He always ate alone. It wasn’t by choice. Nor had there been a prior incident that would warrant the space the other boys gave him inside the water-damaged, cockroach-infested excuse for a cafeteria. They just knew better than to take a seat next to him. It was just one of those things. An unwritten rule of sorts. In fact, it had been so long since someone had attempted to make conversation with him that some of the boys had never even heard his voice. His name was Fearless. But they were all afraid of him.
“I heard he murdered his parents with a hatchet,” the Irish Boy speculated. Seated across from him was the White-Haired Boy and Number Fifteen, a boy the others lovingly referred to as Lefty—because of his missing right eye. No one said it was a good nickname, however. The three of them sat in the far corner of the cafeteria as they ate synthetic sardine sandwiches with a single squeeze of yellow mustard and chased them down with expired blue raspberry sodas that had lost their carbonation long ago.
Lefty rolled his eye, as if to say, here we go again. “You don’t know shit.”
“And what do you know about Fearless, smart ass?” the Irish Boy snapped back.
“I heard he was a pirate slave. Parents sold him to some raiders on Io when he was a kid. He learned how to fight on the ships and when he escaped he ended up here.”
The Irish Boy stared at Lefty in disbelief. “So you’re telling me that a bunch of pirates taught Fearless karate?”
“That’s what I just said, didn’t I?”
“Pirates don’t do karate, shithead.”
“You don’t think pirates know karate?”
“Of course they don’t! They’re fuckin’ pirates!”
“It’s not karate,” the White-Haired Boy interjected with a meek whisper. He was still trying to find his voice in this place, to say the least. “It’s Jeet Kun Do.”
The Irish Boy raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”
The White-Haired Boy shrugged. “I’ve seen Enter The Dragon like a hundred times. That’s how Bruce Lee fights. Side kicks. Backfists. The way he dances around the ring and keeps his opponent just barely out of reach like he’s made of liquid. Just like Bruce Lee.”
Lefty stared back at him. Slack-jawed. “What do you mean you’ve seen it a hundred times?”
The White-Haired Boy shrugged. “I dunno, like that movie.”
“No, no—” Lefty clarified, “You’re telling me you own a copy of that movie? And a way to watch it a hundred times?”
“Yeah. My parents have a holo-player. What do you guys have?” the White-Haired Boy replied with shocking earnestness.
The Irish Boy and Lefty stared back at him. If the three eyes between the two of them were any wider they’d fall out and bounce off the grease-stained table right there. The Irish Boy cleared his throat. He hesitated for a moment. Not quite sure how to put this. And then, he slowly uttered:
“You have… parents?”
But before the White-Haired Boy could answer, a meaty hand snatched his sardine sandwich from his tray. It was Number Twenty-One. He stood at the edge of the table and shoved it down his maw in what seemed like a single bite. Two other rough looking boys flanked him on either side. They had only been there for a couple days and allegiances were already forming.
“Delicious.” Number Twenty-One licked his fingers one by one, taunting him. “You probably don’t eat syn-sardines where you come from. No, you’re too fancy for that. I can tell. You probably eat good. Like a king. What do you eat? Huh? Syn-salmon? Syn-lobster?”
The White-Haired Boy didn’t make eye contact. He just stared at his now empty tray. Number Twenty-One’s eyes narrowed. He took in the White-Haired Boy for a moment, then began to chuckle as it occurred to him.
“Hol-ly shit. You eat real beef, don’t you? You probably never had a piece of syn-fish in your entire life. How fuckin’ rich are you, kid?”
The White-Haired Boy didn’t flinch. He hoped that if he played dead long enough, that the bully standing next to him would just go away.
“Give me your shoes.” Number Twenty-One snickered.
The White-Haired Boy’s eyes slowly ticked up to meet Number Twenty-One’s. “What?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” Number Twenty-One snapped back. “Now give me your shoes.”
“Don’t do it, Thirteen,” the Irish Boy interjected.
“Fuck you, leprechaun. Rich boy can speak for himself.”
