The Boy with the Sapphire Eyes

Monica's chatter was cut short by a furious shout from across the road. Our heads snapped up just in time to see a dirty boy dressed in rags escape from Delly's Bakery, a freshly baked loaf clutched in his filthy hands. Monica's nose wrinkled in disgust -his fingernails were bleached with black in such a way that it was almost a shame to see it wrapped greedily around the soft, innocent loaf. Such thoughts were absent from my mind.

Mr Delly was running after the boy with a rolling pin thrashing the air above him. His pink, beefy face was mostly dominated by his large toothbrush moustache, and as always, his cheeks and eyelids were covered in a thin yet distinguishable layer of flour. The boy was thin but agile -he sprinted across the road with ease, ignoring the car horns blaring in his direction. He wore no shoes: if he had been able to afford them, he wouldn't have had to steal food to survive. He didn't seem frightened, something I found most fascinating of all. From where I stood, I still feared for my life just by looking at furious Mr Delly in the face.

'Street rat!' shouted Mr Delly. He had stopped, out of breath, but still shook his threatening rolling pin at the young boy, who had by now reached the last lane of the busy road.

'He's done it again,' breathed Monica in fear. She had always been especially frightened of the street kids, preferring to think that they were drug-driven monsters who could kill with the look of an eye. 'He's the same boy, Gracie.'

'What're you talking about?' I said. My eyes were locked onto the youth, who was now dancing between cars like a footballer. Behind him, Mr Delly spiked the busy atmosphere with a final swearword before retreating into his shop. I humoured myself by imagining him in a caveman's clothes with a club slung over his shoulder. The image came a lot easier than I'd anticipated.

'It's the same boy from last week,' Monica was whispering frantically. Her breath crawled on my ear like ballet spiders. 'Remember the robbery at the fruit shop?'

Her words didn't quite give me the thrill of both fear and excitement that she was aiming for. 'Yeah,' I said dismissively. 'So what?'

'So what!' Her voice was as high as the invisible moon above. 'Think about it, Gracie, please!'

I was thinking; thinking very hard. By this time, the street boy had managed to jump onto the pavement and had slowed to a quick stroll. He was still a good hundred metres ahead of us, but beside me, Monica still shivered, as though the icy hand of the upcoming winter had swooped down and clutched her guts. For a moment, I almost laughed, but managed to restrain myself just in time. Monica hardly had a sense of humour.

'Gracie,' Monica's shrill voice pulled me out of my fantasies.

'Alright,' I shrugged dismissively. 'So that kid has a reputation for robbing small businesses -so what?'

'Are you stupid?' Monica shrieked: a lady pushing a pram a few metres behind us cleared her throat pointedly. 'Haven't you been hearing the news?' She continued in a quieter voice. 'They're saying that the government isn't doing enough to control the homeless population.'

'So?' My father never shut up about the government either, and I hardly wanted Monica to start as well.

'I think it's about time the street rats were driven away from here.' She stated firmly.

'Don't call them that,' I said quietly.

It was true that our town was way too overcome by homeless people. One could see it just by walking down the street. Kids, some as young as four, were forced to steal from shops to find food to eat. Most of them were orphans -the ones that weren't were better off without parents to begin with, they just sat around overwhelmed by drugs. Most of the people who had enough money to state an opinion claimed that the street kids were a nuisance, and that the politicians weren't doing their bit to control them. But my father and I were different. My father was always doing little things for the poor souls, such as always leaving a loaf of bread and three apples on the front porch at night, and sometimes throwing in a blanket in the midst of winter. Monica, as well as many others, didn't see the point in "wasting resources on vermin" but my father didn't care. Ever since he lost my mother to cancer, he had placed himself in a mission to help the ones in need, especially because he knew what it was like to receive none when he needed it.