The Chase

Chapter 1: The Chase



You take your normal seat in the coffee shop, directly in the front window. For some reason, you find joy in watching the arctic breeze sweeping against pale faces as people scrambled from here to there. You sit with your head resting in your hands as the waiter inches his way over to the table, and you order the usual black coffee with two spoons of sugar; just how your uncle likes it. After a minute, he returns with it, and you slowly sip on it, realizing it tastes awful, but you’re too afraid to find something better. Then you slouch back onto the wooden chair until you hear it creek, and occupy yourself by counting how many people pass by with red noses.

One, two, three . . .

When you were ten you, use to do this with your dad as the two of you sat in the Starbucks on the main road. He would get you a hot chocolate, and then you would stare out the window and count how many miserable people flew by, while enjoying life in the warm comfort of hot coco. With Uncle Ben, he would occasionally take you to a coffee shop. But, instead of hot chocolate, he would get you what he ordered.

“You have to learn to grow up,” he would grumble. And you would frown down at your coffee, and then drink it painfully slow until you felt on the verge of throwing up. That was how Uncle Ben raised you after your parents died. He raised you to grow up eight years before you were supposed to.

Seven, eight, nine . . . .

Still, you can’t hate him for it. He did offer to take you in even though he is your only living relative, and it took two months for him to respond. Still, he’s your uncle. Deep down inside he loves you. You hope he does. Your dad never talked much about him before he died, but you assume your uncle was always sour and demanding.

You take another painful sip of coffee, and then stare out the window as the crowd dies down for a moment. In this pause, you see a figure emerge from nowhere like a Goddess of winter. As she walks by, she peers into the window, and your eyes lock. For that split second, she holds your gaze to her with her piercing blue eyes and soft graceful features. Then a crowd comes up from behind her, and she turns away and starts forward.

You stare at her in awe. She weaves in and out of the crowd like a dancer at a party with such elegance that it seemed like she was walking on air. She doesn’t seem to notice anyone, and you wonder if she’s lost in her own world. Her bright sapphire eyes are locked ahead of her, and you turn your gaze forward and notice an old snobbish woman sporting a large chocolate brown bag with a dark fur coat. She’s watching her hungrily, a longing in her eyes. Then you notice that her coat is splattered with dirt, and that her jeans are faded and stained. You press your face against the window as she slowly heads out of view, her long dark hair blowing behind her like a fine silk sheet. And when the waiter appears and asks you if you want anything else, you throw some bills in his face and race out the door with your coat swinging behind you.

Outside the cold beats against your bare skin vigorously, but you don’t even notice. Your eyes are searching the crowd for a glimpse of her. Just a glance of her tan coat brushing against her pale skin would satisfy you. You take a step toward the way she disappeared. Then something pushes you with such force that you stumble forward and almost fall on your face.

“Watch it man.” A big man scowls at you as he passes quickly by, a shabby coat wrapping his muscular body. You pause for a moment and watch him weave through the crowd as gracefully as that girl. Then you race clumsily after him with as much speed as your fragile thin legs can carry you. The big man is fast, you’ll give him that much. Following him is like chasing a cat.

Somehow, he manages to disappear into the crowd, and you turn your head back and forth searching for him. If you can find him, you will find her. Then maybe you can stare at her for another good hour before sighing miserably and heading home, as you often do. If you’re lucky, she will look at you. If you’re lucky, you will find her.

You start to slow down as the cold air fills your lungs. It stings. You gasp for breath, swallowing more air that burns your lungs even more. They’re gone, both of them. You feel this sudden wave of stupidity for following after that guy when he might not have anything to do with her. You curse yourself out even more for chasing after her when you know that you won’t say anything to her. You straighten up and start walking forward; trying to act normal, when inside it feels like apart of your soul is dying. You can’t explain the feeling, but seeing her sparked some kind of longing inside of you; and watching her go opened its cage and allowed it to fly away before you were ready to release it. Her brilliant blue eyes still fills your head like a movie on repeat; the way she brushed by the window and captured you with a simple glimpse your way.

You stop just as you approach a crossing, realizing you’re heading farther away from where you need to be. Those last seconds seemed to have misplaced you, and now reality is starting to sink in like ice-cold water against your skin. You turn to head back toward work, and then you pause as a pale figure catches your eyes. Standing in a dark alley with their hand covering their face is-

Her.

