Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Stray

After lunch, as I headed back up towards our allocated room, Barney splintered off in the opposite direction.

"Where are you going?" I hissed, stopping in the middle of the hallway.

Impatience written across his face, "Into town," he grumbled.

"What for, there's nothing here... This place is run down... The most exciting thing is the dumpster on the street corner; at least you might find some signs of life in there..." I looked around at the deteriorating structure.

"Why'd y'think we came out here?" Barney retorted. "I didn't lug you across the state for nothing... Before I was saddled with you; I was making a career for myself out here. I'm just hoping I have a job to return to..." Barney's jaw was taut. "Thanks again, squirt(!)" He said sarcastically.

Standing aimlessly on the spot whilst other children busied themselves around me, I sighed. "So what do I do? Stay here? Go somewhere? Fend for myself?"

Barney chortled with laughter, making for the door in the foster home. "No one is going to fend for you, so you may as well. Like I give a damn what you do. Just be home when I am..."

"And when will that be?" I threw my hands up in the air.

The resounding slam of the door and the draught of air that jostled my hair was the only answer I got. "Great..." I mused, turning on the ball of my foot and dawdling up the stairs, relying on the bannister to haul myself along.

I changed out of my reeking clothes that had become like a filthy second skin with their twenty-four-hour usage. No laundry basket to hand, I stuffed them back into my bag and grabbed a towel and a spare pair of clothes.

Having seen the showers on my initial prospecting, I headed towards the boys washrooms and found a grotty block of communal showers. The tiles were dingy and covered with dank green rot and the faucet was leaking a dribble of water into the gutters on the flooring. There was a button to press to turn on the water and I reluctantly stepped under the line of fire and pressed it in.

It was like being stabbed by a thousand tiny needles as the blast of icy water hit my skin. I convulsed out of it's stream and threw my arms around myself, shuddering. Somewhere, at the back of my mind, I was aware that I had yelped.

In some desperate hope the water would warm, I held my hand under, pressing the button over and over waiting for the temperature to improve. Shivering, teeth chattering in my skull and my body uncomfortably numb in selective places, I sobbed with frustration.

It didn't warm, and standing in the open air, a towel draped around my hips; I found jumping under the icy flow was my only option. Braving it in bursts, I combed my hands through my uncut hair - the cut having deteriorated with neglect and lack of money - and rubbed down my body. And after fighting against my natural bodily instincts to keep warm for the best part of two minutes, I wrapped myself up in my towel and staggered my way back to my room.

It's funny how a little cold water can be so debilitating. And the coldness stays under your skin, it doesn't warm up easily. I was quick to throw on clothes, still dripping with beads of icy water, trying to insulate myself.

Taking a wander to the radiator in the corner, I touched the old dusty thing to discover not an ounce of water ran through the pipes. My only hope of drying out besides the rubbing of my towel was the slight sunshine peeking out from behind the clouds.

So what did I do?

I prized open the window: sealed stiff with ivy like cement, and scaled the wall down into the street. Typically, I landed in a puddle and muddy rainwater splashed up onto the ankles of my jeans. Making a feral noise, I dismissed it and took to scouring the streets of my new home.