“What we see in passing”
An excerpt from a draft of one of my short stories, entitled “What we see in passing” about a young boy who fears being seen by those who wish him harm.
“Hey, kid! Move over, will ya!”
Obediently, the young boy shifted more to the right on the wooden bench, but judging by the frown on the man’s face and his grunt as he heavily sat down, knees splayed, it wasn’t enough. But really, how much farther could he go? The side rail was already jamming into his ribcage, causing the bruises to hurt even worse.
Usually, he could dodge the blows, but this time there were three of them. So he just took it until they were done.
Maybe I should get up, move away from the bench and stand closer to the street. Then I’d see the oncoming bus sooner, too.
And, came the thought that was always in his mind, anyone who might be coming to look for him to ask him questions he didn’t want to answer.
The man snapped open his newspaper and began to read, not caring that he blocked the young boy’s view of the road.
He mumbled to himself as his eyes followed the stories. “Damn illegals. They’re nothing but criminals, every last one of them! We should execute them on the spot!”
The young boy shrank into his oversize dirty blue jacket, hoping the hood would hide his face. He was lucky that he looked more like his father. That’s what his mother always said, anyway.
“Just like your papi,” she used to tell him when she washed his face before bed. The shelter was so crowded that baths were a luxury. Sometimes a quick scrub of his face was all she could manage.
“Your papi had bright blue eyes and blond hair just like yours, and he was so tall,” and she smiled, her white teeth contrasting against her dark skin. “When I would stand next to him, my head wouldn’t even reach his shoulders! You’ll be tall, too, mijo, once you get a little older.”
Then she would hug him, her black hair falling around the two of them like a shield, and his nose was filled with that indefinable mother scent that he could pick out in a crowd of women. No matter how long they were apart, how much time had passed, he would still know his mother by that scent, that touch.
From my "StoryBites" page: https://www.nancychristie.com/books/essays-fiction/story-bites/