You stare at her as she covers her reddening face. You wonder if she’s crying, then feel this pang of sadness at the thought of such a beautiful creature living in despair. She sways gracefully, from one damaged shoe to the other, the man that you followed standing silently in the shadows. The scene is strange, yet somehow you know she had not caught the woman she was chasing. Silently, you press your body against the freezing brick wall, out of view. From there, their voices flow clearly to your ears.

“You couldn’ even catch that ol’ broad?” says a deep grunting kind of voice.

“I’m sorry Troy, alright? Dammit! Get off my back!” Even with the obvious anger, her voice is soft and beautiful like a melody you heard as a child. You hear more grunts, and then big man speaks.

“Now what we gonna do? I ain’t eatin out no dumpster again!” Silence after that. You hear laughter in the background as a family walks by. She doesn’t speak. Instead, you hear the Bid man’s growl like voice again.

“You tellin’ them what happen. Cause I ain’t the one that didn’ do my job!” There are heavy footsteps, and then big man stomps past you out of the clearing and down the road, his massive face in a deadly grimace. You wait a moment until he disappears behind a wall, then you step forward and stare down the clearing.

She’s sitting in the exact spot she stood, her arms wrapped around her legs with her boney chin resting on her knees. There are tears glimmering in her eyes, but they don’t fall. In the shadow, she resembles a wounded animal, left defenseless and alone. For some reason your body is frozen in place like an ice sculpture leaving you to stare helplessly at her. She sniffs loudly then looks up. Your heart is pounding uncontrollably in your chest as your eyes meet again. For a second you imagine her running into your arms and sobbing uncontrollably on your shoulder. Then she opens her mouth and says, “What the fuck do you want?” Your heart completely stops beating and sinks painfully into your stomach. She stares at you with a look of annoyance, and you want nothing more but to please her. Those curvy rosy lips would look beautiful if she smiles. But nothing escapes your lips. After a moment, she scowls at you, and you can see the fury building in her eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Never saw a homeless person before? Or am I some kind of twisted fucking entertainment to you? Well go ahead, laugh. Sit there with your pathetic life and laugh at mine because it’s worse!”

“But . . . I-“

“You’re all alike. You sit there and laugh at us for living in the streets. Well you know what? Fuck you! All of you. You can take that hell you call a home. Just leave us the hell alone.” You feel this ache in your heart at the sound of her words; just the thought of her wanting nothing to do with you. You reach into your pocket and pull out the money from the check you just cashed from work. Then you throw it toward her and sprint down the road, staggering in between pedestrians in your mad dash. But you don’t care. You just want to make as much distance between you and her as humanly possible. Everything is muted but the sound of your feet pounding against the pavement, and the beating of your aching heart. The cold air burns your lungs once more, but you ignore it. You always ignore your own feelings for others, and you ignore your pain to make as much space between you and that girl, because that’s what she obviously wants.

After a few minutes, you stop and hunch over the pavement, gagging like your seconds away from throwing up. Inside, her words ring through you like a siren. You wonder whether she took the money and went about her way, or was too pride stricken to touch it.

You hope she had.

Anything to stop her from looking the way she did. For a moment, you feared that you would see her cry. Now, all you fear is ever seeing her again. Your lungs still sting, but you straighten up and start down the road toward your uncle’s bar.

Your late, you know that much. But nothing about your normal life seems to matter anymore.

Not being late to work.

Not hearing your uncle’s complains and demands.

Not the $400 you tossed at her before you left.

It all seems insignificant compared to the emptiness that fills your insides. But you push these feelings aside and slump down the crowded city street, her face emerging from your thoughts like a ghost in the shadows. Apart of her is with you; the part that haunts you. And you wish more than anything that all of her was with you.



Chapter 2: Lone Hearts

When Uncle Ben first took you in, he was nothing more than a shadow of a man. He met you in the lobby of his apartment, wearing nothing but a housecoat and a bottle of Vodka in his hand. For most of that year, he would slouch on the couch with nothing to keep him company but his alcohol and endless reruns of the Simpsons. Then, after a few months, he threw himself into building this shop. You never knew what for or what it was for. All you know is that you spent many nights falling asleep by the door, waiting for him to return. You ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner each night, then curl up in a comfortable spot by the door and count until you fell asleep.

