Penny and The Ruffians - Ch. 2 (Preview)

Chapter 2: The Lone Ragamuffin

I spent three years at Hearth Home Orphanage. Hearth Home, like many of Frostlane’s orphanages, was shut down when the economy crashed and put thousands out of work. When funding for orphanages ran out, hundreds of young Ruffians just like me were put out on the street, with little hope of long-term survival. I was lucky, though—a few of the other kids banded together early on and took me with them. I was unsure why they did; perhaps I did something to endear myself but, for the life of me, I cannot remember such an event. All the same, from that moment forward I was a Ruffian through and through, destined to amount to nothing more than nothing.

There was little to enjoy during those early years—just one tragedy after another. On the day of The Riot, the twenty-second of Rinsler, year 3,241, a bleak day filled with pointless hatred and violence, I was told to stay in a little run-down building while my friends went out to join the fray. Chants and cries for change echoed through the streets, followed by explosions and screams as a hail of gunfire drowned them out. I looked out the broken window and saw a river of blood washing down the alley, then a dump truck full of dead Ruffians, and finally men with brushes and hoses washing the streets. I never saw my friends again despite waiting in that decrepit little building for almost a week. I had no choice but to assume  they had perished among the other 7,000 Ruffians and 2,000 civilians who died that night. I was six years old, and I was alone.

The next two years were spent digging in the trash and scavenging for food and clothing with some success. I rarely had clothes that fit because I was constantly growing: it seemed I was destined to be tall. I was fortunate enough to discover a sketch pad and some colored pencils, though I did not know what they were called at the time. One day I was loitering about a dumpster, contemplating my next foraging expedition, when a red-faced man emerged from some apartments, hollering words I did not understand, carrying the pad and pencils in his meaty hands. A boy, much older than I, was following him, pleading: 

“Dad, please! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just what I’m good at. Why can’t you understand that?”

“Oh, it’s what you’re good at, is it?” replied the father in such an angry and booming voice that I feared the ground would shake. “I was starting to think the only thing you were ‘good at’ was shoving other men down your throat! Now you gotta be some faggot artist as well? Well, too damn bad! You are not putting the financial state of this family in danger so you can draw pictures!” 

With those words, the pad and pencils found a new home and the boy ran inside screaming, “I hate you!” repeatedly.

 Once they were out of sight, I snuck up to the trash can and took the boy’s prized possessions. I recalled a book full of pictures that I had colored in with vibrantly colored wax sticks. These tools were much more sophisticated.

Armed with a new distraction, I spent the next year or two scavenging and sketching with no cares in the world—aside from fear of starvation. Thankfully, I was small and skinny despite my constant growth and always needed only the bare minimum in terms of food. Soon, I would find my first job of sorts. Whenever it was not raining and the cold was at least bearable, I sat along the walkway of a quiet street and offered to sketch passersby for a few credits. I targeted young couples, as they were the easiest to convince; the boys were always quick to pay for whatever their lady friends wanted. I got the idea from this guy in fancy clothes, who had this fancy box in which people sat and had their pictures “made” in exchange for five credits. Sketching was the only skill I had developed at that point, though it always felt natural to see something and then make it appear on a canvas.

I would occasionally walk past a news stand and see what month it was. This was how I kept up with my own age during those years. My friends from the orphanage had made sure I knew that my birthday was the thirtieth of Ainu. I am not sure how or why they knew that, but it was important enough for them to retain and share it with me. On my eighth birthday, I stopped at a little bakery store and bought a small cake with the money I had made over the past few days. I took my time and savored the cake because, as long as I had it, I was allowed to stay inside the bakery. Or perhaps the lady at the bakery simply felt bad for me as my birthday was during the coldest month of the year.

 A week after my birthday, I was robbed. A group of older Ruffians saw me turning my pencils and sketch pad into money and decided they wanted my powers. They likely had no clue how I worked my magic with such tools, but they were determined to take them along with every last credit in my pockets. They pinned me in the alleyway, emptied my pockets, pushed me to the ground, kicked me in the stomach, and ran off with my happiness. I lay there crying until it began to rain and I could not separate my tears from the sky’s.

Then, Sara walked into my life.

She stood over me, holding an umbrella as she looked down with a puzzled look. I did not understand the question she was silently asking as she stared down at me. I looked away in fear, but I could still feel her standing there, staring at me. When I turned my eyes back to her, she was taking the scarf off her neck and wrapping it around mine. I thought she was going to strangle me and end my misery, but she wrapped it around me loosely. It was warm and soft. The gesture confused me: someone was giving me something.

The red and black striped scarf encased my neck as she reached out her hand and brought me to my feet. I said nothing as she led me to an unknown destination. I had no idea what was happening, or what was about to happen. I was ready for death—not happy about it, just ready.

