II. Helena
It was another day of looking at my wallet and seeing the end. I had enough for lunch. After that, I would officially be at zero. I was past desperation; all that remained was a cold, hollow powerlessness.
My wardrobe was my entire world: a dirty hoodie, termite-eaten cargo pants, and sandals that had seen too many miles. I walked aimlessly until I found myself standing before our old high school. The building was a mirror of me—falling apart, windows cracked, billboards peeling.
"High school… huh?"
The nostalgia was a strange, bitter medicine. Amidst the dread, I found I could only breathe when I was reminiscing. Not that memories filled a growling stomach, but they made the hunger feel like it belonged to someone else.
I stopped by a fallen billboard near the gates. It was face-down in the weeds. I kicked it over.
'Arthur ***. The Prize of *** High.'
I smiled in spite of myself. Art. My first true friend. My only real rival. How hard had we fought to get our names on that stupid board?
I gripped the metallic fence, looking at the decaying paint of the school. Even at my best, I could never quite beat him. And yet… what was it all for? To rot in the weeds for passersby to step on?
The city moved around me. People rushed to jobs and homes, uncaring, unbothered, indifferent to the ghosts of "the best and the brightest" standing by the fence.
A man in a sharp business suit bumped into me. I staggered, my sandals slipping on the pavement.
"Oh, sorry," he muttered, not even looking back.
"It's nothing," I replied to his back.
A distinct clink hit the concrete. A coin had fallen from his pocket. I stared at it. It wasn't enough for a meal. It wasn't even enough for a bottle of water.
I didn't pick it up. I turned away and let the flow of the crowd carry me, wondering when my legs would finally give out. Giving up wasn't a new idea, but after all the struggle, it felt like a waste to just stop in the middle of a sidewalk.
My feet kept moving. My mind kept retreating into the past.
Eventually, the noise of the city faded into a quiet, residential neighborhood. The orange sky was a warning: I needed a place to sleep. An alley? A park bench? A cardboard box? Anything was better than going back to the shelters.
"Get a grip," I whispered, pressing my cold hands to my face. My breath was the only warm thing left. "I can get out of this. I just need to find my bearings."
I looked at the street corner. A sense of recognition washed over me.
"Is that…?"
I looked at a rundown apartment building. I remembered this place. This was where Arthur lived back when we graduated. He'd stayed there to save money for his "big break." I had been so sure he'd have moved into a penthouse by now.
I couldn't tear my eyes away. A selfish, desperate hope began to bloom in my chest. I wanted to see him. Just once. To see if the "Prize of the High School" had made it.
Before I could talk myself out of it, my feet took me to his door.
"This is stupid," I whispered, my hand trembling as I reached out.
But what if?
I knocked.
"Is this Arthur? Arthur ***?"