He hates everything. The way the room looks, the way it smells of tattered books and mothballs, the way its cream paint is peeling onto his wrinkled sheets, the way the sun shines onto his caramel skin with a warm hello. He absolutely hates it, but it's the way of life; the cards he has been dealt. If it means meeting eyes with a spider glaring at him from the corner of his tiny bedroom, then so be it, at least he's alive. He's not slaughtering families for failing to remember their last payment, he's not displacing jaws or removing finger nails, he's..
living. The days go by and he gets older, working his ass off to at least make himself seem the slightest bit of normal. But will he ever achieve it? That is the question. Johnny-boy, oh sweet as molasses and smooth as cream, is tough as nails and as harsh as charcoal -- maybe he wasn't meant for this world. This time, this place. He was raised as a pawn, dispensable, unchanging, and now here he is, alone and struggling to find himself as a knight on this large chess board.
His time will come, he thinks, eventually rather than never.
The dark-haired male rolls over onto his stomach lazily, feeling as though the ceiling wasn't pretty enough for his chocolate peepers and averts his gaze outside his scratched window, watching people walk to and fro across the sidewalk. Business men, single mothers, college kids -- all sorts, and out of them all, not a single image of himself being snugged in there. Maybe in his uniform, but certainly not in his normal attire. Ruthless, dangerous they would mutter, furrowing brows and crinkling noses at his ripped jeans and unwelcoming expressions. A wild-boy with no place to go. A constant reminder he was who he was and his past-life being painted on his skin like an art show.
He's heard it all.
Except, despite working as a cute little delivery boy for a family-run Brazilian restaurant, he still deals drugs. I mean, anything for a little cash, right? While he has used them before, he mainly uses them to earn a little grounding. He knows people, hears things, remembers faces; so why not give back to the community that has forsaken him so? There's nothing more exciting than some pigs sniffing down his neck for the goodies. It's not entirely his fault he finds joy in running amok, he was born that way.
Sliding out of bed, Johnny manages to find his uniform and slips it on with ease, allowing a few drawn out yawns to escape here and there. Today was a pretty average day, just as it was every other day. Do a few deliveries, stop at a couple flats to drop off some goods, gather the cash, finish up work and come home. Easy enough, right? Everyone seemed to be paying their half on time so he didn't have to beat the shit out of anyone, sad as it sounded, but today was going to go as planned.
"You've only got a couple orders left, Johnny." The manager said, eyes half closed and nearly covered in sweat. Although the place hadn't been as busy as other days, it still seemed like things had been a blur. The male managed to rack in a few hundred from the treats he sold to a few regulars, and still had time to deliver his food, completely warm and untouched. While he did have to whisper a few threats to the crackheads down the street, bearing gums and fangs at the possibility of them not being able to pay the next week, he managed to sheathe his claws, no bruises no blood.
Not yet.
There was always next time.
It was only noon, he'd figured he be out all day carrying neat packages of hearty
moqueca and
feijoada, but the day was halfway over. The thought of spending his "well-earned cash" had his fingers itching.
"We're closing at noon, business is slow today." She said, accent thick, almost as thick as his but you could pick out the sweet Brazilian roots from her tight syllables. She had been here in the states for a while, but still continued clutching onto her old ways, much like himself but, he had better shit to worry about. Life wasn't all shits and giggles.
"Stuff is ready in the back."
No more words had to be said and Johnny-boy was off, shirt neatly tucked in with hair slicked up and hands full of delicious delights. Three more houses of food to deliver and two more people to deal to. Seemed easy enough. Stuffing the bags into the back of his oh-so-wonderfully colored moped, red to be exact, he hopped on and was off, dodging wandering pedestrians and screeching taxis of the mid-noon rush of New York streets.
