Second-Hand Life
Two siblings living a life that no one should ever have to live.
"You can't leave now," Luke says softly, his voice barely audible in the chilly autumn air. He stands up as if to leave, holding out a hand to stop me from following after him. I anxiously await his signal that all is well as he creeps along the filthy rust coloured brick of the alley wall outside the abandoned building we call home and peers around the crumbling outcrop, checking to make sure the cops are gone. They are and I sigh in relief as we make our way inside the long-forgotten building. We hole ourselves up in one of the abandoned apartments on the top floor. It isn't much, but we manage.
I sit down on the sagging sofa, an old spring jabbing into my rear uncomfortably. Luke is at the window, peeking out of the dusty rags that serve as blinds. "I think we'll be safe for the rest of the night. The cops are gone for now," he says, letting the dingy material sway back into place before coming to sit next to me.
Police are always a problem in this end of town. You know the part where all the criminals hide out, with the cracked and dirty streets that smell of sewage and grime. Even all the houses here are ancient and worn-looking. The whole neighborhood is decaying. It's the way things are nowadays. That's why the cops are always around. They're looking for strays, like Luke and I, hoping to take us in and stick us in the system. You know, they'd probably separate us and I'd never see my brother again.
Our building is just like all of the others, blown-out windows, leaking roof, and molding innards, decrepit second or third-hand furniture scattered about each room. Luke sleeps in a chair that's right across from the couch we're sitting on, which just so happens to be my bed. It's hard to imagine what life was like before this. Back when we didn't have to hide out like Anne Frank did from the Nazis. It's strange to remember then.
I hardly remember it, I was only four when mom and dad were killed. I just remember the colour red and Luke won't tell me anything about it, he was twelve at the time. It's been four long years since then. Luke and I ran away from the house as soon as we saw our parents' bodies. I wish I recalled what they looked like, but I was too young. We've moved around a lot since then, but I don't really mind much as long as Luke's here to take care of me.
We don't really have much to call our own, just barely enough food for the two of us to survive and Luke works so hard just to get us even that little bit. I feel so useless; there's not really anything I can do; I'm only eight after all. Luke says that I don't have to do anything, just smile for him. He says it keeps him going. I sometimes wonder how true that is.
Sirens sound in the distance and Luke stirs, shifting uneasily. He glances at me and I catch his eye. He graces me with the tiniest of smiles before he stands up and moves to sit in the chair he uses as a bed, resting his hands on the stained and torn olive coloured material.
"Hey Maddi, it's time for bed, k? We're gonna move tomorrow, so you need your rest," he says as he leans forward and ruffles my bangs, tugging on the longs strands playfully. I giggle and nod, pressing my body back onto the uncomfortable sofa and close my eyes. Luke blows out the candle that has been lighting our home feebly for hours. He leans back into his chair and breathes a heavy sigh that speaks of years beyond his age. I smile sadly in the darkness.
"Goodnight Luke," I whisper quietly in the direction I know him to be in. I hear him breathe in again.
"Sleep tight Maddi," his reply is only a little late and I close my eyes once more. Sleep comes quickly when you're far too old for your years and Luke and I are ancient. Dawn will bring with it, a new day and a new home, but I don't mind, not as long as my brother is here to protect me. Besides, we're used to this by now, after all it is just another day in our second-hand life.