Hot Chocolate

This is a possible outcome of Uriel's life told within a short story. Things could have gone differently, people could have been different, but that is for another story.


 The tall shop owner yelled loudly as he herded a petite person out of the warmth.  No one stopped him. Uriel had not done anything to break the rules; Uriel hadn't done a thing wrong, having found a few dollars to pay for a small hot chocolate. If you bought something, they weren't supposed to kick you out. That was the rule. Uriel remembered it, he remembered the rule... He wasn't stupid. Not stupid trash.

 As Uriel swallowed down his words, he had never been good at speaking to others anyhow and knew pleading would get him nowhere but the cops called. Tears streaming down from wide set eyes, the dark-eyed boy chased them away with his too large coat sleeve, his other hand still clenching the hot chocolate. The hot liquid spilling over onto his hand through the burning was hardly noticed as the wind shot through the coat, driving the air from his lungs. It was already hard to breath, trying not to sob as the bite of the wind and snow stole away the bit of warmth he managed to gather within the low-lit coffee shop. Curly dark hair covering burning ears, wipping at a rather pretty face, faint freckles speckled across his nose despite being deathly pale from the cold, full chapped lips that threatend to bleed with the slightest too wide movement. His clothes marked him as homeless, someone no one would miss and no one would help.

As was proven once more, the coffee shop had been spekcled with people all of which Uriel saw did nothing more than a few quick glances as he was ushered out. Uriel had been careful and quiet, having tucked him into a corner from everyone's view, staying out of their way to bother no one. Anything to just sit for a few moments out of the cold. Petite and weak from starvation, youthful face gaunt and deep set from hunger and fatigue. What more, he trusted people, instinctively making him an easy target most of his life, but it became worse coming to the city. When he got hurt, Uriel was fully aware why, or thought he was. He was different between his thighs. All his life, people had treated him harshly because of it, no matter how nice and polite he was. Which was hard to be, being hyperactive and always curios were traits that no one liked in a boy like him. Sometimes people smiled at him, and spoke to him, but usually they hurt him soon after. And that was his fault, for being an abomination and he deserved it at least, that is what he was told. After hearing it in almost every boys' home and foster families, it was difficult not to listen. But how could people know he was bad from just looking at him?  And different was bad, but the boy could not know how people knew that just from looking at him. But he knew the others, the others who slept on the street weren't different.

 Not here at least.

 Or at least if they were, Uriel could not tell that by just looking at someone. Maybe that is why people called him stupid. He didn't see what made everyone decide, and just know who to look at with such mean eyes without a word being said. He'd never spoke to anyone, about being different there. Didn't know how, not the words at least. Why was he so different? Why did that make everything his fault? What if he said something, and even the people he shared the fires with turned mean. So Uriel asked nothing, said nothing. 

Just smile and be sweet. Just follow the rules. Just do as I say and you won't be hurt. Just be a good boy. Just buy something and no one can kick you out. Uriel followed the rules, yet he was always at fault, always to be blamed for whatever happened. Maybe he was stupid, a "retard" because he never knew what he ever did wrong. 


The End

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