Motor City Misfits (Secondary Training)

"Disgusting! No—don't look at me!—stop that!—why are you here. . .? Get out!" a woman would sob hysterically as she screamed these incoherent pleas and insults. She had long, straight black hair with messy bangs and skin white and porcelain, but she sobbed and wept so much that her face began to shrivel and wrinkle like raisins. Her eyes were beet red from what could be seen through the fingers that cupped over them and the strands of hair that veiled it like a shock of vines. And standing at an unimpressive four feet and five-some inches, a boy with messy red locks and shiny blue eyes stood just across from the woman with his deadpan gaze fixed on the dirty wooden floorboards beneath them. His limbs were scrawny and were dressed only in rags, two brown boots with one of them busted, and two skinny toes poked out from the outsole of that boot. He'd hold the hem of what could hardly pass for a shirt with small, trembling hands. Is she talking to me? he thought to himself, Is it me, or is it Dad?" he thought again and thought this much because he'd hear this woman—his petite mother—always compare him to his Dad. She said "Your hair is just like his! Just like the Devil's!" or "Don't look at me with those filthy eyes! They're his eyes! They're his eyes!" and much more of that sort. From these descriptions—his cherry-like hair and blue eyes—the boy, Chiyuki Suzuki, had resolved that he and his Dad were like exact copies of one another, even when he surmised that he found more similarities between him and his Mother despite never seeing his Dad.


"Get out! Get out! Die, won't you? Die—leave—don't look—don't look at me—his eyes—they're his—" the woman gasped in between cries and sobbed more incoherent phrases out, some inaudible and others going from one ear out Chiyuki's other.

This woman was dressed in a pretty white afternoon gown, with frills at the hems and no sleeves to veil her unblemished, perfect skin. It was perhaps her face that was the ugliest thing about her, all wrinkled from the frowns and the tears and all. Maybe to others her small curves and tiny eyes and other Midian features were still appealing despite the wrinkling—but Chiyuki found it somewhat gross. He found it gross but he still longed to look at it—nowadays he was too anxious to exchange glances with his mother when she didn't tuck her head into her hands to cry or were ever present at all. Sometimes she was out prostituting and wouldn't come home for days but when she did she'd always come home dressed in more expensive garments than before, and jewelry that was so shiny that even their dim old kitchen light beamed onto it and made it glimmer. She'd always come home prettier than before—and happier. It was short-lived, however. She'd somehow but almost always would return to a state like this.

Motor City wasn't the best place to raise a family but it was the only home Chiyuki ever knew. He and his mother lived in an obscure place—and though all of Motor City was obscure, this was especially hidden and out-of-the-way than most places. The streets felt more homely than any space shared with his mother, so when a metal pail flew into the air and struck him on his temple, transforming it red and bloody, Chiyuki felt completely compelled to go home. I should leave, he'd think, I'll die if I stay here. I'll die. She'll kill me. I'll die, maybe. The pail first, and then a glass bowl that would only harmlessly bounce off his chest and only the floorboards, shattering it. Chiyuki never exchanged glances with his mother at that time and reckoned that she sure did, but with a gaze full of contempt and hatred. For either him, his father, herself or all three.

The redheaded boy with loose shoelaces walked from his mother's side to the exit as if items weren't being barraged at him, but once the door slid shut and the distant wailings and shattering glass against that door became mute in the Motor City downpour, his small steps quickly became the dashing sprint of an animal. Thick streams of tears rolled down his face and fell off his cheeks and he ran through the downpour. Motor City streets were uncomfortable—he didn't have any other pairs of shoes besides these busted boots, so the rancid, dirty water always made his toenails dirty and feet stink—and the streets were so narrow that he felt suffocated. The buildings were so dark and desolate that you wouldn't know that there were any others living there besides the cranking of a wrench on a motorcycle or the banging of beer mugs against one another in somewhat jolly toasts. "Here's to the grease monkeys!" they said! "Here's to them bolts and them screws!" Here's to those things, they'd say! To the bolts, the screws, the women they'd pick up off the streets—the boy wondered if his neighbors had some sort of contact with his Mother these days! But again, he only wondered about it. His heart wouldn't beat any faster or any slower when his mother's occupation or lifestyle came to mind of a conversation, and he'd willingly deliver messages to her from some of her "clients." Truthfully, he cared little for what she did. At the time, it was normal for him. An honest living.

Chiyuki ran and continued to run until he'd arrive at a rather small building with a large, electronic sign reading "Ben's Sandwich Shop" flickered in the downpour. He didn't stop to look at the building and knocked on the doors. It wasn't locked, and an older man standing behind a counter was clearly there. But he knocked anyway.

Tap tap tap! His little knuckles knocked against the metal, and soon after much bigger ones were there to greet him with the push of the door—Ben Matthew looked down with a disappointed look. The kind of look that said "Again? So soon?" Chiyuki only looked at his leather shoes, still in the rain, tear wetting his cheeks no more than the rain would.

There was a moment of silence between them as Ben sighed, beholding the weeping Chiyuki, before opening the door a little wider, "Don't stand there all sad-like," he'd say, the door opened wider now, "come on in, boy."