The White-Haired Boy looked to the Irish Boy, who softly shook his head, reiterating his plea not to give into Number Twenty-One. The White-Haired Boy considered him for a moment, then looked down to his feet. He sighed. Then slowly slipped off his sneakers and handed them over to the bully.
Number Twenty-One took the pristine white sneakers in his hands and cackled at the sight. “A brand new pair of shoes. And you just… gave them to me. Un-fucking-believable. I hope you have more fight in you tomorrow night than you do right now, Thirteen.” He walked away from the table with a chuckle, motioning for his two lackeys to follow.
The Irish Boy waited until he was out of earshot, then turned to the White-Haired Boy with his teeth gritted. “Are you out of your mind, kid? You can’t let a guy like that walk all over you! Especially before your first fight! If he’s in your head now, what do you think he’s going to do to you in the pit?”
“They’re just shoes,” the White-Haired Boy softly whispered.
“No—they’re not,” the Irish Boy snapped back as he stood up and stomped away from the table. Lefty followed suit. The White-Haired Boy was left alone at the table. He slowly took a sip of his blue raspberry soda, his eyes drifting across the cafeteria until they landed on the only other boy who was seated by himself—
Fearless.
They locked eyes. The White-Haired Boy wondered if he had been watching the entire time. If he had seen him give away his only pair of shoes without even the slightest bit of fight. He felt ashamed. As if somehow, he’d let Fearless down. They had never even met, but for some reason, the White-Haired Boy felt drawn to him. Like they were kindred spirits. And so, he did what no one else had done before. He waved.
But Fearless didn’t reciprocate the friendly gesture. Instead, he just kept staring at the White-Haired Boy. And then, after a moment, he stood up and walked away.
* * *
Thud! Thud! Th-thud!
The sound of a fist striking a speed bag echoed throughout the empty training room. The punches were uncoordinated and errant. A far cry from the speed bag’s signature rhythmic, repetitive hum when used in the manner in which it was intended. The White-Haired Boy stood before the piece of boxing equipment strung up by a rusty chain in the corner of the training room. He was drenched in sweat. When the boys weren’t fighting, you could find them working on their bodies or sleeping. Equipment was sparse in the Pits. There were two punching bags, each of them hard as bricks. You’d sooner break your hand working out on one before you became a better fighter. The rest of the equipment didn’t fare much better. Half the speed bags were deflated. The jump ropes cracked. The free weights were eroding away.
It was late. The White-Haired Boy was alone. He was too afraid to sleep in the same room as Number Twenty-One. And too ashamed to look the Irish Boy in the eye. So he began to wail on the speed bag again. Thud! Thud! Th-thud!
“What in the hell are you doing?” The voice boomed from the other side of the room. The White-Haired Boy startled. As he quickly turned towards the direction of the voice to find—Fearless.
He was dressed in a tattered white T-shirt and gym shorts. Short black hairs speckled his cheeks, doing their best impression of a beard. Physically, he looked to be the same age as the other boys. But his eyes told a different story. They were dark. A deep brown. Almost black. The kind of eyes that babies are born with that gradually lighten up, day by day. But there was no childlike wonderment behind them. This was a kid that had seen his share of darkness in his short time alive. Maybe too much.
“S-Sorry—I didn’t think anyone was up,” the White-Haired Boy stuttered as his eyes searched for the nearest exit. “I was just leaving. Sorry again.”
“What are you apologizing to me for?” Fearless snapped back as he approached.
The White-Haired Boy shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a thing I do. I apologize when something isn’t my fault. Or if I didn’t do anything wrong. I just say I’m sorry.”
Fearless’s eyes ticked to the White-Haired Boy’s bare feet. “Is that why you gave that kid with the skull tattoo your shoes?”
The White-Haired Boy glanced at his feet. A wave of shame rolled through him. For a moment he had forgotten about his shoes. He looked back to Fearless. “Part of me hoped that everyone would’ve forgotten about that by now.”
“Forgot?” Fearless chuckled as he shook his head. “No way, man. You just made things worse. A lot worse.”
