once again, our stray’s gone hungry. skipped dinner. who needs “dinner”, anyway? take one peek you’d know that he does, the spindly little thing, all skin ‘n’ bones—but it’s not the food that’s brought him to this convenience store. didn’t have enough coins in his blazer pocket for the sandwich rack ( trust me, he checked ), just enough for the discounted taquito but his last encounter with one of those had him so ill he could hardly move. he’d stay away from the reduced to sell selection until he absolutely had to. until then, a cigarette would be as good of a meal as any … though his lungs would say otherwise. if they could. he’d have to buy himself a new lighter.
he hadn’t realised how obviously homeless he looked to the general public until he’s approached by the kind-hearted stranger. it was something he’d have to remind himself of time and time again, grown accustomed to the effect surviving by the skin of his teeth had on his appearance. eyes meeting eyes as hollow with fatigue as his own, he’ll tug at the waistline of his pin-striped, ill-fitted trousers, hoisting them over a bony hip before he extends a hand to accept the offering, fixing his ( trembling, if you looked close enough ) fingers into the paper bag. his thumb skirts beneath the lettered pen ink caught beneath the crumpled grip and he’ll say “well, how about that” as a smile pulls the edge of his mouth like a hook, the sunken skin of his lower lash line swelling, “thanks, man.”
it wasn’t if the whole not-talking thing wasn’t at least a little suspicious. he’d even save a glance for the security camera. “there’s not anything illegal tucked away inside here, is there?”
he’d have to ask, to joke—but if there was, this kid’s probably been through a lot worse.
feels good to do a GOOD DEED – go figure. even if the skinny lad doesn’t eat the sandwich out of suspicion, it still feels selfless, fortifying even, to think of someone else rather than put edible food to waste. the toothy traveller’s grin is contagious ( god forbid ) and callum can’t stop the softness of his character from faintly reflecting the expression. humans are sappy like that.
this brightness of character lasts for only a BRIEF second before dimming back into that monotone of countenance, gaze sinking down to the bag in question – illegal? ❮❮ not this time, no... ❯❯ and immediately he shakes his head with one of those screwed up brow-over-the-eyes looks that say, ‘that’s absurd’. one swift glance upwards into this fella’s hollowed face and callum’s recognising that all too familiar question in his puffy lidded eyes. it’s never easy trying to explain yourself when you can’t even TALK; there aren’t any visible clues to suggest he’s hindered by such a disorder. to a passerby, callum looks like any ordinary english kid, maybe a little rough around the edges but you couldn’t point him out and say, ‘that one can’t talk.’
with one of his little thoughts kept to himself, callum breaks form to pull out the trusty notebook stowed in the deep pocket of his black chinos. the majority of the population, anywhere he goes, most often does NOT know sign language so written words are the next best communicator. he’s scribbling on this page for a good half a minute, soon passing it over to the stranger to have him read: I’M MUTE. NOTHING ILLEGAL IN THE BAG, I’M JUST FULL. GOT A PLACE TO STAY? - JOHN.
stormborns
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
titsay
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
pixelskylines
vaporwave