Soon, however, he started taking you with him when you got home from school. He would drag you to a lot with a bunch of dirt, and a structure frame standing in the middle, between two abandon buildings. He would hand you a hammer and send you to work, like a slave. Perhaps you were. Some days he would lounge on the ground while you hammered away from the roof. Your fingers would be blistered and swollen, and your shirt would be sticking to you uncomfortably. But when you asked him to stop, he would say no and scold you for even asking.

“Men don’t ask for breaks. Men take their responsibilities head on.” He often forgot that you were still a kid; and soon you did too.

When the building was finally finished you realized it was a bar, and you wondered whether he built it to feed his alcohol addiction. He opened the shop a year after your parent’s car crash, and he calls the place “Lone Hearts.” Only he works there at first; leaving the house at seven and not returning until around 3am. Then he decided he needed more help, and made you work there everyday from 3pm to 3am. Your grades started plummeting, but he didn’t care. To him your future is set. You will take over the bar when he can’t. He never even listened to your dreams. After a while, you stopped wanting them. You decided that the Bar was yours since you worked in it from the age of eleven. But you hate the place. Only lonely depressed people go there. And the only constant visitor is Mr. Bove, your uncle’s best friend.

They would spend hours leaning against the counter with their beers swapping stories that made them either angry, or grow terribly silent. And you would stare longingly out the window with nothing to do because you were too young to drink what you sold.

Today is no different.

You walk through the boring dusty door and see Uncle Ben with his usual sullen look on his face as he leans on the counter. He pulls out a rag and starts polishing already clean glasses, not even noticing you. Once you put your coat in the back, you start your usual job of cleaning counters. Uncle Ben glances over toward you and grunts.

“You’re late.” You don’t say anything. He doesn’t expect you to. He scowls at you from across the room, placing down a glass cup and picking up another. The pipes creak in the walls, and you can hear the water rushing through them.

“Was it your writings again? Is that what stopped you? Writing some gay poems in that coffee shop-“

“Poems aren’t gay, they express our feelings-“

“Men shouldn’t have feelings!” he barks, his grip on the glass so tight that you fear he will shatter it. Here he goes again, you sigh. But you don’t attempt to leave the room. You’d rather have him yell here in public them alone at home.

“Writing isn’t a man’s job, Payton. Why can’ you be like normal kids your age and get into sports!” You stare down at a spot on the table under your hand, its surface so polished that you can see those stormy color eyes that are your own.

“I want to write beautiful words-“

“Yeah, beautiful words aught a get you far. Women love men that can protect them. Not wimps who tell ‘em beautiful words. Why you think you never been with a girl?” You feel your face suddenly heat up, and immediately you start focusing on the already clean table spot under your hand.

“All I wan’ is to see you with a girl. Invite one over the house for god sakes.” The water runs more quickly through the pipes with a gurgling sound. “Don’t worry about writing. This Bar is all you need. It should do you much better than me.” He frowns to himself, and you realize its one of his moods again. Without another word, he stares out the window, toward the park across the street, his eyes glossy. Somehow, the bright sunlight from outside fails to warm this room. And the both of you sit in your own worlds with your own tormented thoughts to drown you.

“There’s a small party going on tomorrow night at seven for the people running Businesses around here.” He pauses, letting the information sink in. You don’t bother telling him you don’t want to go. He knows you won’t protest anyway.

“I want you to wear that suit I bought you for Christmas. The black one with a red tie.” You nod. Then the two of you continue doing whatever it is you were doing, seeming more like strangers than relatives. Often, when your uncle seemed busy, you would watch him for any recognition of a smile. They’re never is one. His only expression is anger. That’s how he feels towards the world. Maybe that’s how he feels towards you too.







Chapter 3: Melisande

You head down the cold winter avenue as the snow falls gently over the ground. The cold wind laps against your skin, like thousands of ice cubes rubbing against you. But you like the winter. You like that when you’re walking through a winter storm, no one has the time to actually look up at anyone else. You feel like an equal as you walk down these nearly abandon streets. The snow reminds you of powder donuts your mom used to make for you when you were seven. The way the snow falls evenly over the street, as if God is just as much of a perfectionist as your mother was. But maybe God gave her the job to control the snow. You stare up passed the small petals of snowflakes ands imagine your mother reaching into a large bag and gently sprinkling an even amount down around you. For some reason, this makes you smile, and you stand in place for a moment enjoying this feeling of happiness. Then something moves in the shadows, and you quickly lose your focus and turn towards it. At first, all you notice is a tan coat in the shadows. Then the figure emerges, and you’re hypnotized by a pair of clear blue eyes.