The White-Haired Boy swallowed. A knot began to form in his throat. He was afraid to talk. He felt like if he opened his mouth he might burst into tears right there. So he just kept quiet. And let Fearless speak.
“Guys like him? They’re a dime a dozen around here. They’ve always been the big kid in school. The one everyone is afraid of. The ones that pick out the smallest kid in the class and whale on them just to get a laugh. And when they’re not whaling on them, they’re pulling shit like taking a guy’s shoes. You know why? Because no one’s ever made them feel small.”
The White-Haired Boy motioned to the speed bag. “Well, to be honest, that’s why I was in here tonight. So when he pulls that shit again—I’ll be ready.”
“Yeah, right.” Fearless chuckled to himself, then shook his head. “Every once in a while, we get one like you, too. A kid with a family. A kid with a roof over his head and clothes on his back. A kid who’s never once had to rob some poor old woman for the couple bucks she has in her purse to buy her granddaughter a birthday card because he knows if he doesn’t, he’s gonna have to go dumpster diving again because the thought of getting food poisoning again from some half-eaten, three day old synthetic burger is enough to convince yourself to ruin some innocent lady’s day. But that’s who you are. A kid who’s stupid enough to wear a brand new pair of sneakers to a place like this. The least you could do is scuff them up before you got here and pretend that you’re not just another rich kid who thinks that coming here and catching a couple beat downs and maybe a black eye or two is going to turn you into something that you’re not. You’re not from the streets. You never will be. So stop acting like you belong here. You don’t.”
The White-Haired Boy gritted his teeth. His fantasy of being Fearless’s friend was just that—a fantasy. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“Sure I do,” Fearless said with an air of arrogance as he turned to the speed bag. “The moment I walked in here and saw you hitting that speed bag like it weighed seventy pounds I knew everything I needed to know about you. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing. And you sure as hell won’t learn it here. So do yourself a favor and go home. Go back to your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crust cut off and your bedtime stories and your mama kissing you on the forehead before she turns the light off.”
Fearless turned and headed for the door. The White-Haired Boy stood there with his fists clenched. He was angry. And hungry to prove everyone—including his father—wrong. “And what if I stay?”
Fearless turned back. His lips curled to a dark grin. “Well, then the next time your mama sees you, you’ll be in a casket. And if she’s lucky, they’ll be able to keep it open during the funeral.”
And then, Fearless disappeared back into the dark hallway. The White-Haired Boy turned and struck the speed bag with his fist.
Ta-thunk!
The speed bag snapped off the chain and fell to the floor.
* * *
On Saturdays, the boys were allowed to use the holo-phone. It was an older model that displayed the person receiving the call in a translucent, pixelated blue hue. The newer models were able to replicate a person’s skin tones so accurately that it was like being in the same room with them. Almost eerily so. But the boys took what they could get. It was nice to see a familiar face and momentarily forget the temporary hell they found themselves in. Most of them didn’t have parents, so they’d usually call a relative or a friend. Some of the boys didn’t even have that, so they’d call the 1-800 number from an infomercial and talk to a stranger about deep fryers or pool cleaners or whatever it was they were selling that day. Sometimes it was just nice to have an interaction with someone who wasn’t trying to beat the piss out of you.
The boys sat on the floor in the hallway outside Humpty’s office where the holo-phone was rigged up. The White-Haired Boy scanned the faces that waited in line for their five minutes of conversation. He wanted to see Fearless. To prove to him that he wasn’t going anywhere. To prove it to everyone. But there was no Fearless to be found.
“Thirteen, you’re up,” Humpty called.
The White-Haired Boy scrambled to his feet and approached the office where Humpty stood outside the door with a stopwatch.
“You’ve got five minutes. For every minute you run over that you owe me a hundred woos. If you can’t afford it, then don’t go over. Got it?”
The White-Haired Boy entered the office and closed the door behind him. Humpty’s office was an old converted bathroom with a sink in the corner of the room. The walls were lined with pictures of the ghosts of fighters past. Humpty always made sure to get a photo with the pit’s top fighter every year. It was the only time anyone had ever seen him smile. A huge steel desk was in the middle of the room. The boys liked to joke that Humpty was secretly sitting on a toilet behind it so he would never have to get up to take a piss or shit.
