Sweet Soul (Sweet Home 4)

Feeling stupid that, at age twenty, I was so cut up about those damn old beads I held Lexi back, and fought to control my breathing. In fact, I squeezed Lexi for a couple of long minutes. I never really showed emotion to anyone. Hell, I barely spoke unless I was forced to, but I could tell Lexi anything. She was the strongest, kindest person I knew.

Eventually, I pulled back. Keeping my head down, I stood up, completely embarrassed.

“Lev—”

“It’s alright, Lex. I’ll get over it. They were just a bit of old wood.”

Lexi stood and made her way to the pool house door. Before she left, she countered, “They weren’t, Lev. To you, they are your mamma. You don’t need to feel foolish about hurting over losing them. Not to me.”

I didn’t reply, unsure that I could through my thick throat. Lexi left me alone, and I exhaled a long breath. I quickly changed into a dry pair of sweats and a shirt, toweled off my hair, and made myself a coffee.

Walking straight to my desk, I sat on my chair and opened the Greek Mythology textbook that was already lying on the top. My eyes fell upon the bookmarked page and the story my assignment was on—Hero and Leander. I stared at the aged oil painting of the doomed lovers dominating the page. I sighed.

I was twenty.

Mamma had died when I was fourteen.

I should be coping with life by now.

But since the day she died, I felt like I’d been wandering in a forest. A forest shrouded in dense mist. Since the day my mamma passed, I’d been trying to find a guiding light out of this mess. Desperate to find my way out of the dark.

My gaze fell on the picture of Hero and Leander; of Leander drowned in the water, his guiding light in Hero’s tower extinguished by the raging storm. He’d been lost at sea, his lover’s bright lamp overwhelmed by towering waves.

At that moment I felt a kinship with this Greek man, because I was lost too. Drowning too.

But I was drowning in life.

Drowning in my own shyness.

Being kept down by my past.

Chapter Two

Elsie

I kept on running. I hadn’t dared stop. That boy had seen me.

He’d seen me stealing from his bag. Daggers stabbed at my conscience as I remembered his face at the moment he realized I was taking his things. But then I had swayed on my feet; the hunger and weakness in my body chasing away my guilt. And he’d been shouting at me. He’d shouted at me and I didn’t hear him. Didn’t hear him standing behind me—and I had almost been caught; caught red handed committing a felony offense.

My stomach growled at me, screaming that it was desperate for food. My legs shook as I forced them to work even though I had little energy left to help them move. My skin flushed with an almost unbearable heat, my head feeling light again. I knew it would pass. The too-hot sensation would pass, only to be replaced by too-freezing cold. I had been this way for weeks; every day I grew weaker and weaker.

The world growing darker and darker.

I pushed my legs to run through packs of students milling around campus. I kept my head down and the wallet clutched close to my chest. I hated crowds. I didn’t do well with people. I couldn’t take their assessing eyes, their judgment as they watched me. But then to these people I was nothing. When you had no home and lived rough on the streets, they forgot that you were also human.

Human, and utterly lost.

Breaking free from the overwhelming campus, I ran over a busy road, the heavy rain beginning to seep into my bones, the coldness from the chilly wind slapping at my boiling cheeks. The chill brought a momentary reprieve from the fever burning in my blood. I prayed that I had a warmer coat than an old leather jacket to keep me warm, but then it was quickly forgotten. I learned a long time ago that prayers were never answered. I was convinced they were never even heard. A fact I found ironic, considering I never opened my mouth to voice my thoughts aloud.

Lifting my eyes to peer out under the protection of my hood, I noted that I was only a few hundred yards from the alley in which I stayed. Slowing to a fast walk, I flinched as I coughed, my chest burning; my lungs felt on fire at the simple reflex action. I was sick again, but this time I knew it was worse. I couldn’t shake off this flu; this flu that wouldn’t go away.

Beginning to feel the early signs of the fever at the back of my neck, I wrapped my arms around my chest. I quickly turned left and entered the narrow alley. I walked past the dumpsters from the deli beside me and stopped at the back right corner. I stared at the old wet blankets and, feeling overwhelmingly weak, sat down and pulled the itchy damp wool over my body.

I huddled against the wall, attempting to get warm. The rain poured heavier and heavier with every passing minute. At least the slight sloped roof from the deli shielded the majority of the rain. But no matter how small I made myself, I felt no warmth. The icy cold constantly lapped over my skin.

It was funny, but with this amount of time spent back on the streets, it was easy to forget what warmth felt like at all. Good warmth, that is. Cozy, safe warmth. Not the searing consuming heat that came with fever.

Taking my hand out from beneath the blankets, the one still clutching the leather wallet, I snapped open the clasp and looked inside. I prayed and prayed that I would find money. The last few wallets I’d taken had held nothing of value. But I’d watched the boy this wallet belonged to today. I’d watched as he drove to the campus in a brand new fancy Jeep. Watched as the handsome boy with fair hair, olive skin and big gray eyes walked into the Husky stadium’s huge locker room, wearing only the best clothes. He was wealthy. Wealth normally equaled cash.

My trembling hands parted the leather of the wallet, and my heart immediately fell. There was no cash inside. There were cards, but nothing I could use to buy food, to eat, nothing to use to win back some strength.

Desperate scalding tears filled my eyes and fell to join the raindrops on my thinning blankets. Realization hit that I’d be going without food, again.

I moved to throw the useless wallet away when, just as it tipped upside down, something fell to the ground, obviously from a hidden compartment. Looking down, my eyes focused on what looked like a necklace lying on the wet ground at my side.

Reaching down, I picked up the necklace, noticing an old tarnished cross dangling from old scratched wooden brown beads. It wasn’t a necklace; it was an old set of rosary beads.

I held it up to the light, turning it in my hand. A small smile etched on my lips. Although old, they were beautiful.

Laying the rosary on my lap, I delicately ran my fingertips over each scratched and worn out bead, down to the cross at the bottom. There, in heavy silver, was the image of Jesus dying on the cross. I didn’t know why, but the sight of this obviously well used rosary brought tears to my eyes, and a harsh sting to my heart.

Instinctively, I lifted my hand to the locket hidden well beneath my hoodie and took a deep breath. This, my simple gold locket, was all I had left. The only link I had to her, to my past. It was my most treasured possession. The only possession I had.

The image of the boy in the locker room sprung to mind and my stomach instantly fell. This was his rosary. I’d taken his rosary; something that probably meant a great deal to him.

Leaving the rosary on my lap, I opened the wallet again, and there in the clear center pocket was the boy’s face. Pulling the driving license from the wallet, I read his name: Levi Carillo.