He had to be kidding.
Vance just rolled his eyes, utterly dismissing his anger.
"Stop pretending. I have seen plenty of boys your age with daddy issues who decide to go wild in the West. Buying fake identities, forging addresses—you name it. I have seen it all, and it's pathetic. But do you know, Askai, what happens to those idiots? If they do not end up in a trench, they are checked-in in institutes with a drug-addled brain. At least, you had the wits to continue your studies, whatever your issues with your father be. But stop these reckless visits to the West. I would not have you cross that Glass Wall."
Askai almost scoffed, the rage swelling like a tidal wave. For a moment, he had foolishly thought Vance was worried about him—Askai, a boy with no origin, no second name, someone who truly made it out of the Middle Nolan. But he couldn't have been more wrong. Vance wasn't worried about him; he was worried about a precious, vulnerable fledgling of the East, a symbol of their class, who was susceptible to the corruption of the West.
Askai was that corruption.
In his last years, before he left the streets, his hatred for the East had festered to a point where he would not have shied away from ridding the earth of a few of them. His boys had peddled drugs to the corners of the East, to places the East itself was not aware existed.
Why should he care about them? He owed them nothing. He owed no one nothing!
Not the ones that were still alive, anyway…
Fate had dealt him filth and he had thrown it back in its face, clawing out his own existence inch by bloody inch.
He had never had a cradle. Never had a mother's lullaby, or a father's arms, or the safety of being wanted. He had been found in a trash bag behind a collapsed fence, barely days old, left for the street dogs who prowled West Nolan's alleys with more hunger than mercy.
The sight wasn't uncommon in the brutal streets of West Nolan, where desperation was currency and prostitutes would often rid themselves of the scum they couldn't care less about in trash cans in some forgotten corner. If the babe was found by a kind soul before he was feasted upon by the mongrels he was left with, he could lay his claim upon life.
Askai did. A six-year-old beggar had picked him up from the trash and then used him to beg at the street lights. He had no hard feelings toward the girl, only a fierce, abiding gratitude. She had at least fed him, cared for him, and shared with him whatever meager earnings they made at the end of the day. Askai was too small to remember the specifics, but the old man, Carlos, that sold crackers at the corner stop, would tell him often to remember her. Carlos must have grown fond of the girl—Marlie. He was the one who named her, giving her a dignity she otherwise lacked.
As destiny would have it, Askai could not blossom under her care for long. One humid night, they were sitting on the dusty footpath after a good day's haul. Askai had been only four then, and Jordan had just started hanging out with them. After all, they shared the same sleeping space—the strip of concrete they were sitting on. The temporary shack cobbled together from plywood and plastic behind them could be crawled into when it rained, which was often.
Marlie had sent them away to buy some soft bread to eat. It was supposed to be a quick run. They had only left her alone for minutes. But when they came back, everything had changed.
They jumped back, two tiny bodies scattering, as a speeding car swept past them and swerved dangerously to the left, running all over their precious home, their people.
Three kids and two barely adults were mauled to death that night, the victims of a joyride by some bored, rich driver who had chosen to go wild.
Marlie, with her dark hair and kind smile, was one of them. She was lucky, she met a quick death. She bled out silently in front of them, unlike others who had waited until morning, screaming their guttural pleas for help, waiting to breathe their last. No help ever came to the unwanted mongrels who roamed the streets. They were like dogs who just knew how to speak, nothing more.
They had held her hands throughout the terrifying night, watching the slow process of death, and when the morning finally came, they took her away. In their devastating naivety, they had asked Carlos for her headstone, hoping to bring her flowers. They had seen people do that in the cemetery—Marlie sometimes even sold small bouquets outside the gates. When Carlos arrived the following afternoon, his eyes glassy and wet, he had told them they were not old enough to visit. Even in their tiny, street-smart brains, they found it strange.
Carlos only wanted them to grow enough to realize that she was not resting in some sacred grave but had been disposed of, unceremoniously, in some dumpyard or landfill, a piece of unwanted refuse. Carlos didn't have to wait long. Their childhood—already a brutal, flimsy thing—died a speedy death after Marlie was gone.