Sara took me to where she lived. As someone who routinely made a home out of boxes in alleys, I was in no position to judge another person’s abode. The apartment was dimly lit by a single bulb in the ceiling light, though there were sockets for two more. The wooden floors creaked and bowed with every step. The once finished walls had begun to crack and peel, making them look rough and lumpy. All I cared about at that moment was that it was dark, warm, and dry, and that made me happy.

“So, what’s your name?”

I stood there and stared at her for a moment. “Penny,” I whispered.

“What happened to you? I have seen many a sad young Ruffian before though; none looked like you did.”

“They kicked me. And stole my money. And took my thing.”

“Thing?” Sara cocked her head.

“It was white, and I made stuff on it with the pointy things.”

Sara just stared at me, perplexed, as my eyes welled with tears.

“Um, do you have another description of the ‘white thing’ by chance?” she asked.

“It was a book, but empty!” My hands outlined the size and shape of it.

“Uh huh…and the uh, ‘pointy things’?” Sara waved her hand around as though the pointy things would appear in them.

“They were long and hard, and stuff came off the end on the white thing! The…the book.” Confidence in my words faded as I went on.

 “Umm…” she scratched at her cheek, “what color was the stuff that came off the end of the ‘pointy things’?”

“It was gray or black.” 

She broke into laughter. “Ah, I think the words you are looking for are ‘pad’ and ‘pencil’.” She crossed the room to her desk and pulled out examples of the same, waving them in my direction as I nodded furiously. She handed me the pencil and notepad and told me I could keep them. She then asked if I was hungry, but I declined the offer as my stomach still ached from getting kicked.

Sara’s look was one of suspicion. “Never met a Ruffian who didn’t want food.”

I frowned. “Are you not a Ruffian?”

“I am. I’ve had a little more luxury in my life than most.”

“How?”

If a Ruffian could have a home, I wanted to know such secrets.

“I work a lot,” she replied. “It is just not a respectable profession.” She went to the kitchen portion of the room and turned on her small stove.

I stepped farther into the room. “Okay. What is your name?”

“People I like call me ‘Sara’.”

“That’s a nice name… you don’t have a last name?”

She waved me off. “Not one worth knowing, my dear. Now, before you sit down on anything, we need to get you dried off.”

“But the Star’s not out,” I protested, certain that was the only way to get yourself dry.

“Dear, you do not need the Star to dry you off. Take off your clothes, and I will lay them out to dry.”

“But I don’t have any other clothes!”

Sara broke into a fit of laughter. “I’m sure I have something for you to wear.”

She rounded up a blue, short-sleeved shirt and a skirt that went down to my ankles. I hid in the bathroom as I changed. I winced as I lifted my arms: my ribs were still sore from the assault.

My clothes were left hanging over the side of the tub, except for the scarf, which remained around my neck. The tattered and poor excuse for a long-sleeved shirt and my ripped pants were not really missed. The less said about my coat, the better.

Sara began cooking dinner and tending to my wounds. I thought I was just bruised but, apparently, I had a cracked rib thanks to those jerks from earlier. It was nothing too serious, but I had to be careful with how I moved to avoid making it worse—at least that was what Sara said as I sat on a broken-down sofa.

“So, how old are you, Penny?” she asked as she rubbed a bag of ice along the bruised areas.

“I turned eight last month. How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine. Do you know your actual birthday?”

“Yes. It’s the thirtieth of Ainu.”

“Oh, that sucks.” She furled her brow.

“Why?” I asked with some indignation.

“That’s supposedly a cursed day. It was the eve of the Scarlet Dawn. There are only a few people born on that day, and all of them die before they turn twenty.”

I sat back and glared. “That’s not fair. What if I live past that?”

Sara smiled. “Then you will be the luckiest girl in the world. So, here’s hoping that turns out to be the case. Food is almost ready, if you’ve changed your mind about being hungry.”

“Okay.”

Sara’s kindness was on full display while I sat back and took in the full scope of her appearance. She was tall, and her skin was far darker than mine, which made me curious.  

“Why is your skin so dark?” I asked abruptly.

“Compared to yours, or in general?” She did not give me time to answer. “I was born way up north in Solaris City. The Star is brighter, and it is much warmer than here in Frostlane, so our skin gets darker.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I needed a change of scenery, and I could not find work up there. Plus, you get tired of being hot all the time.”

Better than being cold, I thought to myself. “What do you do?”

“It’s hard to explain.” She turned to face me and leaned back against the counter next to the stove, where her food burst into flames. “It’s not something you would ever want to do though, I promise.”

She put out the fire and gave me a plate of food. It was a pasta dish with a little bit of that white, creamy cheese and some chorak meat. It tasted good, but I could feel my stomach pushing against my ribs every time I swallowed. I had never been so unhappy while I ate.

After dinner, Sara spread a blanket on a low table and gave me a pillow. Aside from the pain in my ribs, it was the most comfortable I had ever been. In the middle of the night, I put the pillow under my ribs and slept on my hands.