She stands before you, her look unreadable, and you’re not sure whether to run or stay in place and talk to her. Like it would matter. Your body is frozen to the spot. She stares hard at you for another moment. Then, she reaches inside of her pocket, and pulls out a bundle of money.

“I don’t want this. I’m not some kind of charity case.” You stare at the money in her hand, trying hard to avert her eyes.

“I gave it to you . . . I heard what that guy you were with said. I didn’t want you to get in trouble.” She’s confused . She frowns up her face, and your amazed at how beautiful she looks doing it. The money sits loosely in her small palms; the only thing that connects you to her.

“You’re giving me all of this money? And for what in return?”

“Nothing.” She doesn’t believe you. She shakes her head, her dark strands of hair flying across her face.

“You’re lying. You want something from me. What is it? Sex?” Your face grows terribly pale, and you shake your head frantically.

“No!” She folds her arms, taking in every single feature. In the back of your head, you wonder if she finds you attractive, then you clear your head because you already know the answer.

“Fine,” she says, after a few minutes. “Say I take this money and walk away, and never wish to see you again . . .”

“I’m okay with that.” In your head, you want to see her again; a hundred times over. Only to stare at her and dream of things that could be if you weren’t so weak to make them. The chill creeps up your arm through your coat, and you remember that you have on the silk shirt and tuxedo your uncle bought you for Christmas. But that party is the farthest thing from your mind. She places the money gracefully back in her pocket, then looks back at you.

“Thanks.” She smiles, and your heart skips a few beats then starts pounding against your rib cage. She inches a little closer to you, only a step; but it feels like a leap.

“I told the others about it . . . The other homeless people. They assumed you wanted something from me. No one’s ever nice for no reason.” She looks past you and frowns, lost in her own memories like Uncle Ben so often is. Then she turns to you with a frown on her face, her eyes searching your soul.

“They want to meet you.” This surprises you. Your eyes open wide in their sockets, your thin lips parted slightly. Speechless. She finds this funny and grins. You wonder if she wants anything to do for you. If she would notice you if you walked by her.

“Come on.” She reaches out a pale hand with slender fingers. The chilled air blows harder against your silk shirt. You pause. She extends her hand farther, and your hand twitches, eager to grabbed hold of it. After a few second of waiting, she leans forward and takes your hand in hers. Then she leads you down a dark abandon alley where nothing is visible but the snow laid ground and her beige coat before you. Uncle Ben’s voice sounds like an angry alarm in your conscience. “You’re late!” “You missed an important event! I’m disappointed Payton.” The last thing you want to do is disappoint him. But you love the feel of your hand in hers. Her fingers rub against your hand like the silk shirt against your chest. But her fingers are warm, and they manage to warm every part of you as they touch you.

As the alley ends, she starts across an empty intersection and down another dark alley. She doesn’t speak, but you’re fine with that. You don’t want to ruin this moment. The one moment where a girl actually finds interest in you. You were never good with word anyway; at least, saying them. Breathing was always your strong point. Hearing the sound of breathing comforts you and her breaths are slow and graceful like a beautiful piece of music. She stops at the end of the alley and turns down an empty street. The streetlights cast an eerie ginger glow upon your surroundings, but you don’t stop. She seems to know these streets like the back of her hand. You wonder if she spent her entire life living alone.

A few blocks down, she turns into another alley, but this one isn’t dark or abandon. A group of people are sitting around a large barrel of flames whose smoke blur out most of their faces. They don’t notice the two of you approach until they hear the sound of the snow crunching underneath your dress shoes. Then they stare at you, most of them in annoyance, others in curiosity.

“Mel, who the hell is that,” asks a stubby looking girl with short brown hair that looked like it's filled with dirt and God knows what. The others don’t speak; they’re too busy eyeing the fancy suit that you’re wearing and the shiny black shoes.

“This is the guy that gave me the money.” She pulls you closer to the flames so that they can see you better. You’re amazed at how dirty they all are. Even more so, that the girl is the cleanest looking one out of all of them. At her words, their expressions change. The look of annoyance changes to looks of joy and admiration. In the back, you see the man that crashed into you on that day. He stares at you with a hard expression, and you don’t know whether he despises you or not.