A single folding chair sat in the middle of the office. In front of it was a round, disc-shaped projector with a keypad next to it. The White-Haired Boy punched in a twelve-digit number, then sat back in the chair. He smiled with a giddy, child-like anticipation as the holo-phone rang. He, more than anyone, was in desperate need of a familiar face. Suddenly, an image flickered to life. A pixelated figure began to emerge as the holo-phone slowly collected the necessary data. The White-Haired Boy smiled even wider. When, suddenly the image clarified. And the White-Haired Boy’s face fell flat. Clearly, it wasn’t who he was expecting.
“Hello, boy,” the man said. He sat in an antique high-backed leather chair that looked like a throne. He was wearing a cashmere robe, his wet silver hair slicked back from a shower. He had a crystal tumbler of liquor in his hand. And by the detached look in his eye, it was clear it wasn’t his first pour. His name was Caliban. And in this family, he was the king.
“Dad?” the White-Haired Boy asked with a surprised tone. “I thought you said you were going to be away on business for the next few months?”
Caliban grumbled. He had clearly not planned on being home. And was clearly displeased that he now was. “That was the plan, yes. In fact, I had a series of meetings that were to take place in the outer planets that would have likely been extremely lucrative for my business had I not had to cut my trip short.”
“Really? What kind of meetings?” the White-Haired Boy asked, inquisitively.
Caliban’s stare went cold. “Meetings that you are not to ask about. I only talk business with men. Not boys. This isn’t some father and son store where they repair shoes and have a laugh after work. This is my legacy. Not ours. Do you understand?”
“Sorry, sir,” the White-Haired Boy replied. Then, he realized something was entirely strange about this conversation. Something—someone, rather—was missing. “Where’s Mom?”
Caliban took a sip from the tumbler. He locked eyes with his son for a moment, then spoke in a flat, emotionless tone. “Your mother tried to kill herself.”
The words seared through the White-Haired Boy. He sat frozen. His chest slowly rising then falling with each careful breath. He wished that he was dreaming. Or that this was all some kind of practical joke. But he knew neither was true. He pursed his lips together. Careful not to show any emotion back to his father. Then, the word formed.
“How?”
Caliban took a deep, irritated breath. As if any further clarification was a nuisance. “She swallowed a bottle of pills. I found her on the bathroom floor. Half-alive. I told her next time throw herself off the roof and save me the inconvenience.”
The White-Haired Boy’s lip began to quiver. “Was it an accident?”
Caliban chuckled, as if even the idea of an accident was preposterous. “No. No it was not. Your mother was weak. And when weak people don’t want to face their problems, they take the easy way out and leave a mess for the rest of us to clean up.”
“When… did this happen?”
“The day you left,” Caliban responded flatly.
The White-Haired Boy stood up from the chair. He could feel the blood vibrating through his veins. He began to pace. His father grinned. He seemed to take an enjoyment in making his son squirm. The White-Haired Boy leaned back against the steel desk and placed his hands on the surface. Unbeknownst to him, he was pressing down on the intercom button that Humpty used to make announcements.
“Mom tried to kill herself two days ago! Two!”
“You could’ve come here! To tell me in person! Or called! At the very least!”
Caliban scoffed. “What? So we could hug? So I could tell you everything is going to be alright? Is that what you want to hear? Or do you want to hear the truth? Because the truth is, you’re just like her. You’re weak, too. That’s why I sent you to Lucky. To teach you how to stand up on your own two feet so you don’t end up writhing on the floor in a puddle of your own vomit, begging for attention like she did. She will do it again. And when that time comes, I will not save her. Neither of us will.”
The White-Haired Boy seethed with rage. “You’re a monster.”
“No—” Caliban grinned. “I tell the truth. You just don’t want to hear it.”
