Les Bonbons

In truth, I have taken a liking to my first short story, it being the beginning of something bigger it seemed. That established, I decided to create a short story for each of the characters in the first. The meek attempts of a beginner, so to speak.

He had seen her more than once. She was at the street almost every day. There was something in the way that she sat quietly, never speaking. He knew what he had to look for, knew very well which ones he could approach, which ones would listen and believe. He was not a cruel man, he though. Essentially, ha was helping the needy, a sort of charity worker, he thought.

He liked the area, it was old true, but it had an alluring quality to it, one that brought in strays. He saw many like her there. They were lured in by the colours, pretty shops and reasonable prices. Anyone could feel better here. It didn’t take much after all. All he had to do was offer up a kind word, a small drink on him. A smile that didn’t seem fake.

He knew how to go around that. There were ways to bring a bit of liquid to the eye, easier still to infuse a soft shimmer into his voice, something that those hapless fools would perceive as emotion, truth, desire. Easy as that, and there were so many of them.

The street looked like high end, he supposed. It was in fact crawling with the poor, the helpless, the gullible. He allowed them the pleasure of thinking they were in control. That’s as much as he could really offer them that was truth. The feeling of control. After all, they were going to lose it quickly. He smiled at his internal pun.

There were ways of enjoying one’s life within this catatonic city. There were exercises one could do in order to not surrender fully to the thrumming pulse of a dying megalopolis. He imagined a dragon, huffing out its last breaths. He often dreamed he was one of the teeth, he was one of the spartoi.  The very idea was ridiculous. He was as far from that as possible.

He did not own a mirror; he knew quite well he would detoriate if he had one. He could feel himself, no need to see himself too. Not beyond what was reachable like this.  

He supposed he lured them in because he did not look the expected part. He had no new clothes, did not lather himself in perfume. Could not afford any, and when he could he would spend it on better pastimes. He licked his lips in anticipation of his next feat.

She was just like the rest, needed to be to qualify. He sat near her, sometimes catching her eyes. He saw her fidget, he liked that. She was unsure of herself; he would make her think she knew exactly what she wanted.

He had left a small piece of paper behind once. From his nook in the door he saw her pick it up, look through and place it right back where he left it. It became a game, she an unwilling player. Soon however, she relaxed around him. She no longer glanced his way, he became an unseen routine in her life. Her dream, her destination.

When he approached her at last, she was ready for him. She listened intently, not saying a word. He knew she was listening though; it was obvious by a slight widening of her eye, a gentle shift of leg. He noted when and on what subject, word.

He learned to read her like an open book. He didn’t smile, he realized she did slightly, but his teeth were rotten, almost all completely decayed. An impression mattered in this job, he wanted to look shabby and sad, yet presentable. He wasnted to become the embodiment of a stray that she would pick up and take home with her.

Yes, it was she who was doing him a favour, really. He was grateful she was so easy to convince, he needed to eat after all.

It was altogether sad that there were no real colours in these parts. He remembered carnivals from his childhood. Those were filled with colour. There was so much to do, so many games he wanted to try. He would wander around, picking up scraps of candy and fallen treats that weren’t too old. That was the rule, it had to be relatively fresh. Not like he could afford to play games or eat sweets.

Even in a place meant for children there had to be money involved. If you had no parents, you had no money and that, it seemed to him, was where the rope drew short. He remembered thinking that you couldn’t be a kid if you couldn’t go to the fair. He thought there were ceremonies you had to pass to become one.

Thinking about it now, there were. He took pleasure in seeing others play, win toys, balloons. He had always wanted to try cotton candy.

He had sat down once, away from the crowd, on a bench. He thought how cruel it was that he was allowed in but not allowed to do anything otherwise. He had started crying, sobbing into his grimy sleeve and at the same time, he was already at home, mentally going over the probability of finding food at home. The smell that was wafting through the crowd and from the many vendors was suffocating, his stomach twisted into tight, painful knots. So did his throat as he tried to stop the wicked convulsions in his chest.

She had skipped up to him. A perfect picture of a loved child, matching green socks and bow and all. A doting mother was standing not too far away, proud of her dear girls good heart, worried that the dirty street boy would hurt her precious one.

She handed him an apple covered in a deep red glaze. He looked up at her, ashamed of acting a sissy. She looked uncomfortable, unsure of what to do with the gift he hadn’t taken yet. Finally, the melodious voice of the mother reached them.

He was still busy studying her. She gave him an awkward smile and left the gift on the bench beside him. He wished it was money instead; he would run home and present it to his Father. He would have been proud. Would have clapped him on the shoulder and made a slurring comment of praise.

A week later his Father would not come back. He blamed that girl; if he had only got some money.

He disappeared on the night the fair closed. Jack supposed he had left with the fair, left with the ponies, the fire breathers, the ballerinas, the tight rope walkers, the wild animals, the clowns.

They had forgotten to take the hyenas…