“This is the crazy guy?” says a girl that looks like she’s about ten. She stares at you with wide innocent eyes, her dark hair flowing over her dirty face. The girl they call Mel smiles at her, and you see the warmth in her eyes that makes you want to smile too. They invite you to sit with them, and you take a seat on an old looking crate that creek when you sit on it. As soon as you’re comfortable, they start asking you questions.

“Are you rich or something?” asks the stubby girl who seemed closest to the fire. You shake your head no, and the others stare at you in disbelief.

“Who would give anyone that much money and not be rich?” You shrug your shoulders, feeling proud (for once) for something you did.

“I don’t need it.” The girl sits beside you on the crate, her arm brushing closely against yours. She’s smiling at you, and your heart starts drumming in your chest.

“You’re crazy,” says the young girl. The round girl flashes her a menacing look, but the young girl ignores it. She leans against the brick alley wall, folding her arms tightly over her chest. “If I were you, I would have kept the money and bought some new clothes, or food-“

“If you haven’t noticed, he doesn’t need new clothes or food!” snaps a boy sitting beside her. He looks only a year older than her, with long dirty blond hair wrapped up in a ponytail. She scowls at him and turns away. You’re certain you hear her say, “Idiot,” under her breath.

There is a pause, and Mel takes the opportunity to introduce everyone in the group. The young girls name is Emilia, but they call her Emily. The boy beside her is called Rex. The round stubby looking girl is called Heavy Heather. You grin at this. The guy in the back doesn’t have a name, they call him Big Man. And the girl that you gave the money to is named Melisande.

“It sounds like I’m a hippy,” she jokes as the other lean closer into the fire for warmth. You smile, not because she’s looking at you, but because you want to. You feel this sense of joy inside of you just sitting on a broken crate surrounded by homeless people. You can imagine your uncle calling you a nut job for sitting with people who he considers inhuman. But you like sitting with them. They except you in their group without hesitation, and they find you fascinating even though you’re not.

You learn that Heather and Rex are brother and sister whose parents died two years ago. Emily lived in an orphanage all her life, and ran away about a year ago when some family tried adopting her. Melisande and Big Man didn’t offer to tell their story. Instead, they both sat in silence, listening to the crackle of the flames.

“Why are you so dressed up, anyway?” asks Rex. Then you remember you were supposed to be at your uncle’s stupid party, and you jump up in panic. Your watch reads 10pm. You’re an hour late.

“What’s wrong?” asks Melisande, standing beside you. You tell her that you have to go, that you’re late for something important and that you’re sorry. She shrugs it off.

“Don’t worry about it-“

“Will you come back?” asks Emily, her large eyes piercing innocently at you. You like her. She reminds you of those little innocent sisters from the shows your parents used to watch with you. Everyone else looks at you, waiting for an answer. You tell them yes. They smile at you. Melisande touches your shoulder, but doesn’t say anything. You nod an understanding, and then bustle down the alley and along the street, racing to get back to your reality.

Uncle Ben isn’t pleased. As you enter the building panting wildly with beads of sweat streaming down your face, he stares at you with a look of loathing. The room is full of important looking people, holding champagne glasses in a ball like room under a diamond chandelier. You wonder if they even noticed you weren’t here. Uncle Ben did. He excuses himself from who ever he was talking to, and heads over to the door where you stand. He looks like he’s about to explode. Casually, you take your coat off and hang it on a hanger before he arrives. When he’s almost to you, he whispers, “Where the hell were you?” He grabs a hold of your arm and squeezes so tightly that you almost gasp in pain.

“I was . . . held up. I’m sorry-“

“Sorry isn’t going to make up for the time you weren’t here. Everyone was looking for you!” You know he’s lying. No one even noticed you weren’t there. But he wants to make you feel guilty. He wants you to feel like you owe him the world but you’re being a selfish little child.

“I’m disappointed Payton.” He knows he has you now. He knows how much you want to please him. You quickly start apologizing for being late, and promise you’ll never be late again. He shrugs off your apology, and then leads you into the ballroom, where you find it hard to concentrate. In your mind you repeat her name over and over.

Melisande, Melisande . . .

You like how it sounds in your head. Like the lyrics to your favorite song. You can’t wait to see her once more. And as the party goes on you start counting down the moments until you see her again. Hoping that you can feel her silk like fingers against your skin. Maybe if you’re lucky she will sit beside you with her arm brushing against you, as you listen to the steady sounds of her breathing.