Loki always believed that beauty rested in still things. At least it’s what he’d tell to reassure his father that he was not going crazy. He would be drifting in the dim and desolate corners of the metropolis’s streets at midnight. The wails of the wintry winds would fill these streets. It reminded him of his reality – distant, abandoned and gloomy. He would sit motionless on the park benches, crying.
Loki was not depressed. He would just feel empty, and the only thing that could fill the void in his heart were tears. But even tears run out. He had already lost so many people he held dear; his own mother passed away in front of his eyes last winter. From then, everything seemed to go downhill only. Now and then, he would quench his desire to be alone in this manner.
He reached in his pocket for the picture his father gave him. It was the sole thing he had to remember her by. After his house burned down, that picture was the only thing that kept him going. Loki would find himself looking into his mother’s eyes often, wondering what secrets she kept behind those kind radiating black eyes of hers.
He never learned who his father was until he was fifteen, and she was not even planning on revealing that. His mandatory therapists said that it was the base of his trust issues. They called it something else; but then, psychologists and shrinks were obsessed with coining every psychological condition.
He stuffed the picture back in his pocket and got up. Even at his bleak state, he was sensible enough to know not to stray the city streets at night for long.
He exited the park and headed for home. His mother’s words resonated in his head – “No darling, home is not the same as your house. Home is where you feel wanted and loved.” Every time he heard that voice, he would break down; wishing she were with him all along and that all would be fine.
He knew that voice only lived in his head and that if she were to come back, she would have to break open the casket he buried her in. That night was the most scared Loki had ever been; and why would it not? Burying one’s own mother six feet under was not what every sixteen years old would dream of. It did not help that she was his only family who stuck with him despite the desperate situation he found himself in.
He walked on, shrugging those dreadful vibes off. He would shudder now and then, thinking about everything he had to go through. Now, he had only a picked few people he could trust with his eyes closed. There was Mr. Ericson, for starters. He had always been there and supported Loki and his mother. In fact, he was the only one who came to the funeral. Then there was Mona and Ray. They were the only friends Loki had, and now they felt like family too.
Having gone to the same school, lived on the same street, and gone through mostly the same issues in life, it was no wonder that they became friends.
Mona was Loki’s childhood friend; she had been with him for longer than he could remember. She was an orphan and lived in the Arkhan’s Orphanage for almost all her life. She would sneak out frequently, but her absence bothered no one. The two would usually run off to Ray’s house and spend most of their afternoons there.
Ray was the adopted child of the Martins. The Martins were the richest household in all of Arkhan, and they had taken Ray in when he was only a child. Not that Ray was ungrateful towards his adoptive parents, but he never felt like they loved him. His parents never really made time for him, so one could never blame him for feeling like an intricate publicity stunt.
Even if they had nothing else in the world, they always thought they had each other. In their dysfunctional worlds, the trio always knew that they could trust each other without a doubt. They were like the constant -the 0.0.0 in each other’s lives- because even if everything changed, they could look for each other and find the much-needed calm in their chaotic worlds.