WC: 1,077/2,000

Chiyuki continued to stare at mister Ben Matthew's shoes with his burning, glossy eyes. He could feel the warmth of the burning stoves and dirty grills that hadn't been cleaned for as long as he could remember tickle the pale, porcelain skin on his legs. The smell of beef burgers and barbecue chicken filled his lungs with their pleasant smell and he just knew that there was always a glass of cranberry juice waiting for him whenever he stopped by. Ben's Sandwich Shop was hardly known for its sandwiches—they tasted awful. But no one would tell good ol' Ben Matthew that and instead ordered anything but. Chiyuki, on the other hand, couldn't tell Ben Matthew anything. He'd appear in front of this door at spontaneous times like these and would always knock, never entering on his own accord, and exchanged one-worded responses with good ol' Ben Matthew until the clock struck eleven o'clock and it was time to close shop.

Chiyuki remembered it being around ten o'clock when he arrived home to his brooding mother, and the black, rainy skies told that many minutes had passed since then. There wasn't much time left until Ben's Sandwich Shop went to rest, but if there was time to spend then he'd sure spend it.

"Aren't you coming in?" Ben asked again, and Chiyuki would flinch as if his rough-sounding voice had broken his fragile spirit. He was hungry, had a special taste for cranberry juice this evening and was about to go in, sheepishly tucked behind good ol' Ben Matthew. But something familiar and unpleasant was present and as his blue-eyed gaze crept into the shop, a flock of matured women in pretty wine-red dresses and black, shiny high-heels were sitting on the stools closest to the bar, drinking liquors and wines as red and rich as their dresses. Their long blonde and chestnut hair were fixed so prettily and beguiling-like that Chiyuki felt as if this place was no longer his own—even if it were for only this evening. But his heart wrenched and bony fingers tightened when he saw them indulge in their mixed drinks—since they smelled and reminded him of Mother on a better day. He hated it.

"Aren't you coming in?" Ben asked again, but this time Chiyuki tucked his head further down and shook it. Ben sighed, and although Chiyuki could not see him, he could tell he was smiling, "Alright then. Wait here for a moment." Ben went back into his shop, paying no mind to the gossiping women who sat there who paid him no greater amount and returned with a moderately large styrofoam takeout container. His hand extended with the container in hand, "Take this before you go. I know you're a big eater. Boys like you need more than milk to get strong, huh? Go on now." Chiyuki looked up at him, his eyes red and wet with rainwater and tears mixing. He'd take this container and be on his way to nowhere in particular.

WC: 1,580/2,000

And to nowhere he went. He went down the streets he was familiar with and took turns that he knew like the back of his hands. Miss Smith's house down this street, and that weird, rigid-looking man who never left his garage down the next. With such familiarities decorating the street, Chiyuki couldn't have imagined it turning out like this; wandering in some cramped alleyway in between closed trade shops. The alleyway was full of trash bags and broken pavement, but it was perhaps the only alleyway he came across that had enough roof to keep it from too much rain and an obscure enough location to leave any derelicts to their lonesome should they choose to wander there.

So Chiyuki did. He shuffled into the alleyway and slunk down against a wall across from a pile of trash bags. He held the container between his legs and tucked his head in between to sob and tremble and the like.

All was normal for the sobbing redhead until something odd and peculiar had occurred. Inching his way toward his exposed toes was something sort of like a tarball—a ball of tar or oil—with pulsating features, like something thin and slithery was crawling inside of it. It was only the size of his fist and Chiyuki wouldn't notice its movements until it had grazed his big toe. He raised his head and stared his melancholy but curious gaze. "Mmhmup?" he sniffled, staring at it. He stared at it innately, that was until suddenly a hole had formed in its figure into something akin to a mouth and would wrap this feature around his toe.

It wasn't too farfetched to believe that there might've been a young girl in this alleyway since a skin-chilling "Eeek!" shuttered from his throat. Chiyuki dropped the container, spilling some of its contents into the rancid rain puddles and stone. Although concerned about this, his complexion was void of color and a look of terror consumed his expression. But, this seemed completely one-sided. The strange tarball, although having no expressible face, was quick to consume the potato wedges that fell out. Chiyuki watched this in horror, but with great fascination quickly overwhelming that fear.

The tarball would eat and eat and would never attack him. It ate until all the potato wedges that had fallen out were gone. Chiyuki continued to tuck away from it with keen, curious eyes. "You—you like those?" he started with a shaking voice. Chiyuki opened the container now and flicked another potato wedge to it. It'd catch it and consume it ravenously with its strange maw void of teeth. Chiyuki's face lit up, and a smile would crack his lips. He flicked another wedge, then another, and then one more until it became a game between the two. He'd continue this until he and the strange tarball and him had shared the meal together.

Chiyuki smiled softly, his cheeks red and blush, "You're kind of funny, I guess. Sort of. . . blobby." He'd leave this alleyway and return for days, months, feeding and bonding with this tarball that clearly had a consciousness of its own—a will, per se. It eventually grew larger to size up his two fists. It had wonderful abilities—to shape and bend itself, spit its tarlike contents, build tiny structures. He spent lots of time with this creature until it would eventually stick itself onto him and exist within the pores of his body. They ventured together, trained, got stronger. He felt he had finally found a friend.


WC: 2,171/2,000