"Yeah, we're callin' ye, pretty boy! We wanna invite you t'come t' our party. What say ye?"
Heat suffused the young boy's face at the mention of pretty boy, and didn't believe a word about the party they mentioned.
"The name's Timmy," he spoke through gritted teeth. "And count me out of the party." He turned round and walked quickly away from the men, but not quickly enough. Snorting in utter amusement, some of them had caught up with him, bouncing gleefully while blocking his way. Timmy stopped, his eyes barely able to hide his fear though he was trying to look bold by waving the brushes around.
"Aww, yer a pretty boy, alright!" purred one bloke who was standing too close -- his stale breath felt warm on Timmy's face.
"I've nuthin' for you!" Timmy's voice was tight. The men were closing in on him.
"No!" Timmy cried when a hand grabbed the brushes and tossed them away. There was no stopping this time. Those thugs snatched and pawed at him, stripping him off his shabby coat, searching for whatever they wanted to take from him. They got only the rag, which they promptly threw away, and tore at his already tattered shirt. Eventually they found the money, clutched tightly in his hand...
***
At times like this Timmy wondered why he had to grow older. Why could he not have stayed a lad forever so he did not have to leave the orphanage? He was thirteen when they decided he was mature enough to stand on his own. Timmy swallowed his bitterness -- they decided...? It had seemed more like they had kicked him out so that they did not have to spend money for bread on him.
Scrambling up, Timmy tried to forget the soreness of his body. He was lucky the men had not beaten him to death. He crawled slowly to get to his brushes and cloth, the two most important things he owned, and rose, painfully aware of his torn shirt because of the chilling breeze seeping into his bones.
Timmy gathered the brushes and the rag in one hand and vainly attempted to cover his bare skin with the other -- it dawned on him then that he had lost his coat as well. His heart ached at the realization that people stared disgusted at him as he advanced toward his dwelling place. It could hardly be called that -- it was a few planks of wood piled under the bridge -- and he knew he scarcely had anything else to wear hidden inside them.
There was a shirt he had used to wear before he was given this one, which could only mean one thing -- its state was more disreputable than this one -- Timmy drew a shaky breath -- it would have been before those ruthless men laid their hands on it. He prayed that the only other piece of clothing he had was decent enough for work the next day. He still had to find a coat, though, or he would be dead from the cold. Timmy sighed dejectedly. He had had to beg for that.