“Will you shut the fuck up?” the White-Haired Boy cried out in anger as he lunged toward the three-dimensional rendering of his father, his fist flying through his face.
Caliban cackled at the sight. “Better work on that right hook.”
And with that, he hung up. The image of Caliban collapsed into a pile of blue pixels on the circular disk. The White-Haired Boy ripped open the door and stormed out of the office, his face beet red, tears streaming down his cheeks. And then, he stepped into the hallway only to find the other boys. Some of them whispering to each other. Others beginning to laugh. Number Twenty-One even going as far as to turn his fingers into a gun and pantomimed blowing his brains out. The White-Haired Boy watched in horror. Because in that moment, he knew they had heard everything. Trying to stem the tears, he rushed down the hallway as the other boys grew louder, his walk quickly turning into a run. And just as he reached the end of the hallway and rounded the corner, he saw him—Fearless.
“Hey. Thirteen,” Fearless said, clocking the raw emotion on his face. “You OK?”
They locked eyes for a moment. The White-Haired Boy still tried to fight back the tears for as long as he could—he wanted to be tough. For his father. For Fearless. For himself. But there was only so much he could take. And so, the tears began to pour down his face once more. He wished that Fearless would hug him. He needed someone to tell him that everything was going to be alright. But he knew neither would happen. And so, he began to run. Through the hallways. Past the sleeping quarters and the pits. Down the tunnel and up the stairs back through the dry cleaner where the Korean women continued to iron clothes, not giving the heartbroken little boy with tears running down his face a second glance.
The White-Haired Boy stumbled out the front door and onto the streets of East Tharsis. He squeezed his eyes tight. He convinced himself that if he tried hard enough, that he could wake himself up from this nightmare. He would wake up in downtown Tharsis, in his bed with the baby blue blanket and matching pillows. He would lay there for a moment, listening to the sound of his mother softly singing “La Vie en Rose” in the kitchen as she made blueberry pancakes. Just like she did every Sunday morning. He took a deep breath.
“Wake up,” he softly whispered. “Just wake up.”
But then, he started to cough. The acrid air singed the back of his throat. A cruel reminder that this nightmare was his new reality. East Tharsis was a prison. And his father was the warden, sitting above the yard while the prisoners fought for their lives.
The White-Haired Boy opened his eyes and slowly turned back to the dry cleaner and stood before one of the large shop windows that were covered in graffiti and stained grey from the soot in the air. But in it he did not see his own reflection. He saw his father’s. The monster who lived in the high-rise. The one who sent him to this place. The one who could’ve saved his mother. The one who would not shed a single tear now that she was gone. He just stared back at the White-Haired Boy with those same cold, lifeless eyes. Until—
He grinned.
The White-Haired Boy’s eyes began to change. The whites were tinged with a crimson hue. He had never felt this before. The feeling wasn’t just anger. It was something else. Something deep inside him that made the blood vibrate in his veins. It felt like something else entirely.
Rage.
The White-Haired Boy charged at the reflection and struck the window with his fist. Thud. The glass spiderwebbed. He took in his fist, where shards of glass stuck out like thorns on a rose. And then struck the window again. Thud. The shards dug in deep into his skin as new ones took hold. Then again. Thud. He continued to punch the glass. The skin was beginning to tear away. The hand becoming more mangled with every strike, when—
The owner of the dry cleaner ran out through the front door. He screamed at the White-Haired Boy in Korean, furious at what he had done to his window. Until his eyes ticked to The White-Haired Boy’s hand. He gasped at the sight. The skin had been torn back so much that the bone was starting to show.
Then all at once, the White-Haired Boy seemed to wake up. The whites of his eyes once again held their pearly hue. He took in the splintered window, utterly confused at how or what had happened. Then, his eyes drifted to his hand. He marveled at it for a moment. He knew that it should hurt, but he felt nothing. The blood continued to drip from the wound and onto the sidewalk like a leaky faucet you can’t quite fix.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He locked eyes with the owner. Then whispered, “Where am I?”
Suddenly, all at once, the pain came rushing back and the blood loss took its toll.