This is PART ONE of a short story I’m submitting for a writing competition. FYI this doesn’t fully follow the prompt but it was my inspiration for the story! Part 2 is out now… Enjoy!

On dark, dreary nights like these, I pull my blanket up to my chin so its warmth covers the freckles underneath my bottom lip. When the winds are mysterious, and I find the noises from the city become too overwhelming, I tuck my cardboard sign behind my back and stare into my cup, waiting for my luck to change. I am a wishful thinker, often yearning for the impossible: sleeping under a roof, feeling someone care about me, and even watching the sky rain chocolate — as if things so silly could actually happen.

I don’t have much; you could say I’m not one for things. I have only what I can carry: a flashlight, my cup, the blanket, my sign, and a shredded backpack I use as a pillow. It's comfortable — sometimes. I “live” on South Elm Street right smack dab in the center. It’s one of the best spots on the whole street, fully shaded and directly outside the local drugstore. I’m lucky.

I reposition my backpack so it presses against my spine and forces me into a sitting position. I can feel the edges of the brick wall through the thin fabric of my pack. The cool edges align with my scars in a perfect checkerboard pattern. My back has seen this wall more times than I can count, while my eyes usually only see a drunken glare and a foot on my chest. My back is always blessed with pain, but I know that if my mother were here, she would tell me to continue soldiering on, so I try.

My face feels older than yesterday. My frown lines are more defined, and the red around my eyes is more pronounced. My ears buzz with the murmurs the drugstore sign produces. I focus on the buzzing, letting myself sink deeper into the wall. Today is one of those nights where everything is peaceful — or so I thought.

I hear footsteps gaining pace on the left corner of the street and begin to listen more closely — if they’re in danger, so am I. I listen to the wretched thud as something makes contact with the person’s skull; there’s a dull clang as a beer bottle comes crashing to the ground along with the person’s body. I leap from my spot, grab my pack, and jog down the street toward the danger.

The yellow liquid sloshes across the sidewalk, mixing with the blood of the figure that lies beneath my feet; it’s a cruel and vivid piece of artwork. I hover above the figure with no sight of their attacker.

I press two fingers to their neck — there’s a pulse. I scoop the figure into my lap, ignoring the blood that begins to stain my clothing. I brush the figure’s hair out of their face, and I’m surprised to see a child’s face staring back at me. He looks no more than eight years old, but the scars that protrude upon his body beg to differ.

His eyes blink once, twice, three times before closing them. His lips are pressed in a flat line, and splotchy blood paints his cheeks a deep crimson. Carefully, I reposition the child in my arms. He doesn’t stir, but he hasn’t stopped breathing — yet. I begin to stand up, maneuvering through the puddle of booze and blood, which begins to resemble a never-ending stream as it drifts further down the pavement.

I follow the stream back to my spot, but I’m surprised to find a woman sitting smack dab in the middle of the street — in my spot — right outside the drug store. She’s an older woman with no more than twelve teeth in her mouth and has distinct facial features that seem unmovable. Her eyes peer at me, and her toothy grin taunts me.

“You seem to be in my spot,” I croak. Unbothered by me, the woman shakes her hand in response.

“Finders,” she pauses to cough, “keepers.” Her laugh is cruel, and her grimy hands hold up what used to be mine tauntingly: my blanket, the flashlight, and even my sign. I hate her. I’m tempted to snatch the cigarettes adjacent to her left foot — not to smoke, but to inconvenience the thief. It’s not like I could if I wanted to, considering I’ve got a child in my arms.

I stare down at him, staring into his agape mouth; he has all his teeth — I can’t say the same. Drool begins to form at his mouth; his chin is in perfect condition — I can’t say the same because my chin is severed in seven different places. I back away from the woman, accepting defeat, and begin to search for a new place.