why are they so… hard to undo?” I asked myself, pulling and pulling at a new buckle that seemed determined to stay put.

The smearing red on my fingers got worse as I fought with straps. Tugged fabric off of shoulders. The gloves caught my attention so I removed those before fighting to get the sleeves down both arms. One was a dead weight compared to the other. The difference made more sense when the blood-stained shirt underneath accidentally tore under my grip.

“Woah…”

Is that?

The fabric tore the more I tried to carefully bunch it up to slip over his head. With the first aid scissors I cut away at it until it could be easily removed. I set the mangled thing on the side table to get it out of the way. Set to wiping away some of the blood.

“Where did you get such a class arm…”

And it was an arm. A whole arm. The silver gleam extended from shoulder to fingertips as I switched from wiping down skin to metal.

I couldn’t help myself. Had to lift the edge of my night gown and compare his to mine. Not much to compare other than the silver of both though. His actually looked like an arm. Had moved like one out there when he was fumbling in the dark. His fingers had gripped my shoulder.

“That is some limb that is.”

Real class job so it is. Maybe a custom job. Definitely better than what I’ve got.

I’m getting sidetracked though. I shouldn’t be standing here staring like an eejit. His other arm is hurt. Should get back to tending that now that it’s cleaned off. And that wound on his ribs will need some dressing.

Antiseptic spray. Cotton swab dabs. Even a few stitches to the arm went in without waking him.

Poor lad. Can’t imagine how exhausted he must be. How long had he been in the alley bleeding out like that? Why not call for help?

A search turned up no phone, wallet, or keys from the jacket or vest. No pants pockets to check that I can see. Other than the strappy monstrosity of a jacket the gear seems like standard military attire.

Fresh off a bus and attacked on his way through?

He doesn’t have a short hair style like military lads have. This is mostly military attire he’s wearing though. The knife had been recognizable enough as such.

I need to call someone. Get some clothes sorted out for when he wakes. Or for while he’s sleeping. No telling how long he’ll sleep. And it wouldn’t hurt to have another over in case he wakes up panicked. Maybe seeing a new face, someone who didn’t drag him inside when he was reluctant to leave the alley would be a comfort to him. Gotta find my phone.